I wish I had the foresight to see this coming. I wish that somewhere in the back of my head I could have seen that going out into the woods with a bunch of warlocks was a bad idea. But I didn’t. I blindly ventured out into the forest and took part in their rituals. I carelessly gazed upon what is forbidden. I saw the Grombus. Now I am paying the price.
So please, don’t make the same mistake that I did. Do not party with warlocks, especially if you don’t have health insurance.
It started the same way I presume most stories involving warlocks in the twenty first century start; I got too stoned. I lost my job two weeks prior due to the pandemic and my life was missing all semblance of rhythm. Even though I hated my job it still gave me a reason to get up in the morning, it still gave me a reason to groom, to socialize, to be an active member of society. Without management breathing down my neck every minute of the day I was thrust into a world of dizzying freedom. The idea of being responsible for my own time made me anxious. Not having health insurance during a global pandemic pressed down on that anxiety like it was an open sore, simply thinking about how vulnerable I was made me feel sick. I started smoking way too much and way too early, that’s how I ended up at the seemingly innocent question that would send me hurling toward the blinding abyss: Are warlocks real?
I don’t know how I precisely ended up at this line of inquiry, marijuana has a funny habit of connecting the most diverse of synapses, but it was one in the afternoon on a Thursday, I was three bowls deep into a wake-n-bake and my mind was consumed by a simple question: Are warlocks real?
I cracked open Google and went down the rabbit hole. Turns out there are still plenty of communities that practice witchcraft all over the world; all of their websites carry the distinct aesthetic of being designed by a twelve year old in 1998. After thirty minutes of research I adjusted my line of questioning. I typed in ‘Warlocks near me’. That’s how I found Percy.
A picture of him jumped out at me as soon as I clicked the website. He stood in the center of a group of elderly men smiling at the camera. They were all dressed in flowing robes and most of them had long white beards to match. Percy looked like Santa Claus cosplaying as a druid. He had his arms open wide welcoming me to the website.
‘Warlocks of The Green Meadow’ the header read in a font that was a stones throw away from Comic Sans. I tried finding out more about the warlock order but the bright green text on a tale background was too much for my stoned eyes. I scrolled directly to the contacts page. If I was sober I probably would have dropped it then, I would have carried on with my day secure in the knowledge that warlocks are indeed real, but I was so stoned that not pursuing knowledge of warlocks was impossible. I called the first number on the list.
He answered after two rings. “Percival Grenwich, arch-wizard of The Green Meadow Order, how may I be of assistance?”
It took me a second to register I was on the phone with someone. Finally, when reality brushed up against me, I whispered, “Are warlocks real?”
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Percy laughed, “Yes we are! You’re talking to a warlock right now! Are you smoking marijuana young man? Ah, you don’t have to tell me. We get calls like this all the time. Any other questions you would like me to answer?”
I cleared my throat, trying to sound as sober as possible, “What do you guys do?”
“Oh a bit of this, a bit of that. The Green Meadow Order is less witchcraft and more of an escape from our wives. Ho! Ho! Ho! But if you are looking for something more magical, we do perform rituals to worship the essence of nature once a month.”
“What do you do during these rituals?” I whispered. As soon as I realized I was whispering I repeated my question again while trying to sound less baked.
“I could tell you what we do, but I can do you one better! Our rituals take place on the 10th of every month in my cabin a bit out of town. How about you join us for the next one and see for yourself!”
“Okay,” I said without really thinking, “Do I, uh, need anything?”
“Just bring yourself and a positive attitude!”
I told the stranger my address and we made arrangements for him to pick me up and drive me to the warlock ritual. In my stoned state none of it seemed weird to me. A glint of paranoia about the whole experience emerged in the evening but it was smoked out. I figured that my warlock adventure would be a good break from a solitary life of unemployment. In hindsight I should have seen it was a bad idea.
He picked me up a couple of days later in a beat up Toyota that smelled faintly of incense. Percy had the same air of a friendly grandfather that he gave off on the picture, but one thing was different; his white beard was gone. After a couple of minutes of driving I asked about it.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! I miss the old thing myself, but you can’t put a facemask over it. Even warlocks have to go grocery shopping from time to time.”
The concrete buildings around us made way for the woods. I rolled down to window to take in the crisp spring air. He told me about the humble beginnings of The Order of The Meadow. In the 70s Percy and his teenage friends developed a fascination with the occult, they would roam through the forest indulging in various unsuccessful rituals to summon forbidden powers. As time went on the order dwindled in its membership; people got day jobs, got married, got kids, there wasn’t much room for the occult in their lives. Yet a small section of the Green Meadow Order remained, its members were less interested in dabbling in forbidden texts and more content on simply spending time with old friends. They were still warlocks, but their order was more focused on appreciating nature rather than summoning eldritch creatures. Sometimes outsiders would peek in and watch their rituals. Sometimes the outsiders would stick around. Percy made the Order of The Meadow sound less like a cult and more like a social club.
The cabin was a humble little thing at the edge of the woods. The only other structure around was a rickety barn a little ways off. A handful of cars were parked in the nearby meadow. Men in white robes congregated by the cabin casually chatting. I could recognize some of them from the picture; they were all missing their beards. The congregation looked less like a gathering of warlocks and more like a casting call for generic old white men.
Percy introduced me to the rest of the group and then excused himself to go change into his robes. The rest of the warlocks seemed just as friendly as Percy, they joked around and were full of cheer. Almost the whole group welcomed me into their midst instantly, yet among the crowd of warlocks there was one who’s eyes burned with disdain.
“He thinks we’re a joke,” said the man who called himself Archibald, “He thinks that we’re just some old men playing in the forest. He thinks we’re all crazy.”
Archibald was considerably shorter than the other warlocks, more overweight too. His scalp was covered in thin wisps of hair, his beady eyes jumped from me to the now uncomfortable crowd of warlocks. I tried to defend myself, I tried telling Archibald that I had come in with an open mind but he cut me off.
“I am sick and tired of doubters coming into our midst. I am sick and tired of people laughing at us.” All the joy had left the group, Archibald had turned the whole mood hostile, “I think it’s time we show this young man that we are serious about magic. I think it’s time we show him the Grombus.”
“There will be no talk of the Grombus on this pleasant day,” Percy emerged from behind the cabin wearing a set of white robes. All the cheeriness was gone from his voice. He spoke in a tone that could sharpen steel. “This young man is my guest, if you take issue with him being here then you can take it up with me. Would you like to have a private talk Archibald?”
The fire in Archibald’s eyes went out. “I have spoken rashly, arch-wizard,” he mumbled, “I apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” Percy’s joy returned to him, “Now how about we get the ritual started?” The group made its way towards the meadow. As we walked the camaraderie returned, the warlocks accepted me into their midst. Archibald lagged behind the group, occasionally murmuring curses to himself.
The ritual took about an hour. The warlocks bowed to the sun, sang bizarre songs about grass and leaves and would take turns hugging a mighty oak that stood by the edge of the forest. The entire ceremony had an undertone of irony within it, it seemed as if the warlocks knew that the sun can’t actually hear them complimenting its strength, yet they enjoyed singing its praises regardless. As the final act of the ceremony Percy brought out a battered wicker basket with small amber pellets inside of it.
“It is now time for us to contemplate the bounty of nature,” Percy said as he walked past the other warlocks. They each reached in and took a single pellet out. Percy stopped as he walked past me, “Would you like to taste the bounty of nature?” he asked with ceremonial gusto. “It’s just some honey,” he added in a conspiratory whisper after he noticed my reluctance.
In my mind the advice to not take candy from strangers was filed right next to anti-marijuana PSAs with talking dogs. I took the honey pellet out of the wicker basket. Percy grinned. Archibald rolled his eyes.
“Now place the bounty on your tongue and contemplate the beauty of nature.” I followed along with the rest of the group; I put the honey capsule in my mouth and closed my eyes.
The honey candy on my tongue started to melt. At first it was just a hint of sweetness but as the minutes passed I started to catch the more gentle notes of the taste. Birds sang off in the distance, a gentle spring breeze caressed my face, the honey played a quiet, sweet symphony in my mouth. In that moment I wasn’t thinking about the pandemic, or the economic collapse, or my lack of health insurance; the only thing on my mind was how cool warlocks are.
After what felt like an eternity I opened my eyes. As if we were all cued in by some invisible force the rest of the meadow worshippers opened their eyes as well. Percy was the last one to come out of the honey trance and he did so with a loud sigh. “Now that that’s done, who’s in the mood for some mead? Ho! Ho! Ho!”
A couple of the warlocks went over to the cabin and emerged with plastic bottles full of homemade mead. The gathering seamlessly transitioned from a woodland ritual to casual drinking; within half an hour all of the robes were put away and all traces of the occult were gone. The mead was just as sweet as the honey pellets, but it also packed a punch. After four glasses I was comfortably buzzed and floating among the different conversations of the warlocks. They spoke of nature and harmony and honey with such excitement I laughed and told them I wanted to be smoking whatever they were smoking. Unsurprisingly someone brought out a joint. The Order of The Green Meadow was, unsurprisingly, full of potheads.
As the sun started to set one of the warlocks went to the cabin for some wood, another went to his car and emerged with a guitar. Soon enough we had a musical bonfire going. I sat down by the fire and listened to the old men sing songs of their youth. As I got comfortable, however, I realized that the mead was pressing down on my bladder. I asked Percy if I could use the bathroom in the cabin.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! A true warlock doesn’t relieve himself in a porcelain bowl young man! There are plenty of trees in the forest.”
He called me a warlock. For the first time since the lock down I felt like I belonged. I made my way towards the dark forest with the staggered happiness that only a night of drinking in good company can provide. I didn’t know that pissing in the woods would bring me face to face with the Grombus.
I was barely done zipping up when I heard a familiar voice, “You think we’re a joke, don’t you?” it was Archibald, he was still wearing his white robes and even in the dark I could feel his hateful scowl. “You don’t think magic is real, do you?”
I shrugged and told him that I’m open-minded on the topic. I was stoned enough to be open-minded about anything.
“Come with me,” he said, “I will show you something that will remove any doubt. I will show you the Grombus.”
The mystery of the Grombus was far too alluring for me to resist. Back then I didn’t know that some things are simply not meant for human eyes.
Archibald walked me past the light of the fire and towards the old barn. The inside of the barn was a far cry from the festive atmosphere outside. Its wooden walls muffled out the bonfire singing, there was a musk of rotting wood in the air. A single cracked, dangling light bulb lit the interior. Archibald led me past the stacks of farm equipment and rusty car parts towards an old wooden chest. The barn was in disrepair, but the chest looked decidedly ancient, it stuck into the ground as if it had occupied its space much longer than the structure that surrounded it. It was as if the barn was built specifically to shield the chest away from the outside world.
“Open it,” Archibald whispered.
“What’s inside?” I asked, cautious of sneaking around foreign property.
Archibald’s eyes blazed with a dark reverence, “The Grombus,” he said. His manic expression pressed down on my curiosity until it could not be denied. I reached down and opened the ancient chest. I shouldn’t have.
There have been attempts to make me forget what I saw that night, and to some extent those attempts have been successful. The entire memory feels like a singed film reel, as if what I saw that night was a scene out of a B-movie horror flick that was pressed into the regular programing of my life. Yet regardless of how much mead was forced down my throat, regardless of how much the warlocks pleaded with me to forget what I had seen I don’t think I will ever be able to fully deny what my eyes took in that night. I don’t think I will ever forget the Grombus.
The light in the barn was poor; I had to squint to properly see the contents of the chest. Even on closer inspection, however, the thing did not inspire any reaction. It was a blob, a shapeless grouping of what looked to be gray flesh. Is this what all the fuss was about? I found myself thinking. I was about to turn to Archibald and tell him that I was disappointed with his little show but the blob started to stir. It let out a strange hiss. My heart filled with horror.
Suddenly the whole room exploded in dazzling light. A light so powerful I let out a scream. The color of the flash was incomprehensible; it was a shade of purple that I had never seen before. The closest thing I could compare it to was a migraine; it was as if that pain that exists right behind your eyes during a particularly bad headache could be color-coded. The color of pain filled the barn. The thing continued hissing. I continued screaming.
I staggered away from the chest as far as I could but no matter how far I got the howls kept on escaping from my throat. I tried snapping out of it, I tried covering my mouth, but nothing helped. The terror of the Grombus had latched onto my soul and refused to let go. Archibald’s fascination was now replaced with fear. He understood he did something wrong.
Within seconds the barn was full of the other warlocks. It didn’t take long for them to figure out what had happened. One of them leaped to close the chest whilst the others screamed obscenities at Archibald. I huddled in the corner, trying to hold my mouth shut, clawing at my eyes begging them to forget what they had seen. None of it helped. The Grombus dominated my mind with unearthly chaos.
Through my screams I could hear a chorus of voices yelling at Archibald, “Why the hell would you do that? – Jesus Archie, can’t you be cool for one day? – Why would you show him the Grombus? – What on Earth did you think was going to happen? – Are you a goddamn child Archie?”
Through my fingers I could see Archibald. He stood next to the chest like a schoolboy next to a broken vase. The man was at least sixty, but as the other warlocks yelled at him he seemed to be on the verge of tears. “Guys, I just wanted him to know that magic is real, I’m sorry,” he said, looking at his shoes. He started to explain himself further, but my screams drowned out the rest of his explanation.
It was as if something inside of me was trying to get out, as if the only way that I could get rid of the bewildering image in my mind was to scream it out. My voice chords whimpered, my throat burned blood red; I scarcely managed to catch my breath between my howls. And then, suddenly, they stopped. A bottle was pressed into mouth; an unseen hand cradled the back of my head.
“Drink, just drink and forget about what you have seen,” Percy whispered as he cradled me in his arms. I was in far too much of a panicked state to question what was happening. I bit down on the plastic of the bottle and let the mead flow down my throat. The sweetness of the drink soothed my distressed innards. After I finished the whole bottle I started to scream again, but the screams were muted with the alcohol I had consumed. Percy ordered one of the warlocks to fetch another bottle.
The rest of the night remains a drunken blur. I don’t know how much mead I drank, but I was scarcely able to walk by the time I was loaded into the car. Archibald was the designated driver, occasionally he would turn around and mumble an apology but Percy wouldn’t let him speak to me. Even though his anger would flare up whenever Archibald attempted to make amends Percy would always revert back to speaking to me like a kindly grandfather. He told me I had to forget what I saw that night. He told me that if I am to get out of this experience unscathed I needed to leave behind any knowledge of the Grombus. If only that was possible, I wouldn’t be writing this right now.
I woke up with the worst hangover of my life. The sweet mead had turned rancid in my mouth, my throat was so raw that even swallowing caused me to squirm, my stomach felt like it would evacuate at any second. Yet as pained as the rest of my body felt, nothing was comparable to the pounding in my head. It was as if my eyes were fighting to jump out of my skull and live a life of their own. I tried falling back asleep yet the pain refused to let me rest. I wiped an alarming amount of crust out of my eyes and got up to splash some water on my face.
As I traveled to the bathroom my mind wrestled with the events of the night prior. Did I really travel out of the city to hang out with a bunch of warlocks? Did I really take part in a strange forest ritual? Did I really see what I saw? All of those questions seemed deniable as I staggered my way to the sink, my entire warlock experience could have been chalked up to a bad dream or a particularly bad smoke experience, yet as soon as I looked into my bathroom mirror it all became undeniable.
Looking back at me was a tired, unshaven man who held an expression of utter dread. The dread steadily advanced as I looked into the man’s eyes. They were an unnatural shade of purple. This man had seen the Grombus. A pained scream escaped my lips.
My voice chords were far too spent to let out anything but a hoarse whisper, but as soon as I opened my mouth my vision started to shake with a tenacious force. My eyes were bulging; they turned a deeper shade of that detestable hue with every second that I stared into the mirror. They bloated in my skull, longing to get away from the pathetic human vessel to which they were attached until-
Pop! I watched as one of my eyes leaped out of its socket and ended up inside of my sink. My hoarse whisper of a scream became as loud as my body would allow. With one eye I watched myself staring into the mirror, with the other I saw the water-stained inside of my sink. The eye that had escaped seemed to have a life of its own, it bounced around inside of its porcelain prison like a wild animal. An impossible dizziness swept over me; I staggered out of the bathroom, reaching for my empty eye socket when-
Pop! I watched as my eye dropped impotently onto the carpet. It lay on the floor for a split second before it sprung to life and rolled into the corner of the room. The mead from the previous night immediately left my stomach.
That was three hours ago. It took me an eternity to locate my phone to write this message. If I had simply been blind it would have been quicker, I could have easily felt my way towards my jeans, yet my vision is filled with the stains of my sink and what I presume is the tiling of my kitchen. I am impossibly dizzy. I am beyond terrified. I don’t know what to do.
I would call Percy and beg for help, but I never committed his number to memory. I would search for some sort of medical assistance, but I do not know where to start. I am simply a desperate man caked in vomit who’s eyes serve a foreign master.
The worst part is, even if I were to call an ambulance, even if I was to get medical attention, I don’t know how I would pay for it. Whatever procedure I require to bring my eyes back into my ownership would not be cheap; especially now that I lost my job.
So heed my warning dear reader. Do not party with warlocks, especially if you don’t have health insurance.