T. G. pulled the dark blue sedan off of the old rural highway, veering onto a deserted dirt-and-gravel road that disappeared into the murky darkness beyond the glare of his headlights. A mind-gripping quiet swelled within the vehicle as he shut off the engine, its pressure magnifying the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. He was well outside of Ithaca, far from anything that could be called a town.
And, more importantly, far from anyone who might be endangered by such as the shadowthing again.
A few ominous lines of verse he had once heard flickered into his mind—
Like one who on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and dread and having once turned ’round, walks on and turns no more his head
For he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread
A small shudder ran up his spine, then was gone. A flashlight blazed, and T. G. lifted the book from the canvas bag. He would have given anything to have been reading it in the comfort of the professor’s home or in a crowded shopping mall or while surrounded by a platoon of well-armed marines. But he dared not risk other lives—from three days and a lifetime before, the ice-glazed stare of Mrs. Lucreia still burned in his memory.
Adjusting the seat back, he settled comfortably into the plush upholstery of the car. He pressed a button, and the power door locks all around him sealed with a loud and definite clunk, a meaningless yet soothing illusion of security. As he leafed through the pages, scanning in preview the true and ancient horror story that was about to fill his mind’s eye, he was grateful for the professor’s refined penmanship. Monsters might soon be a problem, yes. Eyestrain, no. He reached out and readjusted the rearview mirror so he could see behind the car from his slumped position. Just in case.
He began to read.
David rolled to the side, his clouded eyes seeking the blurry, red glow of the readout on his clock radio. It was two-thirty in the morning. The white sound of the fan running in the corner of the room was a comfort, one he had never been able to sleep without as an adult. But as its droning lulled him back toward sleep, he resisted and threw back the sheets.
Nature called. He rose in the dark and stumbled with awkward feet into the bathroom, finding cold tile and the light switch right where they always had been. Grateful for the commonplace after hearing T. G.’s monster stories, he certainly hoped that there would be no repeat performances within the walls of his home. His long-missing friend had been unusually pensive following their visit to the professor’s house, which had David a bit worried.
A few minutes later, he was more awake. He walked out into the silence of his darkened house, making a security check. It was not something he normally did, but something nagged at him and the house did not feel quite right.
He found T. G.’s bedroom door open, his bed unslept in. Seeing a dim light at the end of the hall, he walked toward the den and called out for his friend, but his words found no ear there. A table lamp burned in one corner, a note taped to its base. David reached out and pulled the paper free, knowing intuitively what message awaited him.
Dave—
I’m going back to that place—I have to. I found a way, and I’m Jenni’s only chance. She’s got to be there. Please don’t worry. Nothing that has happened is your fault. You’ve always been the best friend I ever had. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better one to you. I swear I’ll come back, and I’ll bring Jenni with me.
T. G.
P.S. I had to borrow the car. You can pick it up at the funeral home.
He breathed a heavy sigh and fell into his plush recliner. T. G. was gone again, after a mere two days. Had he ever been there at all? Was it real? Did I dream it? He crumpled the note, clutching it tightly as proof of his visitation.
Go get ’em, T-square—show ’em how we do things on Planet Earth. I’ll be waiting for you, both of you, right here.
Staring up at the ceiling, he did some quick math in his head.
“Twenty-fifteen,” he whispered. “I’ll be sixty-four.”
He did not know the man’s name. He did not want to.
T. G.’s hands were shaky, his breath coming in quick gulps. Am I really going through with this? He looked over at the ancient herb jars spread at arm’s length to his right on a stainless-steel cart. Beside them was the black stone sphere. Dr. Abelwhite had given him those things the spell demanded—they were all items that had belonged to Astanapha, and T. G. had the eerie feeling they still did. The book was spread there, as well, propped up and open to the relevant passages. She had told him that the precise words he spoke were crucial—a single misspoken syllable would render the entire attempt ineffective. He had read and reread the words, memorizing them. They were so simple, so unimpressive—how could they possibly bridge the infinite gap between worlds?
He considered the artifact hanging from his shoulder, as it had been for, it seemed, his entire life. He then looked down at the pale corpse spread before him, lying on its back atop one of the funeral home’s gurneys. His intellect fought back the bile that swelled again and again into his throat—he had never seen a dead body before, let alone touched one. He felt unclean, wondering if he was any better than the grave robbers that populated so many of the old late-night horror movies he had seen on television. He wanted to run from the room, but the incantation demanded a human corpse and a large, hot fire, and he was in the only place he could find both.
A voice deep within him screamed that what he was doing was wrong, a voice beyond mere conscience. He turned a deaf ear, shutting out the warning, forcing back the rising apprehension that begged him to stop. Almost as a litany, he told himself over and over that he had to reach Jenni, had to bring her home again—and by any means necessary.
He kept imagining his own father spread before him on the gurney. He had refused to see either of his parents’ bodies at their funeral—it had been a closed-casket service at T. G.’s insistence—but still his mind fought him, as if to drive him from the room and away from what he was attempting. Shutting out the image, he draped a sheet across the midsection of the lifeless form, preserving the man’s dignity as best he could.
Cruel, crudely stitched autopsy scars coursed like ugly rivers upon the man’s naked, grayish flesh. There were so many wounds that T. G. was unsure which had been postmortem and which might have served as the cause of death. It did not matter.
The forty-six-year-old car crash victim had been brought to the home only the day before and had already been embalmed. T. G. had found him in the preparations room after using David’s keys to gain entry. The body would not be harmed—T. G. was thankful that the gateway invocation did not call for the use of daggers or internal organs, for he doubted he could have brought himself to mutilate a corpse in any way. But the spell did demand that the corpse be fresh, and this was the only one for miles. The man’s makeup and clothing would be prepared in the morning, once a puzzled mortician’s assistant retrieved the body from the crematory room, but for now the dead man had one last favor to perform on Earth.
T. G. looked up at the huge crematory before him, just beyond the corpse. The small, round window in its massive door told him that the fire had reached its peak, and a glance at the temperature gauge confirmed it.
But it was not a dead body that would be going into the fire. Not this time.
The flames once again threw their dancing patterns against the ceiling. The overhead fixtures were all off, leaving the crematory pyre as the room’s only source of light. That was what the book called for.
Fire.
T. G. reached over and picked up one of the alabaster jars, a rounded one. Only six inches tall, it was still very heavy, and mounting nervousness made him doubt the steadiness of his grip. As his hands shook slightly he focused upon the jar, opened it, and peered inside. Then he extended his arm and sprinkled its contents onto the torso of the corpse.
Sand from the western bank of the Nile, mixed with natron.
Earth.
He returned the jar to the table, took a deep breath, and began to read from the book.
“O Osiris, Foremost of the Westerners, the planets are stilled for they have seen your power. You shall not perish, and your ka shall not perish, for you are a ka.”
He steadied his quivering hands as best he could and placed the flat of his palm against the body’s sand-coated chest. This is ridiculous! “O Horus, hear me. Light the pathway into the netherworld. Show me the door, which opens unto the land of the dead.”
He reached for another jar. Onto the sands he poured—
Water.
“You are the strongest of the gods, Osiris … do not let Shu prevent the opening of the door, nor slow any worthy akh, nor devour it. For they will cross over into the realm of the dead, like those who are in your following.”
The fire within the crematory grew brighter. T. G. swallowed hard, afraid to continue. Part of him had not believed he could open the gateway. That part was no longer so sure.
A voice within him cried out.
Stop!
He placed a carved, fist-sized object onto the corpse’s chest, over its heart. It was a heart scarab of polished jade, the underside of which had been inscribed with hieroglyphics. T. G. then placed his hand upon the stone insect and spoke again.
“Do not allow my heart to be my enemy in the presence of Anubis, the guardian of the balance. Speak well. Draw forth the gate. Worlds must touch. We must know your wisdom and counsel.”
A breeze swelled in the closed room. He sprinkled a precise mixture of juniper oil and rare spices onto the body. “Open now the passage … bring forth the ancient bridge.” The breeze became a cold, biting wind that sliced right through his clothes. He reached to the table one last time, lifted the enigmatic stone ball and held it up before him. “Servants of Horus and Osiris, hear me … open the gateway!” His hair stood on end and a tingle raced over his flesh, an odd sensation that rapidly grew until the air against him crackled with static.
With a glass-shattering crack, a bolt of lightning lanced out from the still-sealed crematory door, destroying its window. T. G. reflexively yanked his empty hands away as the stroke arced into the black sphere he held.
The ball did not fall. It hung there, at eye level, with the dancing, white-hot bolt fixed upon it in a continuous flow of raw energy. The crackling hum of the electric appendage hurt his ears and the intensity of the bolt burned his eyes, but he could not look away. Like an unearthly arm and hand, the lightning held the stone ball suspended.
Something in him sensed that he needed to move away—and fast. He took several steps back, watching with dread.
The ball suddenly flared into a whiteness, a light that threatened to scorch his eyes and skin with its intensity. The brilliance was accompanied by great heat and a piercing scream—an intolerable, high-pitched whine that existed at the very edge of human hearing. The arc of lightning then ceased, but the blinding orb continued to hang there before him, forcing him to cover his face with his shielding arms.
Sun.
The power of the cosmos—unleashed yet contained. A circuit had been completed. A doorway had been opened, an infinite passage of a million dimensions, connecting two worlds that were never meant to touch.
The heavy door of the crematory flew open and intense heat poured forth, singeing T. G.’s face and hands. Cruel winds drove hard through the room, knocking over anything that was not anchored down. The ground heaved again and again as the floor rolled with shock waves. T. G. rushed forward and leaned over the body, trying to keep his feet.
The firelight spilling from the door fell away, shifting from a glaring white to a deep blue, deeper than any T. G. had ever seen. The flames within the oven changed, their essence altering as they thickened into an almost gelatinous substance. The dark fire flowed thickly like undulating molten metal, out of the crematory door and down its side, spilling onto the floor and into a rapidly widening blue-black pool of living viscous flame.
And it was cold. Very cold. The stone ball, its work done, went dark and fell to the floor with a loud thud. It was carried a few feet by the flow from the oven door before finally coming to rest.
A new roar sounded.
T. G. watched as the walls of the room faded from sight, giving way to a dark whirlpool that fully encompassed the chamber. It was as if he were in the eye of a megatornado, and as he squinted into the deafening cyclone walls he saw shapes form there, carried within the black winds. They were vaporous and indefinite, but T. G. got the distinct impression of ghostly victims caught in the insane, violent rush, their mouths open in screams of perpetual agony.
T. G., still leaning over the body, peered into the door of the oven. A swirl of darkness had formed there and was growing faster and deeper. In seconds, it had become a narrow tunnel that stretched until it vanished with distance. The winds instantly reversed themselves and rushed back toward the open oven door, drawn by the vortex. T. G. reached out and grabbed the book, and with the same motion shoved the table of Egyptian antiquities clear of the main winds. The artifact, slung over his shoulder, slammed again and again against his side, caught in the airflow. He pushed the corpse and its gurney to the other side, rolling it out of harm’s way. Staggering back, he tried to maintain his balance against the gale.
The winds rushing through the oven door died down. The undulating floor stilled. The whirlpool surrounding the room continued, suddenly soundless. Pressures had equalized. The fully realized gateway lay before him, waiting.
A minute passed as T. G. stared into the incredible maelstrom within the crematory. The only sound he heard was that of his own breathing.
Not believing it possible, he found the already chilly room growing colder. His breath became white.
It was at this point in the incantation, with the portal open, that Astanapha had once summoned the gods to come forth through the tunnel. But T. G. had other plans, and they did not include a confrontation on his home soil. He hoped he would not come face to face with Egyptian deities along the way—it looked like a one-lane passage, and either he or someone else would have a long way to back up.
No one had been summoned. The gateway began to close. The slippery dark matter that flowed around his feet was gathering itself back toward the oven, flowing back up its side. Clutching the book, T. G. took a deep breath and bravely climbed through the oven door. The heavy black orb and the other elements of the incantation were useless without the book, so leaving them behind, he hoped, would not matter.
It was difficult getting through the door with both the artifact and the book. Before T. G. could squirm all the way in, his lower legs still protruding from the door, he felt something. Strong hands grabbed hold of him, trying to keep him from crawling any farther into the oven. Don’t stop me, David! his thoughts cried out. Even as he turned his head to look upon his friend, he tried to shout over the renewed roar of the oven. “Let go! I have to do this!” But the words died away as his gaze fell upon the owner of the vise-like hands that pinned him.
It was not David. Something had indeed come through the portal, something unsummoned, something that had been waiting for this very opportunity.
Icy blue eyes—familiar eyes—glowed as they stared insanely at him, unblinking and inhuman. The corpse, clumps of wet sand still falling from its chest, held him immobile just short of the vortex. It did not try to pull him out of the oven—it wanted only to keep him short of the gateway but still in the oven. T. G. had heard its laugh before. He had seen its expression of depraved cruelty.
“You should have listened,” it gloated.
T. G. began to kick, or tried to. The lifeless hands held fast, the laughter building. In just seconds, it would be too late. The vortex would be gone. The blistering heat of the crematory would return in frill.
T. G. flailed wildly, struggling to free himself. The last of the blue-black matter, now inside the crematory once more and clear of the oven door, was flowing past him and into the receding gateway, leaving behind no trace of its passage. He screamed, pushing back with all his strength, and freed one leg.
The roar of flames and maniacal laughter filled his ears. He kicked as hard as he could against the chest of the corpse, again and again. The hard sole of his boot began to rend the autopsy stitches, opening the corpse’s flesh wider and deeper with each impact. Bloodless bone and muscle glinted wetly in the returning light of the crematory fire. He kicked back into the dead man’s face, over and over, breaking teeth and tearing flesh.
With one final, massive kick, the undead enemy was thrown off balance for just long enough. T. G. managed to plant his free boot against the inside edge of the oven door and pushed as hard as he could, propelling himself completely into the crematory, out of the corpse’s reach. The brick-and-steel door then fell closed and locked behind him. It could not be reopened from the inside.
If he failed to make it through, they would find his ashes in the morning.
He struggled forward, lugging the book and the artifact. The swirling tunnel still retreated from him, keeping him on its outer fringes as it withdrew across the wide oven floor. The chamber was already unbearably hot—in seconds it would be too late. He could no longer breathe the scorching air. He dropped the book, leaving it to burn. Time and again he reached out as if to take hold of the edge of the vortex, his fingers falling just short of their mark. He crawled faster. In final desperation, he kicked back against a raised ridge in the flooring and launched himself forward.
T. G. came down on the vanishing lip of the gateway just as it closed. Unsure that he had made it, he shut his eyes, bracing for the hellish flames of the crematory. Instead, the heat faded as he began to slide through the tight, dark tunnel, accelerating. His speed quickly approached that of sound, the air tearing brutally past him. He could not breathe, could not draw the rushing air into his aching lungs. In seconds disguised as hours, everything went completely dark. He passed out.
Carlene Abelwhite, holding a lace sheer out of the way, looked out of an upstairs window and into the overcast night sky. Winds had kicked up outside, tossing tree branches again and again against the walls of a home that had known blizzard, hail, and hurricane. Beneath a lamppost below, she watched as a newspaper page skittered along the street, accompanied by scattering leaves of maple and oak that then took flight.
Her hands shook. She looked upon them, gripping one with the other. How strong they had been, how sure. Where had the years gone? She had always been so busy, constantly surrounded by those who shared her passion for the past. Together they had toiled beneath the blinding desert sun. Together they had celebrated their finds. Carlene had outlived more of those companions than not. She was alone, now, in a house filled with the unearthed trinkets of peoples who had vanished dozens of centuries before. The treasures suddenly seemed so cold to her, so lifeless. So dead.
Letting the sheer fall, she again picked up the beige-tinged photos she had finally located and puzzled over the story they told. Their once simple black-and-white images had suddenly become a mystery she could not fathom, one more enigma in the supernatural mire that had ensnared T. G. She had taken the pictures herself, decades earlier, documenting her discovery of the black stone sphere he had taken with him.
As with all her finds, she had photographed the object from all angles, carefully making sure that no part of the sphere’s surface went unrecorded.
None of the photos held the feature she so very much wanted to see. The cryptic writing T. G. had found upon its polished surface that afternoon simply was not there. It never had been.
Until today.
A sudden roll of thunder that slammed from house to house brought her out of her reverie and rattled the antique glass in her window as it swept past. She knew this was no mere storm. It couldn’t be. It had swelled from nothing, centering itself upon Ithaca, stationary and rotating and growing more intense with each passing moment. As she watched, lightning again and again cut jagged scars across the darkness, arcing high above from east to west.
He did it, she knew. And she prayed.