by J. Thorn
“Gone.”
“You searched the whole place?” Constable Jackson asked. He scratched at the badge pinned to his vest.
“Yes, sir. Ain’t nobody in here.”
Jackson looked around again. It appeared as though the family left to do errands. He saw no evidence of them packing up or fleeing. When he turned to face the men, the bottom fell from his stomach.
Some men of his men were sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth while mumbling. Others stood in place as if their feet were nailed to the floor. Their eyes rolled back into their head as they stared blankly at the Constable. Jackson heard whispers and did not want to believe his ears; they were coming from inside the walls.
Allen walked over and put his hand on the peeling wallpaper. It felt warmer than a wall should feel. Jackson waited as the whispers increased in intensity. He turned his head sideways and put his ear to the wall to try to hear what was being said. The hand came through the plaster so fast that Allen didn’t have time to flinch. It was white with long, slender fingers, and it wrapped around the back of Allen’s head and pulled him closer. Jackson wanted to cry out but his mouth was firm against the wall and he could not open his jaw far enough to yell. He took a step backward with his head fixed to the wall by the hand that came out of it. He reached up with his good arm and tried loosening the grip. The arm felt slimy, cold, and the whispering intensified into what felt like a thousand voices inside of his head. He heard confusion and chaos in the room, but could not turn to see what his posse was doing or what was being done to them.
In a moment of lucidity, Constable Jackson used his feet to push against the wall and free his head from the phantom arm. He stumbled backwards and fell on to his rear end, still facing the wall. He blinked and shook the plaster from his mouth, and when he looked up again, the wall appeared as it had minutes earlier, unbroken and whole. He spun around and swallowed hard. The room was empty and he did not see the flicker of torches anywhere within the house.
Constable Jackson got to his feet and stumbled outside where four men stood in a circle at the bottom of the steps.
“We ain’t goin’ back in there, Constable.”
“I know,” Jackson said. “Where’s the rest?”
“They gone. Ain’t nobody wantin’ to deal with Floyd and his devils. They went home to play cards and drink some ‘shine.”
Jackson was almost tempted to do the same until he remembered the grief on his cousin’s face. The Constable couldn’t prove it yet, but he knew Floyd and his damned family had a hand in baby Sarah’s death.
“Let’s check the grounds.”
“You mean the crypt, don’t you?” the one man asked.
“I guess I do, deputy. Due diligence and whatnot.”
The foggy hue cast from the Blue Ridge Mountains settled upon the ground, mist curling at the ankles of the men as they walked past the final resting place of some of the Confederacy’s bravest men. Most of the names on the grave markers were familiar, reminders of mortality from the recent past. They walked in silence through the cemetery and toward the crypt in the middle. Allen felt their pace lessen the closer they came to the stone monument.
Jackson was the first to enter the crypt. He threw his shoulder into the bronze door until it opened enough to let the candle from inside light his face. With the members of his posse, Jackson stepped into the crypt and saw something that would have him mumbling for decades inside the Western State Lunatic Asylum.
Constable Jackson waited for the dust to settle and the coughing fit to pass. The air inside the crypt felt as ancient as it looked in the light cast from the torches. His deputy came up on the left and the remaining men waited at the threshold, unable to fit and not incredibly upset about it.
Floyd Williams sat upon a stone sarcophagus in the middle of the crypt. His wife, Meredith, sat completely naked in front of him. Her hair was down and loose, and she stared right through Jackson. Floyd’s son and three daughters were laid out in a row across the cold stone, unmoving and with a noose around each of their necks.
“We got a warrant for your arrest, Floyd. You and Meredith. Gonna give you five seconds to come out of this here crypt, or I’m gonna have to use force,” said Allen.
His deputy had stepped around and reached to examine the Williams children when Meredith shot across the open space and sunk her teeth deep into the man’s neck. Constable Jackson stood in abject horror as the woman tore through his skin and ruptured the jugular vein, sending a spray of warm, dark blood into the air and splattering onto the floor of the crypt. Jackson tried to raise his hand but it would not obey the command from his brain. He struggled and pushed and yet no amount of force would raise his arm. Floyd sat still, smiling at Jackson.
“Stop!” the Constable shouted. “You’re killing him!”
Meredith kneeled over the deputy, who was lying on his back. His feet kicked out twice and then fell still. She looked up at Allen, her wide grin smothered in blood that looked black as oil in the darkness. Her eyes shone and her tongue flicked at the liquid dripping from her lips.
“You should leave here now before my wife’s appetites rear up again.”
Jackson felt the grip on his body loosen. He was able to move again and he considered attacking Meredith and pulling her off of the deputy, but he knew he couldn’t save him.
“What in the name of the devil are you messing with, Floyd? Did you kill your children?”
“Take him into the graveyard and leave a message for the mob, one part on each corner of the fence.”
Meredith stood, obeying her husband’s command and grabbing the dead deputy by his ankles. She dragged him past the other members of the posse, who gave her a wide berth. Allen stood still as Floyd slid forward on the sarcophagus.
“You done messin’ with things of which you know nuthin’ about, partner? I suggest you take your boys and get the hell off my property.”
Constable Jackson mumbled as his eyes looked down at the trail of blood leading out of the crypt. The children had not moved, and the pasty hue of their skin left no doubt as to whether they were alive or dead.
“The devil got you tight, Floyd. I know you and I ain’t seen eye to eye on everything, but this is damnation and you know it.”
Floyd stood and walked to Jackson. He sniffed the air and shook his head at the smell of perspiration, tobacco, and fear.
“Seen the Gaki yet?” Floyd asked.
“Who’s Gaki?” Jackson replied with a question of his own.
“Preta. The Hungry Ghost. You seen him yet?”
“So this is about a haunting? I believe we can get the reverend up from Pine Valley to help you, Floyd. But you gotta stop this now before more people die.”
“He’s coming, Allen. I can feel that slimy bastard coming through the darkness from the fires of hell. When he gits here, you’re gonna wanna be gone.”
Constable Jackson shook his head, trying to make sense of the situation. He heard screams from the graveyard that sounded masculine. He thought of the look on Meredith’s face and shivered.
“I’m the law. I can help.”
“No, you can’t. Take your posse and scat. I got to have the Portal ready when he comes back and if you’re here, well, he’s gonna want to use you too.”
He saw a change coming over Floyd’s face. Allen pissed himself and the warm urine ran down his leg and mixed with the deputy’s blood. Williams cried out as his limbs extended and his skin turned bluish gray.
“Get out!” said Floyd. The beast was stealing Floyd’s body.
Jackson turned and ran and he felt a thundering beneath his feet as if a herd of horses were on the way. He looked out into the empty graveyard and saw no sign of Meredith or his posse. He ran toward the gate as a red light burst from the doorway of the crypt followed by a painful, thin scream. Constable Jackson passed through the fence and came face-to-face with his deputy, the decapitated head sitting atop the post and looking back with lifeless eyes.
**
*
Gaki held his hands up in front of his face and then turned to look at the bodies of the dead children upon the floor of the crypt. He shook his head and looked back at the wall, hoping to see a crack in the stone where the Portal might be forcing its way through. The crypt was nothing but darkness and death.
“More time wasted,” he said, shaking Floyd’s head back and forth. “The Portal will not open yet.”
Gaki walked through the crypt and out of the door, disappearing into the orchards behind the Williams’ place and into another universe, leaving the crypt for a time when it would be ready to open and spill the hidden evil into this sick, wretched place.
Before the Realm: Coda
Okinawa 1945
The soldier came through the cave with his rifle raised and crosshairs lined up. The battle for the Pacific raged in the distance as the Allied soldiers scattered across the island of Okinawa, bringing the Typhoon of Steel.
“What the hell are you?” he asked. The end of the rifle shook in his hands.
The thing moaned and threw the contents of one hand against the wall of the cave. The shit splattered and oozed toward the ground.
“Gaki,” it replied.
“What the fuck is a Gaki?” the soldier asked.
The creature turned to face him. It sat perched on a rock and drew a long, slender finger from its mouth. It looked at the feces of the dead men and back to the soldier. The demon crouched low like a junkyard dog.
“From Preta, the departed,” it said.
“Yep, no doubt. Operation Downfall is gonna make quite a few ‘departed’, eh?”
The demon remained still, staring into the man’s eyes.
“It is in you already. I can feel it.”
“Really?” the soldier asked, laughing. “You know what’s in me now? I think I should just fill ya with lead.”
Gaki nodded, the smile spreading across his filthy face. A low, hoarse chuckle escaped from his tight mouth. Explosions shook the cave and the sound of machine-gun fire drew near.
“Feed me,” said Gaki. “Sustain the greed.”
Drew Green’s grandfather nodded before grabbing his weapon and walking back out into the hell of war, taking the hidden evil with him.
"This is a great start for what promises to be an engaging, intense series."
Scott Nicholson
Author of the #1 Amazon Best Selling Horror Novel, The Home
"...I was immediately hooked...Atmospheric, excellent writing and a story that draws you in."
Claire Ridgway
Author of The Fall of Anne Boleyn
"If you're seeking a really good book to curl up with, I highly recommend it! Make sure you have no other plans as once you start reading, you won't be able to put it down."
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"...yet again I have been enthralled."
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Reversion: The Inevitable Horror
(The Portal Arcane Series - Book I)
By J. Thorn
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Reversion: The Inevitable Horror
(The Portal Arcane Series - Book I)
Third Edition
Copyright © 2012 by J. Thorn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Edited by:
Talia Leduc
Katy Sozaeva
Laurie Love
For more information:
http://www.jthorn.net
[email protected]
For those who seek redemption, may you find it.
The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.
--Albert Einstein, 1931
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Acknowledgments
Other Works
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter 1
Samuel pushed the twisted sheet from his shoulder and let the makeshift noose coil on the ground like a dead snake. He stepped out of the rope and looked up at the decaying branch overhead. Samuel shook his head, his eyes darting about the empty forest as his heart raced in his chest.
He drew a breath, exhaling slowly and wincing at the pain in his throat as his lungs tried to pull in more oxygen. He smiled from the joy of being alive until the memory of his prison cell wiped it from his face. Like a leaf at the mercy of the wind, the image of the bars floated from Samuel’s reach. Worry rushed back in to fill his mind as he struggled to find a connection, a reason for being here.
He stepped over the jagged rocks and closed his eyes. Silence. It could have been midsummer. It could have been the dead of winter. He could no longer tell, and even if he could, Samuel struggled to remember what those labels meant. The wind was still, nothing but a whisper. The creek in the distance murmured like the whispers at a funeral procession. The insects, the animals; the creatures of the wood fell silent. Again, Samuel fought to recall hearing any sound. A leather string holding an amulet lay on the ground at his feet, and Samuel picked it up. The charm was silver, three triple spirals connected and curling in on each other. He slid the leather string over his head until the amulet lay on his chest.
He walked over branches sprawled on the ground and onto a rough path that wound itself farther into the forest. The sun hung at an odd angle, tossing a bland shaft of light ahead, with most of the rays never reaching the ground. Samuel looked to the right and saw the tattered, yellow tape dangling from the trunks of ancient oaks.
What is this?
Profane and yet sacred, the final resting place of those who could go through with it. He reached out and tore a shred of tape from the tree.
Samuel looked up into the canopy of branches, which hovered overhead like a worried mother. As far as he could see, ropes and nooses hung empty and cold. Humps and forms lay beneath some.
He continued down the path, knocking aside a shoe, a sport coat, a backpack. Eventually he stopped and bent down, the aching in his neck causing him to wince. The backpack was made of nylon, the zipper long gone and its teeth forever in a black grin. He reached into it, his fingers brushing against a few leaves that rustled inside. Nothing. He turned it over to reveal three characters embroidered on the front: BCD. He rubbed his head and stared at them until he could recognize them as letters of the alphabet, and a thin smile spread over his lips. He was not sure if those letters mattered anymore, and he could not recall why they ever would have.
Samuel threw the only remaining strap over one shoulder and shuffled farther down the path. The creek moved closer with each step, and he was happy to hear its meanderings. The natural noise brought a brief sense of normalcy, a memory from childhood: long summer days in a valley and a creek cut a ragged line through the forest. Some days he would spend hours in solitude, overturning rocks in a search for salamanders. On oth
er days, he would throw stones across the bank with his brothers in a friendly competition that would end when his mother’s voice echoed through the trees, calling them home for the evening meal.
He saw more items strewn across the path and kicked a pair of shoes to the side. So many shoes. He wondered why the shoes remained and the bodies did not.
The path curved as it approached the stream, turning right into a grove of high pines, their needles covering the ground. Samuel drew a deep breath through his nose, catching the faintest odor of pine, and that made him smile. He savored the distant aroma for as long as he could. It did not last.
He sat on the ground next to an abandoned, blue shopping bag and reached inside, pulled out the contents, and arranged them in a circle over the pine needles. He remembered the names for most of them. Lighter. Pen. Nickel. A few he could not recognize, but his brain assured him he would. Samuel picked up the lighter with his right hand, pinched between a thumb and finger. Muscle memory snapped into place as his thumb struck down on the flint. The lighter sparked, and Samuel smiled. He could almost taste the burnt, woody smoke of a hand-rolled cigarette. He could almost feel the airy buzz with each inhalation of the tobacco. He struck the lighter again and again, but each time it failed to ignite, and each time it reminded him of the temporary satisfaction delivered by the nicotine. Another item returned to his expanding repertoire of old words becoming new again as he opened a supple, leather wallet.
Samuel removed the paper sticking out from its fold. As with the pine needles, he caught a faint whiff of the earthy, organic scent of the rawhide.
