The Portal

by Russell James

  The two walked forward. A simple cross hung on the far wall. Below it, at chest height, two stout square beams protruded from the earth and supported a simple black coffin. Insect boreholes peppered the sides. A split board peeled up from the top.

  Beneath the coffin, a dark oak chest, three feet square, rested on the floor. Black leather handles hung from each side. The box had no clasp or hinges, and appeared to have been built around what it contained, with no provision for removing the contents. Salt stained the bottom few inches of the buckled wood. Dust-coated cobwebs draped everything like a decaying bridal veil.

  Scott reached forward and pulled handfuls of filthy webbing from the casket. In their wake, clouds of dust glittered in the candlelight. The top of the casket had Z.S. carved in it.

  “It’s Zebedee,” Allie said. “They really did rebury him under the church when they built it.”

  “And,” Scott said, “they went to all the trouble, and used all the precious manpower, to dig this tomb, so he could stand guard over that.” Scott pointed to the box on the floor under the casket.

  One of the wall supports behind them creaked.

  Scott and Allie shared nervous glances. They went down on their knees. Scott reached out and cleared the cobwebs from the box. Faint lettering read:

  Safe from eyes of beast or man

  Satan shall not see.

  The Portal bur’d ’neath holy ground,

  Sealed without a key.

  “Holy ground is no protection,” Scott said. “Milo’s bank vault idea keeps sounding better. Let’s get it out of here.”

  Allie took Scott’s candle and placed both of them on the edges of the casket’s support beams. Then each reached forward on opposite sides, took a thick leather handle, and lifted. They sidestepped the heavy box from under the casket.

  Allie’s handle gave way. Her side hit the ground. The box twisted and Scott’s handle broke in two. The water-damaged box shattered and crumbled into a pile of rotting wood.

  Scott knelt and swept the box’s dusty remains away. On the ground lay a three-inch-thick cherry disk, just less than three feet in diameter. Even in the subdued candlelight, the glossy wood shone like it had twenty coats of lacquer. Carved in the center was the twin triangle symbol, inlaid in gold, still brilliant despite its age. Each corner had a strange beast carved into the wood and highlighted in gold. One had the head of a lion grafted to the body of a snake. Another was a hideous half man, half monkey with the wings of a bat. A gryphon. A sea monster. All shared two common traits: they were undeniably malevolent, and each had the furious look of a rabid animal.

  In the way fire generates heat, this disk generated the opposite, as if it absorbed the energy and warmth from everything around it. But it wasn’t a feeling of cold so much as a feeling of…darkness, an absence of life. An emptiness scarier than anything Scott had ever felt.

  Scott’s hands trembled and he jerked away from the Portal. The symbols and design reminded him of the stone disk he’d found in the hardware store, the traitorous connection his father had to Oates and ultimately to the evil object at his feet.

  “That’s got to be….” Scott said.

  “Can’t you just feel it?” Allie answered.

  “I’m glad it’s not just me.” Scott gritted his teeth and grabbed one edge. The expected cold, hard surface instead felt slimy, like scales on a fish. It almost slithered under his fingertips, as if the Portal was alive. Though he could see his fingers still touching the Portal’s face, he sensed that it was drawing him in, enveloping him. His heart galloped in his chest. He dropped the Portal.

  “Is it too heavy?” Allie asked, bending over to try to lift it.

  “No!” Scott yelled, pushing Allie’s hands away from the disk. “Don’t touch it. That thing feels…alive.”

  Allie took a step back from the Portal.

  “We need something to carry it in,” Scott said.

  He climbed out of the crypt. He needed something between his hands and the Portal. He’d settle for two oversized oven mitts.

  He saw the white altar cloth, at least six-feet-long and wide enough to wrap the Portal. He approached the altar and grabbed the end of the cloth. Drops of the reverend’s dried blood stained its center. A wave of combined loss and anger rolled through him. He flipped one edge over the center to hide the bloodstain, then did the same to the other side, as if burying the reminder of the reverend’s suffering in white linen might make it go away. Then he pulled the cloth off the altar and returned to the tomb’s edge.

  From beneath him, the beams creaked again.

  “Scottie?”

  The floor sagged a bit at the edge of the opening. The marble slab must have added structural support to the decayed wood. He practically slid down the ladder.

  “Let’s wrap that thing and get it out of here.”

  He stepped over and wound the cloth around the Portal, keeping his hands from direct contact, while shielding the bloodstains from Allie. She’d seen more than enough blood today. He wrapped the Portal like a mummy.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s try this again.”

  Another moaning creak sounded inside the crypt. The rotted base of one of the timbers snapped. A few pounds of dirt behind it cascaded to the floor in an explosion of dust. One candle snuffed out.

  “Scottie?” Allie said, her voice rising.

  “Hurry, before we get stuck down here with ol’ Zebedee.”

  They both reached down and lifted an edge of the Portal. The insulation of the altar cloth kept Scott from feeling any of the ill effects of contact. They performed a rapid, awkward sidestep dance to the end of the tomb, the heavy Portal rocking between them. The creak of another beam echoed in the burial vault. A waterfall of dirt flowed over the coffin. The last candle snuffed out. Darkness reclaimed the crypt. The rectangle of light above them from the church offered salvation.

  “Hurry, Allie,” Scott said. “Up the ladder and I’ll pass this to you. Flip it to me.”

  Allie lifted her end toward Scott. He crouched and bent back. The face of the Portal rested on his chest. His biceps strained. A twinge rippled in his back. No natural wood could be this dense.

  “I got it,” he gasped. He widened his stance for balance. “Up you go.”

  Allie scrambled up the ladder into the daylight. Another round of groaning timbers came from the tomb, like some wounded animal trapped in a cave. She lay flat on the floor and looked down at Scott.

  “Okay,” she said. “Ready!”

  Scott flipped the Portal against the ladder and pushed it up, back and forth to clear each rough-hewn rung. Sweat ran into his eyes as the stagnant air began to take its toll on him. His arm muscles started to burn. A sharp crack sounded behind him. Each inch up seemed to take forever.

  Clods of earth fell behind him, hard and heavy.

  “C’mon, Scottie,” Allie said. “I’ve almost got it.”

  The edge of the Portal poked above the floor. Allie grabbed the sides and pulled.

  Some of the weight lifted off Scott’s shoulder. He tucked his right hand under the Portal. He took a deep breath and thrust the Portal skyward like a shot-putter. Allie pulled. The Portal went up, half clearing the floor. For an interminable second, it hung midpoint between the tomb and the church. Then it pivoted and fell to the church floor with a thud.

  With two sharp, splintering cracks, the two lower dried-out steps of the ladder gave way. Scott grabbed the ladder rails. The ladder pulled from the wall and he fell backward into the darkness. He slammed the ground hard. Edges of the broken box pierced his back. The shattered ladder pressed down on his chest like prison bars.

  “Allie!”

  The beam above him exploded with the sound of thunder. A heavy, suffocating rain of earth stormed down on him. The light from the opening winked and disappeared.

  Through the
falling earth came Allie’s muffled scream.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The dying flames slow-danced in the charred wreckage of the Greenes’ house off South Street. Milo had gotten there way too late. The smell of the arsonist’s gasoline still fouled the air. The Greenes’ charred corpses were probably somewhere in the steaming wreckage.

  As a precaution, he had checked the two homes on either side of the burning house. Both seemed empty. No cars at each house, and no one answered when he knocked. He was glad about that at least. Perhaps they’d already found somewhere safer to hide.

  It felt good to meet up with Scott and Allie back at All Souls Church. Saving Stone Harbor, and keeping the Portal out of Oates’ hands, wasn’t going to be a one-man operation. Scott and Allie weren’t law enforcement, but they still moved the odds more in his favor.

  He leaned back against the headrest in his cruiser. Waves of exhaustion washed over him. His head seemed to weigh a hundred pounds. He fought to keep his eyes open, but each time he exhaled, his lids drooped lower. He realized that he had been awake for over twenty-four hours. Then, suddenly, he no longer was.

  With a jerk, he forced himself awake. Scott and Allie could find the Portal at any time. He slapped his cheeks a few times, hoping the pain would chase away his fatigue. It retreated a bit. But it was just off in the wings, waiting for its cue to return center stage.

  From the far end of the street, the black Dodge Ram came his way. He froze at the thought that Oates himself was probably in that truck. Scott had given Milo an excellent description of the stocky, bald man.

  The truck approached Milo’s cruiser. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face. What if they knew he was secretly working against them? Kyler might drive up and pump a dozen rounds from his assault rifle into the cruiser, leaving Milo dead twice over.

  He reached down and slid his pistol from its holster. He laid it on his lap, facing the door. He flipped off the safety. No point going down without a fight.

  But the pickup never got that far. It pulled into the driveway of the O’Reillys’ yellow-trimmed ranch next door. Kyler got out first, rifle at the ready. He went to the front door and knocked with a bold swift kick. The door flew inward and Kyler entered.

  Milo slipped his pistol back in his holster.

  Seconds later, Kyler reappeared in the doorway. He gave the Ram a thumbs-up. The rear cab door and tailgate popped open. Five young women, all dressed in black seductive clothing, exited the truck. Milo didn’t recognize any of them, and he would have because they were all beautiful. They crossed the driveway with purposeful strides. Their high heels clicked against the sidewalk in perfect unison.

  Allie had told him about the five witches who tried to activate the Portal three hundred years ago. It was no coincidence that these five monochromatic beauties just happened to arrive in the pickup from Hell. They must be here to cast the spell, mix the potion, or do whatever witches do to activate the gate between the mortal and immortal worlds.

  The five women in black might be the last piece Oates needed to be ready to open the Portal, finishing what others interrupted so long ago. If so, it was more important than ever to lock the Portal safely away.

  The coven entered the house, then Milo saw him for the first time. Oates got out of the passenger side of the Ram. He was shorter and rounder than Milo expected. He wore all black, an unholy priest without the Roman collar.

  Oates crossed the nose of the truck and walked toward the front of the house. He stopped. He turned his head and looked directly at Milo.

  Milo was parked one house down from Oates, with old Farmer Rogers’ stone fence and a double laminated windshield between them. But it felt as if Oates was right next to him. Milo sensed Oates knew who he was and what he was planning. His skin began to crawl.

  Oates smiled, turned, and finished his walk to the front door without another glance back.

  Milo exhaled. He shook his head at his sleep-deprived paranoia. There was no way Oates could know what was going on. Milo knew that no one had seen him at the church.

  * * *

  Camille led the coven into the O’Reilly house. A white couch, loveseat, and recliner faced a glass coffee table. Framed, homemade needlepoint hung on the wall beside a collection of children’s school pictures. Kyler stood at the far end of the living room, in the doorway to the kitchen. He held his rifle high, eyeing the women in black. He flicked the barrel toward the living room furniture.

  Camille thought it funny how Kyler had obviously worked so hard to keep some distance between him and her coven since he’d picked them up at the dock, just as he had when they’d met in the apartment. Unlike the old man at the dock, he’d obviously been warned. Took all the fun out of it.

  Oates followed them in. Her first sight of him at the dock made her shiver with anticipation. She hadn’t seen him since the last witch’s recruitment, yet he still stirred that amazing sense of longing for completeness within her, that understanding that being close to him, being part of him, would made her more than she had ever dreamed possible. He’d stayed in the front of the truck all the way back from the dock, hadn’t shared a word of greeting with her. It didn’t matter. He didn’t have to. She knew he felt the same way she did, ecstatic at their reunion, thrilled about their future.

  Oates stood in the doorway and cleared his throat.

  “Ladies,” he started, “your time is here. The moment has come for you to join me forever in my kingdom.”

  Camille’s heart skipped a beat. Smiles broke out on the witches’ faces. They all knew why they were here, but it felt good hearing it from Oates.

  “Mr. Kyler and I, we’re gonna retrieve the Portal. Make yourselves at home. Don’t leave.”

  Oates raised two fingers and motioned Kyler to the door. Kyler tucked his rifle close to his chest and shuffled well around the women to get to Oates. The two passed out of the house. Kyler tried to shut the door behind him, but with the shattered lock, it creaked back open a few inches.

  “Well, girls,” Camille said to the group. “Years of preparation, all for this.”

  “The power of two worlds at our fingertips,” Ivana, the Asian witch, said dreamily.

  “And eternity with the Master,” Camille added.

  Without discussion, the five sat in a circle on the living room floor, facing each other. They joined hands, closed their eyes, and began to chant in Latin, practicing the phrases that would bring the Portal to life, and transport them to rule in Satan’s dominion.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Out past the church on West Street, Ramirez sat on the hood of his hated Taurus, a few hours past completely bored. All day, a whole lot of nothing had happened. He’d spent more productive hours in a jail cell. Ramirez had a little fun with the wimp when he went into the man’s house for breakfast, but the little guy just couldn’t go the distance, and Ramirez had to finish him early. Since then, it had been a dull day watching the sun crawl across the sky.

  At the far end of the street, the red Ford F-150 from the used-car lot lumbered toward him. In the front seat sat his favorite chronic asshole, Ricco. Just what he needed. Ricco pulled up next to the Taurus and sprouted a shit-eating grin. Ramirez sat straight up. His finger caressed his rifle’s trigger.

  “Say, Paco,” Ricco said. “Nice wheels.”

  “What the hell are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at the other end of town?”

  “I got bored,” Ricco said. “Nothing going on, so I went for a drive. What do you care? You my boss now, asswipe?”

  “I wouldn’t hire a pussy like you,” Ramirez fired back.

  Ricco’s face went deep red. “You know, motherfucker, I’ve had about enough of your shit. I ought to cap your sorry ass right here.”

  Ramirez pointed his M4 at the truck cab. “Try it, asshole. I’m begging you to.”

  They both fired. Mu
zzle flashes lit up the inside of the truck in concert with a spit of Ramirez’s rifle fire. Rounds blew holes both ways through the pickup’s door. One caught Ramirez in the leg and spun him off the hood of the car. He hit the pavement hard.

  Ricco kicked the truck door open. Smoke wafted from the barrel of the rifle across his lap. He got out of the truck and looked over the car’s fender for Ramirez.

  Ramirez’s thigh screamed in pain but his mind screamed louder for revenge. He raised his rifle up with one hand in the direction of Ricco’s triumphant face and fired.

  The recoil of the rounds walked the gun up and right like an oscillating sprinkler. A spray of rounds blasted through and then past Ricco to pepper the Ford. Ricco’s body jerked like a kid’s marionette with each hit. One round tore his jaw from his face. Blood splatter painted the air in a rosy mist. Ricco’s rifle flew from his hand, and he fell backward into the truck. His lifeless legs hung askew out the open door.

  Ramirez’s rifle clicked empty. The gunpowder haze drifted away and exposed a truck that now looked more like a colander. Not one window survived the barrage.

  Ramirez felt like he’d just sprayed insecticide on a hornet’s nest and exterminated a pest, but his happiness lasted only seconds. His leg throbbed with pain. Blood spurted from his wound like a gusher, keeping perfect time with his fading pulse.

  “Son of a bitch,” he sighed, and sat up against the Taurus. He knew an arterial wound when he saw one. He clamped a hand over the hole in his leg and squeezed. Pain bolted straight up his spine to his brain. Blood pulsed through his fingers. Without a tourniquet, he’d bleed to death in no time.

  He whipped off his belt and strapped it around his leg. He pulled, then screamed as he cinched it tight. He dared look down at the wound. The flow of blood slowed, but didn’t stop. A stay of execution, not a pardon.