Читать книгу The Altar - James Arthur Anderson - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

-1-

After the darkness came the pain. A blinding, burning pain of fire and brimstone, straight from Dante’s Inferno. The agonizing pain seared the nerves, choked the lungs, burned the tissues from the inside out. It tortured each and every cell—or the memory of each cell, for the actual, living cells had long ago ceased to carry on their biological functions of osmosis, respiration, and division.

His was the awful pain of remembrance, the terrible pain of awakening after three centuries of sleep—of death.

The first sacrifice, accidental, had awakened the pain and with it had come reluctant consciousness. Despite his resolve, he had questioned and protested. He had tried to close his nonexistent eyes and return to the emptiness of sleep, the nothingness of death.

But the pain had invaded his peace, his stillness, rolling over him like endless waves of fire. With shock, he realized that he had no nerves, no lungs, no tissues or cells. Without a body, he should feel no pain. Yet the pain tortured him with its vivid and impossible reality.

Time passed and he imagined himself in hell. Gradually, he became lucid and remembered, despite the pain. The agony never lessened; he merely grew accustomed to it, like a festering, cancerous growth that continued to burn and bloat.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he learned that he could force the pain into the background while his thoughts flourished. Only then did the memories become more clear and his purpose more focused.

The flames. The rancid black smoke. The awful scent of burned flesh—his own flesh—roasting away as the blood boiled within his veins. The memories returned in vivid, wrenching detail as he relived the moment over and over again.

Then, like a film played in an endless loop, the pain and emotion of the memory faded somewhat, allowing him to recall his purpose.

The curse had emerged from the flames, bright and bold as the phoenix. He would exact vengeance upon them and upon those who came after them. He could see it all clearly now, not only up until the time of his own death, but beyond. He saw the world move on, while he slept. And now the curse had pulled him back, had reawakened his purpose.

Yes, the curse. They would pay with their own lives and their own pain, just as the first one had paid, restoring his power and bringing him back from beyond the very reaches of Hell. There would be more deaths, more suffering. Death and pain would restore him, make him whole, provide life and substance to his anger and hatred and hurt. It would quell his own agony as his consciousness reached out to claim what belonged to him. Fighting against the pain of remembrance, he flexed his power like a muscle and began to reach into this new and different world.

-2-

Todd had trouble sleeping that night, plagued by bad dreams of the old Indian man who had visited them earlier. Twice during the night he woke up crying and had to be comforted by his mother. He couldn’t remember exactly what the dreams were about, but the old man played a part in them. His father tried to tell him it was nothing, just the unfamiliar sounds of the new house and the wind rustling through the trees in the woods out back. But by the time the morning sun had peeked through his window to awaken him, Todd was secretly convinced that the old Indian was some kind of mummy that had been dead for a thousand years.

Todd spent most of the day unpacking his things. He had his own room on the second floor and his happiness in not having to share space with the new baby made him forget his bad dreams as the day wore on. He took special pleasure in helping his father arrange his bedroom and in setting up his treasures and special things where he wanted them. He was happy despite his mother’s constant nagging about how he’d have to keep his room picked up, and by suppertime he’d managed to convince himself that the dreams were silly after all, and that the Indian was just an old man, nothing more. He didn’t have a chance to go outside and really explore the back yard until after suppertime. But he knew this huge and wonderful yard would become his own private playground.

Now, as the sun began to set, he sat on the cool, damp ground beside a small, newly-planted shrub, aimlessly digging the loose dirt of his mother’s future garden with the point of the geologist’s hammer his uncle Mike had given him for his birthday. It was a cool night and the dew had already begun forming on the short, neatly cut grass. Todd breathed deeply, drawing in the crisp, fresh air. He nodded in satisfaction.

But as he looked off into the dense woods behind the back yard, his thoughts returned to the Indian man who had visited them the night before, and the memory of the nightmares returned once again. He shivered, despite himself, as he tried to rid himself of the uneasiness he had felt at the man’s appearance. His palms were sweaty and his mind whirled around like bathwater going down the drain.

Then the memory of the nightmare that had plagued him returned in vivid detail. In a terrible but realistic vision of pure imagination, he had seen the Indian laying spread-eagled on a huge stone slab, bleeding and twisting in agony from a hundred wounds that covered his entire body. Somehow, Todd knew that the man was ancient beyond belief as he lay on the slab like raw meat on a plate.

The vision had been so real, so intense that he’d bolted upright in bed, screaming in terror until his mother and father had come running into the room to comfort him. Just remembering the dream, it was all he could do to choke back a scream and bolt back inside the house and into his mother’s arms.

But something stopped him. He was a big kid now, he reminded himself and he could even read adult books. He liked scary stories best, and had read some Stephen King books, though they were supposed to be too old for him. But he’d been reading them for almost a year now—his teacher said he was “advanced”—and if his mother thought he was frightened she’d blame it on the books and she’d take them away and make him read boring stuff instead.

With a shudder he remembered his father’s words—it was only a dream and dreams can’t hurt you. They’re only make-believe, like in the books or movies, and when you put the book down or left the theater, or turned off the TV or woke up from the dream, it was gone. Just a memory. Of course he still wasn’t convinced that the monsters on TV weren’t real, despite the thing he’d seen at the Boston Museum of Science a few weeks ago where he learned about something they called “blue screen technique” to make imaginary things look real in the movies.

He quickly decided to put all these ideas about ghosts and monsters out of his mind as he looked out at the woods beyond his back yard. The thick forest grew on two sides of the square yard that he now called his own. To his left the irregular brush gradually blended into an oak forest that was cut by a brook a little way down the road. His Dad had told him that they’d never have any neighbors on that side because it was a wetland and part of the reservation, though it looked dry enough to Todd. They did have neighbors on the right, just beyond a row of trees that separated the yards. The house next door, like all of the houses on this road and the small shopping plaza, was brand new. Most of the families had moved in a couple weeks ago, his Dad told him.

Straight ahead, at the furthest end of the yard, the woods grew thickest and probably ran for miles before meeting a road or another house. These thick woods fascinated Todd, and he felt no fear, only wonder as he looked into their endless depths.

He heard the trees silently calling him, huge, grizzled oaks older than his grandfather, probably even older than Dovecrest. They beckoned him, luring him into their embrace with the sweet promises of adventure. Maybe they hid a secret treasure, he thought, or maybe a fossil of an animal or fish instead of the usual fossilized ferns he’d found when they were digging up Grandpa’s sewer pipes. Maybe he could even find an arrowhead. After all, Dovecrest was an Indian, and he lived near here.

His mind filled with excitement as he thought about what the woods might hold. He doubted that anyone had ever been in these woods before. Todd immediately decided that he must be the first to explore this forest, which was, after all, part of his very own back yard. He must explore these woods before any of the other neighborhood kids had the chance.

Then he remembered his father’s warning about wandering off in the woods. He looked at the sky and calculated that it was still light enough to explore for a little while, as long as he didn’t go very far in. Besides, he was a big kid now, not a little baby anymore.

I’ll just go in a little ways, he thought. And I won’t go so far away that I can’t see the house. That way I won’t get lost.

He walked slowly to the edge of the grass and looked back at the house. Dad had turned on the light in his study and was probably working on his computer, while Mom, no doubt, was still fussing with the baby’s room. A tinge of jealousy burned his cheeks when he thought about the new baby. Already his Mom was fussing over it and it hadn’t even been born yet.

Well, at least they wouldn’t notice he was gone, and he’d be back before dark. He’d just duck a little way into the woods, have an adventure, and come right back. They’d never miss him.

He turned away from the house and stepped through the underbrush and into the woods.

-3-

Erik spent most of the day unpacking and helping Vickie rearrange furniture. He couldn’t quite understand the female preoccupation with designing rooms. It must be that nesting instinct.

Yet he was very pleased with the job she’d done on his office—the Thoreau Suite. Naming the room had started as a private joke between them. While on their honeymoon in Miami they had visited a mansion built by one of those turn of the century capitalists. The place had a gold name plate on the door of each room. They’d laughed at the pretentiousness of rich people.

“When we get a place of our own, we’ll name the rooms, too,” Vickie had said.

“What if we only have two rooms?”

“We’ll still name them. They’d be our rooms, right?”

The new house wasn’t a mansion by any stretch of the imagination, but it did have more than two rooms. And Vickie had promised him an office of his own, designed any way he wanted. She had delivered on her promise.

He sat back in his luxurious office chair—an elegant nut-brown leather—and looked at the result. With a simple natural look, including small plants, nature prints, and the Thoreau collage, the room had Walden Pond written all over it. Erik had done most of his work in tiny apartments on a kitchen table. Now, for the first time, he really felt at home.

As happy as he was with the new place, though, he couldn’t stop thinking about the woods behind the house, and Johnny Dovecrest’s visit. Pastor Mark hadn’t done much to reassure him, either. He hadn’t realized the woods were so deep. The first investment he’d make would be a good, sturdy fence to enclose the backyard.

-4-

The trees towered over Todd, reminding him of the time they’d gone to a museum in New York that had an old stone building right inside the place. The old building hadn’t had walls, just these giant stone things that looked like tree trunks without any branches. Like that building, these trees formed a sort of roof over his head, and he could hear the chirping of thousands of birds that were settling down for the night. Somewhere an owl hooted and was answered by the angry caw of a crow. The damp air attracted swarms of mosquitoes, which he absently slapped away from his face. One lighted on his arm, where he smashed it onto a bloody smear.

He walked slowly, occasionally stumbling over a blueberry bush, or being picked by thorns, until he came to a narrow path which, while not overgrown, looked as if it hadn’t been used in some time. He glanced back at the house and saw the light shining from Dad’s room like a beacon from a lighthouse. Finding his way back would be no sweat, no sweat at all. He clutched his geologist’s hammer tightly and moved on.

He remembered a movie he’d seen in first grade about Daniel Boone, and he imagined he was a great explorer as he pushed forward along the path, blazing new trails into the wilderness. The hammer was a tomahawk. His sneakers were moccasins and his Boston Red Sox hat became a coonskin cap as he turned it backwards on his head.

The path narrowed as it edged deeper into the woods, but he hardly noticed. And when the trail ended altogether, he still didn’t notice, so intent was he on his role as a pioneer.

The silent voice drew him on, promising discovery just ahead, perhaps just beyond the next tree. The voice in his mind grew stronger as he moved deeper into the forest, and his excitement increased with the intensity of the voice.

Although the voice didn’t speak in words, it uttered the poetry of a language understandable to the mind of an adventure-seeking boy. Todd eagerly listened and heard.

He came to an abrupt halt as the forest unexpectedly broke into a circular clearing of neatly cropped grass. The last rays of the setting sun bathed the clearing in sinister shadows that seemed to take on strange shapes as the light flickered through the surrounding trees.

But it wasn’t the clearing that stopped Todd in his tracks. It was the huge rectangular black slab sitting exactly in the center of the circle. It was the same stone Todd had seen in his dream—the very same stone where he’d seen Dovecrest’s tortured body.

His breath rushed from his lungs like a popped balloon as he stood paralyzed, unable to do anything except stare at the terrible rock and wonder if it were real, or still a left-over from last night’s dream.

The rock was large enough to make a bed for a tall man, and stood shoulder-high to Todd. Blacker than any rock he had even seen, it reminded him of the coal-dark eyes of Dovecrest, eyes that looked as if they knew all of his innermost thoughts and secrets. He wondered if the blackness were real, or a trick of the shadows.

Then the voice in his mind grew stronger; the rock itself seemed to call him. Without even realizing that he was moving, Todd found himself crossing the open field, drawing closer to the slab. The birds had stopped their chatter and even the mosquitoes had disappeared, though Todd noticed none of this as he fixated on the huge rock. The air took on a sudden chill as his feet carried him forward with a power of his own.

He stopped at the base of the slab. His heart pounded madly and he had broken out in a cold sweat. Swallowing hard, he felt his body trembling with fear as he slowly turned away to look back at where he’d come from, hoping to see his house back through the trees.

The beacon from his father’s study had long since been consumed by the trees, and the path had disappeared also, now hidden in the darkness.

Vaguely, he realized he was lost and it had become dark. When he turned to look at the huge rock, though, he instinctively knew that being lost in the woods was the least of his troubles. As much as he wanted to run, needed to run, his feet remained glued to the ground, frozen in place by fear and some unknown, unseen, and unnatural power.

The slab was shiny and polished smoother than Grandma’s dining room table. A groove resembling a rain gutter ran around the outer edge. Tentatively, Todd reached his hand out and rested it on the polished surface. It felt cold to the touch, colder than an ice pop right out of the freezer. He was overwhelmed with a feeling of intense loneliness, as if he were the only person left in the entire world. Then, for no apparent reason, the slab began to warm up. His fingers tingled and he jerked them away.

The image of Dovecrest again flooded his mind and last night’s vision returned as he stared at this slab’s nightmare surface. This time, though, he didn’t see a vision of Dovecrest, but of a teenage girl lying upon the smooth, polished stone—a blonde girl. He flushed in embarrassment as he realized that she was naked, and she began to whimper softly as the moon poked its face over the tops of the trees.

Todd watched in fascination and terror as a shadowy figure appeared beside the girl and raised its arms high in the air. The moonlight glinted off a shiny steel surface as a knife blade hovered over the girl’s body for just an instant before plunging down in a sweeping arc of silver death.

The girl screamed once and a fountain of blood spewed from her chest and flowed out and over the slab to fill the grooves on its edge.

Todd clamped his eyes shut. His knees buckled and he fell forward to sprawl against the stone. Slowly he opened his eyes again, willing the dream to be gone.

The vision evaporated in an instant and only the slab was left. This new dream, a daydream, had been the product of his imagination after all.

Yet somehow he sensed that it was more—perhaps a history of what was, or a taste of what was to be.

He suddenly felt sick and the contents of his stomach did a back flip. He looked at the slab with hatred as he choked back the bile.

Without fully realizing what he was doing or why, he swung his geologist’s hammer over his head and brought it down with all the force he could muster. A loud clang echoed through the clearing as the hammer struck the rock; the shock of the impact vibrated up Todd’s arm and into his shoulder as the hammer bounced back like a rubber ball hitting the street.

Todd had slammed his eyes shut with the effort of the blow. When he opened them again he stared at the rock for a full ten seconds before he began to scream. It took him that long to fully comprehend the vision before him.

The very stone itself was trickling blood from a tiny chip he had made on its otherwise perfectly smooth surface.

-5-

Johnny Dovecrest was dicing onions for a stew when he heard the scream coming from deep within the woods. He paused, his knife poised in mid-air, and listened intently. But there was only silence now.

He put the knife down, walked to the window and looked into the blackness of the forest. His experienced eyes bore into the darkness but saw nothing. It might have been his imagination. But the hair on the back of his neck tingled, telling him it might have been something else. Something he didn’t want to think about.

He had tried to tell them not to build here, that it wasn’t safe. But they had refused to listen. Just like they always refused to listen. Now he feared the worst.

Either way, he had to know. He took his old M1 Carbine from its case in the closet, stuck his .45 caliber Beretta Mini Cougar into the waistband of his jeans, and went outside, praying to God that it wasn’t happening again.