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1.
2.
Conjuring 02:44
3.
Pulse 02:47
4.
They're Here 02:05
5.

about

Martin sat in the dim room, as the last of ambient daylight glowed through the window. The muted colors of the sunset shining through the window reflected faintly on the glass he gently turned in his left hand, back and forth, back and forth. With his right hand, he abruptly rubbed his temple. When would the ringing go away? He opened his mouth in a silent scream, and then began faintly sobbing, for what felt like the millionth time today. Was it only yesterday that he last laughed, out for lunch with a client, his earlier worry about Olivia’s distance all but forgotten?

His memories drifted back to arriving home yesterday evening, tired but pleased, from a long, yet successful day at the office. He had opened the door from the garage into the house preoccupied with details of what still needed to be accomplished before bed, barely registering the grind of the car door closing behind him. It wasn’t until he had his shoes fully off, carefully set in their place, and his overcoat hanging in the closet, that his brain registered...something… Looking up sharply, Martin realized that the house seemed both darker and more quiet than normal. Olivia? he had called, not yet concerned. No answer. He began to wonder if Olivia had stepped out on an errand, but her car had been in the garage. Where would she have gone that didn’t require driving? He continued to ponder this while he walked through the house, room by room, searching.

He had found her in the bedroom. She looked peacefully asleep, but the empty pill bottle told another story, orange cylinder on its side, with the cap half under the dresser across the room. He ran to her, icy cold fear gripping his heart, and felt for a pulse. Full panic set in, as he waited in vain for the rhythm of life to drum beneath his fingertips. And then everything was a blur. He must have called 911, because he remembered the paramedics arriving. He remembered vague questions being asked of him. He remembered hearing them pronounce her dead at the scene. Mostly he remembered holding her cold, peaceful body and staring at the glass on the nightstand. The glass that must have held the water she had used to swallow the pills. The glass that still held her lipstick on its rim. The glass he now gently turned in his hand, back and forth, back and forth, as the last vestiges of the day after faded from their house.

Finally, no longer able to make out the lipstick on the rim in the dim light, Martin stood up, filled the glass at the kitchen sink, and drank deeply. He carefully set the glass on the counter, then went to lie on the couch, only to have sleep elude him until daybreak.


* * * * * * * * * * * * *


Martin stared at the paper in his hand, seven digits scribbled in blue ink. His hand shook a little as he considered what he was planning to do, yet he felt he had no other recourse. Two weeks had passed since Olivia had left him. Two weeks, but it felt like two years, filled with anguish, sleeplessness, panic, and sobbing. Celeste from accounting had pulled him aside two days ago, telling him that she had a way he might heal. He had been confused about what she meant at first, but she was patient in her explanation. Eventually he came to understand that there was a way to see Olivia again. To speak to her. To perhaps get some answers, and if so, maybe get some measure of peace. And then she handed him the piece of paper.

“Call Arden,” she said. “Tell him I sent you. He can help.”

And so, here he sat. A lifelong and devout unbeliever in anything. A confirmed atheist. Here he sat, ready to call someone who claimed to be able to help him contact someone in the spirit world, as if such a world existed. Slowly, Martin picked up his cell phone, typed in his lock code, pulled up the keypad and called the number. After several rings, a man picked up.

“Hello?”

“Is this Arden? Celeste told me I should call. I don’t even know what I’m doing really, but she said you might be able to help.”

“Of course. You must be Martin. I’ve been waiting for your call. Olivia has already contacted me from beyond. She wants to speak to you, Martin, is almost desperate to do so, in fact. Can you come to my house Saturday?”

“...Really? You’ve spoken to her…?”

“Yes. I assure you, I’ve spoken to her. Please, will you come Saturday?”

“.....”

“Please, Martin.”

“Yes. Ok. I’ll be there.”

And then, Arden gave him the address, which Martin dutifully recorded on the back of the paper with the phone number. A time of 8 pm was decided upon, goodbyes were exchanged, and they hung up. Martin was surprised to realize that he felt hopeful for the first time since he found the water glass with the lipstick, since...that night.


* * * * * * * * * * * * *


At five minutes to eight on Saturday evening, Martin pulled up in front of a beautifully maintained Victorian house. He parked, walked through the front gate, closing it behind him, and then up the steps onto the porch. Before he could even knock, the front door opened to reveal a man with shaggy red hair, a bushy beard, and a sweater that looked like it might have been made by someone’s Grandma. Slightly rotund, with a small potbelly hanging over the waist of his khakis, the man looked like an elementary school principal, or perhaps an English professor at a third rate college.

“Martin? I’m Arden. Please come in. I have everything set to go in my study upstairs. Follow me.”

With that, Arden shook Martin’s hand and led the way towards the back of the house. A left turn led to the foot of some stairs, and then shortly thereafter, what was obviously the study in question. The room held a small fireplace, with an equally small fire burning sedately away. Bookshelves lined two of the walls. A desk stood pristinely in front of an exterior window, which gave a view of the side yard in the dusky light. In the center of the room, three chairs were arranged in an equilateral triangle around some chalk markings on the floor. Martin looked dubiously at the strange symbol, but allowed himself to be ushered towards one of the chairs.

“Here, Martin,” said Arden, as he motioned towards the closest chair. “Sit here. Be careful not to scuff the sigil please. I’ll sit to your left. If we are successful tonight, Olivia will manifest in the third chair. If all goes as it should, she will be visible, if somewhat indistinct. Allow her to speak first, but once she does, you may speak to her as you have in the past. Ask her whatever you’d like, but stay in your chair. Leaving your chair will break the connection. Crossing the sigil could even be dangerous. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” allowed Martin.

“Good. Are you ready?”

“I think so. Yes. I’m ready.”

With that, Arden sat in the second chair and began slowly chanting in a language which Martin did not understand. After some minutes of chants, he began to gesticulate with his hands in complicated patterns, rhythmically swaying back and forth, back and forth. Martin heard a ringing in his ears and realized he was sweating, though the room had been noticeably cool when he had first entered. The pace of chanting picked up, as did the speed of Arden’s rhythmic motions. Martin stared at him, unsure how to feel about this strange ritual. Suddenly, Arden’s head rolled back on his shoulders and his arms opened wide.

Martin felt a presence and slowly turned towards the third chair. There, shimmering and flickering, utterly transparent, but as recognizably beautiful as ever, sat Olivia.

“Oh, Martin,” she breathed.

Without thinking, Martin began to stand and move across the sigil towards her. His shoe scuffed the edge of the markings as Arden’s head popped forward, panic in his eyes.

“NOOOOOO…” he screamed.

Then everything seemed to happen at once. Olivia’s image burst into flame, before disappearing completely. Arden’s chair was thrown back by some invisible hand, sliding across the room, and crashing into the desk. Martin felt something grip his left calf, which was barely into the markings of the sigil, but he found that he couldn’t move at all, even to look down at his leg. The grip tightened until it felt like an icy claw grasping the very marrow of his tibia. The frozen grasp began to spread through his body, keeping pace with the fear that was taking the same journey. And then all went black.


* * * * * * * * * * * * *


Slowly, Martin became aware of his surroundings. First, he became aware of the scent of cooking meat. Then, he realized that he could hear a crackling fire. Next, he began to taste something like barbecue, and realized he was chewing on something, though he didn’t seem to be controlling this process. Finally, his vision began to return. Were those hands in front of him his own? In those hands was what appeared to be a human arm. As the arm was brought again to his mouth, he noticed the remains of a very ugly sweater around the wrist, and began to scream. Some time later, he realized his screams were making no sound. Try as he might, he could not control anything about himself. A menacing chuckle began to reverberate within his head, as whatever being was in the driver’s seat...his driver’s seat... took another bite.


* * * * * * * * * * * * *


“Good morning, Martin.”

“Good morning, Celeste.”
“Did you ever call Arden?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you so much for that. He was able to help. I feel so much more at peace.”

“Oh, wonderful! I’m so happy to hear that.”

“In fact, Celeste. To show my gratitude, I’d love to have you over for dinner this weekend. Will you join me? Say, Saturday at 8 o’clock?”

“Thank you Martin. I’d be happy to. We can discuss the details later.”

Inside his head, Martin wept in helpless fury. The menacing laughter rolled through him, vibrating him to the core.

Story by Rick Jackson, OPUS OF IRON
========================================================================================================================

"‘Encased’ is a very nice piece of work, unsettling at times which is ideal for ambient horror. I don’t listen to a lot of this stuff, so I have no idea how it measures up critically, but personally I’m a fan. Does what it says on the tin!" - The Killchain Blog

"...dripping in dark atmosphere, threat and horror. It’s something that can make you feel uncomfortable just through the haunting and echoing effects. The gloom is as thick as morning fog, the feeling of dread is consistent throughout and the fascinating story described above comes through with such ease." - Games, Brrrains, and a Headbanging Life

Priests of Prometheus is ready to present another horrific offering. This time, the solo project of Justin “Turtle” Wolz explores the depths of darkness in an ambient noise EP which plumbs the depths of horror on Encased, a concept piece of one man’s journey through grief, into the hope of salvation, only to fall victim to the ultimate in terror. The story evolves through five tracks that creep into the listener’s lizard brain, causing shivers of despair.


Encased will be released on November 20th and will be accompanied by a short story commissioned for the EP from Opus of Iron. Richmond, VA artist Jason Burhans has been tasked with creating the cover art for this audio nightmare.


As is the case across the diverse offerings of Justin “Turtle” Wolz, Encased is an emotional exploration. Here, grief is the driving force behind our protagonist’s journey. As he seeks some control over his own life and emotions, he finds that his choices actually lead to less control. Come, take the journey into darkness which Encased provides.

credits

released November 20, 2020

Created, Recorded, Programmed, and Mixed by Justin "Turtle" Wolz at Men of Strange Arts Studio.

Mastered by Bruce Smith at Sound of Music Studios in Richmond, VA
www.soundofmusicrva.com

Encased story by Rick Jackson, OPUS OF IRON

Cover Art by Jason Burhans

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Priests of Prometheus Richmond, Virginia

A music project exploring mind and style.

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