The Thirteenth Curse

by Curtis Jobling

  “Let there be light!”

  She said this to herself as much as Eightball and the shadows, sparking up the cigarette lighter that she carried everywhere with her. It’s not like she smoked—Syd was no fool—but she liked to be prepared. Max had taught her that; she’d never been a Girl Scout. She held the lighter over the sarcophagus, noting that it was empty, the lid placed to one side against the wall. She whipped more sheets down, revealing more random boxes of both junk and antiquity.

  Crouching, she petted Eightball, and found that the dog was snuffling at the ground again. She brought the flame to the floor, illuminating spatters of blood on the gray concrete. And something else; she ran her fingers over a series of raised blobs in the dust. Dried wax. The flame flickered. Holding the cigarette lighter out, she kept it low, waving it slowly before her. As the flame fluttered again, Syd felt the slightest breeze over her knuckles.

  She shuffled to the wall, the fire now burning blue as the airflow caught it once more. The breeze was strongest beside a tall metal locker, nearly blowing out the lighter flame where the cabinet met the wall. Syd squeezed her fingers behind the locker’s back and pulled.

  There was a grinding squeal of metal against concrete that caused her to wince. The locker came away from the wall, revealing a man-size fissure where the bricks had been removed. The crumbling wall’s edge matched the chunk of masonry she’d almost tripped over when she’d first entered the room. Syd raised the lighter, spying roughly carved steps descending.

  “Woof,” said Eightball.

  “You’re not wrong,” she whispered anxiously, picking the spear up and setting off.

  The tunnel was big enough to accommodate her, allowing for the comfortable passage of a six-foot-tall man, she reckoned. The flame twinkled, catching the undulating rock walls as she went. Syd could see finger marks—perhaps even claws or talons had gouged the route through rock and red, sticky earth. It was a stretch to describe it as a staircase, but uneven footholds hewn into the earth brought her deeper into the ground with each step. She stumbled, lighter held out in one hand, spear raised in the other. Eightball followed, hopping down the crumbling steps. The tunnel suddenly leveled out, her descent complete, as the ceiling rose and she found herself in a domed chamber.

  Her foot caught something on the floor with a clang. Looking down, she found an abandoned handheld candelabra. Crouching, she passed the lighter over the six candle stubs, illuminating the chamber. She stood, raising the fancy candlestick aloft.

  “Holy crapsacks,” Syd hissed as Eightball growled.

  This had to be Vendemeier’s lair. The room stank of decay, a sweet, musty reek that made her bite back her bile. An exit tunnel headed off from the one that she’d entered through, probably leading away from the museum and providing the warlock with another means of access. The curving walls were adorned with scripture and symbols carved into the clay. They reminded Syd of the sarcophagus hieroglyphs, only cruder, less elegant in their shape. The more she stared at them, the more she felt chills emanating from the pit of her belly. Her guts were curdling, as if some ancient evil had taken root within her, crawling up through her insides, reaching for her heart . . .

  Syd looked away, struggling to breathe. She cast her eyes to the floor in the center of the chamber. There it was. An unremarkable-looking cube, carved from a dark black wood, sat upon a plinth of earth that rose like a termite mound to waist height. She held the candelabra over it, glimpsing a green hue within the wood. Syd stepped around it, examining it carefully from all sides. If there was a lid, it wasn’t visible, but it had been described as a box.

  Sticking the spear through the belt loop on her skinny jeans, Syd picked it up.

  Her first clue that she was in danger was Eightball’s growl. The second was the candle flames flickering as something rushed toward her from that other passage. This was her cue to duck as a hard fist connected with the clay wall. Red earth fell away, choking dust clouding around her. The cube tumbled from her hand into the debris as she struggled to right herself. Half-blind, Syd whipped the spear back out and held the candelabra up in an attempt to see her assailant.

  The mummy was no giant, not like in the movies. It was around six feet tall, and wasn’t even that broad; it probably weighed less than Syd did. The ancient wraps that covered its body hung on every contour, hugging its embalmed flesh. The linen bandages were stained dark with age and from the gradual breakdown of the body within, crusted in places where they’d begun to peel away. Foul flakes of dried-up ooze broke free with each of the mummy’s staggered steps, its head utterly hidden behind the centuries-old material. A museum piece it may have been, but judging by the crumbling cavity it had left in the wall, it still packed one hell of a punch. The monster twisted, its rotting arm pulling back, ready to swipe at the girl again.

  Syd lunged in before it could strike, the Aztec spear hitting it on the left side of its torso, between the ribs. Unfortunately for the girl, the weapon carried straight through, emerging out of the mummy’s back as her hand collided with its bandaged chest. The mummy’s fist flew and Syd moved, but not quickly enough. It caught her in the shoulder, the blow sending shock waves through her right arm and leaving it numb. She hit the wall, bouncing, more hieroglyphs breaking loose in a shower of earth and clay.

  Eightball bit the monster on the left calf, tugging at its leg and worrying the wraps free. They came loose, tangling around the dog, revealing puckered, necrotic flesh the color of ebony. The mummy kicked backward, catching the pup in his ample guts and propelling him across the chamber. The dog made a wide parabola and left an Eightball-shaped imprint in the wall, landing in another heap of rubble.

  If the mummy didn’t kill her, the collapsing cavern would. Syd was on the floor, moving away from the monster, her right arm still dead. Placing the candelabra on the ground, she frantically looked through the debris around her, desperate to retrieve the dropped box, but the creature was breathing down her neck. She felt a hand seize her ankle. She glanced back at the mummy, now stretching its other hand up toward her thigh, yellow nails poking out of the end of scabrous, bandaged fingers. She kicked with her free leg, catching it in the groin. Centuries old it may have been, but the blow still had the desired effect. The mummy staggered back, tripping over the unraveled bandage of its calf and toppling like a felled tree. It landed on the spire of earth that the box had previous sat upon, the spear of sculpted clay bursting straight through its chest.

  “Eightball,” cried Syd. “The box; seek it!”

  The little dog pulled himself upright with a whimper, shaking dirt from his shiny coat before setting off into the rubble in search of the black cube.

  With a mournful moan, the mummy tried to haul itself up the clay spire, but it slid back, still pinned in place. For now. Syd scrambled upright.

  “C’mon, Eightball,” she called. “We’re out of here!”

  The room was in danger of collapsing at any moment, and the mummy was still determined to remove her arms from their sockets. If the box couldn’t be retrieved, so be it. She dashed toward the sloping passage that led back to the museum, only to witness the tunnel ceiling coming down, one enormous slab of earth after another. Keeping a healthy distance from the skewered mummy, Syd maneuvered around it toward the other exit.

  “Eightball, let’s go!”

  The puppy whimpered, still searching for the precious box.

  “Leave it!”

  She clambered to the entrance of the other tunnel, glancing back in time to see the mummy break free, snapping the clay tower off midway up its height, the red earth tumbling loose from the great hole in its stomach.

  The creature nearly crashed into Syd, bandaged hands grabbing her shoulders as she fell backward into the tunnel. The mummy came with her, stopping short of landing on top of her. It looked confused about what had halted its progress. But Syd could see the culprit well enough: the Aztec
spear, still stuck horizontally through the dead Egyptian like a cocktail stick through an especially disgusting wiener, had caught on either side of the tunnel, halting the mummy’s progress. If it just turned its torso, it would be through and onto her, but thankfully for Syd, the mummy wasn’t so smart. Instead, it pulled her back down the tunnel toward it, long arms reeling her in. She was about to scream when a strange belching noise preceded an explosion of light in the collapsing chamber.

  She saw the mummy illuminated, its body silhouetted by an explosive blast at its back. Those bandages, brittle and long dried, went up in flames, devoured by a fireball that engulfed the monster. Its fingers released Syd, letting her collapse to the ground as she felt the heat burn her face. The ancient wraps and the corpse within were swiftly consumed, and the remains of the mummy fell to the floor like ash. The antique spear tumbled, and the teenager snatched it as it dropped, backing up into the tunnel before she was caught by the cave-in.

  Out of the flames, dust, and bone-rattling rubble came Eightball, bounding out of danger and landing on her chest, just as Vendemeier’s lair fell in on itself behind them. The puppy’s nostrils flared bright white, smoke trailing from them, while in his slobbering, superheated jaws he held that small black box. Syd plucked it from Eightball’s lips and hugged the hellhound hard.

  “Clever boy,” she said, kissing his dust-dappled brow. “You are a remarkable wee beast, aren’t you?”

  TWENTY-NINE

  xxx

  A GRAVE PREDICAMENT

  The ghouls poured through Gallows Hill Burying Ground, a wave of pale and putrid flesh. They turned on one another, clawing and snapping, eager to be first to their prey. More than three dozen of the foul fiends had fallen under Vendemeier’s spell, rushing to play their part in the dawn of the Age of Unlight. All they needed to do was bring down the boy. They yearned for his raw flesh, far removed from their usual diet of worm-riddled corpses. Their master would have to be swift, though; Marked for death as the monster hunter was, it would be a battle of wills to make them resist devouring the boy whole.

  That was if they could catch him, of course. Max was the last of the Van Helsings; he had spent the afternoon in the cemetery, and he had not been idle. There’d been plenty more to do than exhume graves. He was a resourceful young man.

  At the moment, the boy’s main focus was on the mob of grave-robbing monsters. He’d managed to evade Jed for now; though his possessed mentor was still out there, the ghouls were priority number one. He let the closest pair draw in close, snapping at the heels of his Chucks as he took a looping route that brought him back toward the Hanging Tree. He jumped over the trench in the ground, snatching up his shovel where it sat upright in the piled-up peat. The ghouls missed the leap, falling over one another as they landed in the open grave, directly onto Vendemeier’s petrified corpse. Even with the Bane of Monsters blazing over Max’s head, the two ghouls couldn’t resist tearing into the corpse, fighting over his remains as a third leaped in to join them.

  “Three down,” muttered Max. “A small army to go!”

  As he rounded the tree, two more awaited him. The first leaped, only to find itself struck across the head by the flat of the shovel. Max spun, bringing the tool around in a descending arc and burying it with a resounding crunch in the second one’s shoulder. It wasn’t a killing blow, but then again, that wasn’t what Max had aimed for. Ghouls were peaceful beasts for the most part. The monster hunter wanted to incapacitate them until he could deal with Vendemeier. Not that he had a plan on that front. He’d hoped the warlock’s grave might have thrown an answer up and into his lap, but it had given him nothing. He was playing for time, and the clock was broken.

  He tried to wrench the shovel free from the ghoul’s shoulder blade. Black blood welled as the fiend wailed, reaching for the folding handle. Max looked behind; two more were converging on him from opposite directions. Max twisted at the last second, swinging the shovel handle—still with the wounded, flailing ghoul attached—straight into the path of the first incoming attacker. He released his grip when the two collided, leaving them tumbling in a tangle of crunching limbs. Max ducked, but the second attacker couldn’t be avoided, landing directly on top of him with a victorious howl echoed by its companions throughout the cemetery.

  Its palms slapped Max’s face as one finger caught the edge of his right eye. The boy reached up for the monster’s throat, but its reach was longer, its elbows locked. He felt the cold, clammy digit hook his eyelid, tugging at it, expecting it to slip into the socket at any moment. Max twisted his face, snapping his jaws and taking off three of the creature’s fingers. He spat them out rapid-fire, ignoring the foul taste as the ghoul fell away.

  Max was up and running again, eyes searching not only for the next ghoul but also for Jed and Vendemeier. Where were they? Were they leaving the hunt to the carrion feeders? Right on cue, he heard the gurgling gloats of the warlock resonating throughout the wooded graveyard around him.

  “You delay the inevitable, Van Helsing. Cease running and hand yourself over. Mr. Coolidge desires a reunion.”

  Max ignored the taunts. Ahead he spied the family crypt, instantly recognizable even through the twilight gloom. Another ghoul jumped out from the shadows, charging at Max, arms wide in a monstrous embrace. Max had never been good at sports in school—he saved his competitive edge for when it mattered—but in that moment he channeled his inner linebacker. He went in low, dipping his shoulder and catching the monster in the guts. The ghoul went up and over, somersaulting over Max’s back as the boy continued his progress. He hurdled the crypt railings, leaping up onto the tomb’s roof. He skidded to a halt as the ghouls closed in, the nearest already climbing the black railings that circuited the family burial plot. Max’s hands worked fast, picking up the item he’d stowed there and strapping it into place. With regret, he remembered Syd had never field-tested it.

  “What could possibly go wrong?” he muttered, standing and turning on the assembled mass of ghouls.

  The bolts flew, one after another, the first couple going wide. The third struck its target, and soon they were catching the undead horde in quick succession. The ghouls screamed with each impact, the silver-headed missiles doing untold injury to each of them. Shoulders, knees, hands, even gut-shots would do the trick, taking the monsters out of the fight.

  Firing a crossbow wasn’t a new experience for Max; he’d been trained in every kind of weaponry by Jed. But this modified version, Syd’s repeat-bow, was something special. The bow was strapped onto Max’s forearm, with a lever across the palm that triggered the firing mechanism. With a clench of the fist the bow reloaded. How? Max had no idea, but he didn’t need to. Thank goodness he had Syd, who understood these mechanical dark arts. A clip that housed a dozen bolts was mounted above the groove, depositing them into place after each shot was fired. If he ran out of ammo, he simply had to lock another cartridge in.

  Seven of the monsters lay wounded around the tomb, but their brethren poured over them to get to the boy. He fired again. The bow clicked. He was out of ammo.

  “Wow,” he muttered, fishing in his messenger bag for the spare clip. “They went down really fast.”

  His fingers were closing around the wooden magazine when a hand seized his ankle and yanked hard. He fell backward, landing on his spine across the top of the tomb, his messenger bag swinging out over the granite edge and hanging behind him. He could feel a ghoul hauling itself up onto the crypt roof, using Max’s aching legs as a ladder. Below his head, another ghoul had traversed the railings and taken hold of the satchel, which dangled now from around his throat. The ghoul tugged it, cracking Max’s head into the tomb’s stone gutter. The creature’s hands raced up the straps toward the youth’s face.

  “Hold him there for me,” said Vendemeier, emerging from the shadows as Max found himself pinned to the tomb. Dead, decayed hands appeared around him, scuttling up the crypt wall like a swarm of
giant spiders. They snatched hold, grabbing his arms, securing his legs, twisting the satchel straps until they choked the young hero. Max watched, upside down, eyes bulging, as Vendemeier advanced, the Egyptian dagger in hand. Soon, Max was motionless; dead hands gripped his hair and locked his head in place. The warlock was only a foot away, surrounded by his frenzied horde of ghouls.

  “You’ll never win, Vendemeier!” shouted Max. “There’ll be others like me. Good people who’ll stop you.”

  “Cease your incessant prattling, child,” said the grotesque figure, raising the flaming green knife toward Max’s exposed throat. “There are no others, Maxwell Van Helsing. You are the last of your line. Know now, at the end, that you are entirely, absolutely, and undeniably alone.”

  He drew his hand back, the blade poised to strike Max’s neck.

  The next moment, Vendemeier’s arm was pinned to the head of a ghoul by his side, an arrow impaling it in place. The warlock cried out, dropping the dagger as he toppled over onto the felled fiend. The monster holding Max’s messenger bag straps turned, trying to see where the shaft had flown in from, only to discover a matching arrow suddenly quivering in its own skull. It went down in a twitching heap, releasing its hold on Max’s satchel. The teenager tugged his right arm loose as panic seized the group. A quick jab to the throat of the ghoul who held his left arm, and his entire upper body was free. The one that had crawled up his legs remained astride him, suddenly realizing that it was alone. Max swung the repeat-bow around, smashing the weapon into the monster’s jaw and causing it to fall flopping from his lap.

  Max chanced a glance in the direction the arrows had flown from. Stepping out from between the trees and graves came Abel Archer, bow loaded and already unloaded, yet another arrow stuck lightning-fast in the chest of one of the ghouls. A smaller figure accompanied the Brit through the mist. Wing Liu crept along behind the mountainlike Archer, the boy’s newly acquired catapult launching marbles wildly into the melee.