Saltar's Point (35 page)
Authors: Christopher Alan Ott
This time her actions inside Porter’s Study were more frantic. Her time was drawing short. The ominous raven spoke louder than words. She would not sit around and wait for her demise, to be stalked like wild game by Jack and that god damn demon; instead she would take the fight to them. Abby thumbed through Porter’s diary again, looking for the two passages that still held fast in her mind. After a few minutes (although to Abby it seemed like an eternity) she came across the first entry.
7 April 1996
She traced her finger along the page until she found the line that she was looking for, she read the words once again.
“Destroy the tomb of the dark one, for it is there that he draws his power.” I enquired how I was to accomplish this and he simply replied, “On this date the demon was given new life and it is within these numbers in which he shall be laid to rest. Behind the second beast lies the passage in which all shall be revealed.”
Abby tapped her fingers against the page, as if trying to drum light on the situation. The answer she sought was in this paragraph, she was certain about it, but what did it all mean. Her head throbbed with the strain of heavy thought. 7 April 1996, what the hell was significant about that date? Try as she might, she couldn’t remember anything important that occurred on that date, so obviously it had nothing to do with a famous event. So how on Earth would she be able to figure out what that meant? Frustrated, she flipped to the other entry that had played on her mind. This one was much easier to find for it was the page scribed in blood. She turned to it almost immediately and stared at the page once again.
The dead shall walk the Earth
And the beasts shall feed upon the flesh of man
Abby concentrated on the bloody letters so long that they began to blend together. She could not make sense out of any of it. Her aggravation reached a boiling point and she reached up to snap shut the diary when something she had not noticed before caught her eye. On the very bottom on the left-hand corner of the page was a very small speck of blood, not much bigger than a pinprick. It probably meant nothing she told herself, still it seemed too perfectly placed to be random. She leaned over the table, placing her head nearly on top of the page and squinted to focus her vision. It was not a droplet of blood. That would have been somewhat circular, this was a tiny squiggle that appeared to be writing of some sort, but there was no way to read it with her naked eye, it was too small to be perceptible. She looked around, searching for a magnifying glass. Perhaps Porter kept one in his study, but there was none to be seen. She pulled open the desk drawers one by one, all of them were empty save for a few dust bunnies and some scattered paperclips. There was no magnifying glass to be found.
She leaned back in her chair and drew a long deep breath. The intensity of her situation was building and she felt trapped. She had begun to sweat again. The salty drops pooled on her forehead and then ran down the bridge of her nose before dropping into her lap. Abby slid the back of her hand across her forehead and flicked the perspiration away with disgust. A few drops landed on the desktop and gleamed back at her, refracting the light from the lantern through their oval bodies. Then an idea came to her so fast it felt as if she had been struck by lightning. She peered over at the lantern. It was made of tin with six sides of clear glass soldered together to form a hexagon. The top was a tin cap held onto the lamp by a small thumbscrew that sat directly in the center. It was a crude lighting device, probably homemade, but for her purpose it might do just fine. She twisted the thumbscrew, it turned easily, and with increasing dexterity she turned it until it popped off into her hand. Then she removed the top and set it on the table. With delicate care she worked one of the pieces of glass back and forth between its soldered sides being as careful as she could not to touch the scorching bulb in the center. After a few minutes the glass popped free and she placed it flat on top of the journal, the red letters clearly visible through the translucent surface.
I hope this works.
She thought.
I’m all out of ideas.
She placed her index finger to her forehead and collected a single drop of perspiration and with surgical precision held the drop over the journal until it splashed gently down on the glass covering. She moved the glass until the drop was directly over the small red speck. The writing jumped out at her.
666
The number of the beast.
Abby swallowed the small lump that had arisen in her throat. It was an eerie discovery and fitting in this house. Her anxiety began to mount once again; she had hoped that the clue would have provided more useful information. But if it was simply written to create an eerie feeling then why would whoever wrote it go through so much trouble to conceal it? It just didn’t make any sense at all. She tried to recall what she knew about the number. It was originally spun from Latin folklore. In the Latin language there were no adjective modifiers, thus there were no such words as larger or largest. In order to show the importance of each modified noun the adjective was repeated, thus the equivalent of larger would be written large large, and largest would be large large large. Remnants of the practice could still be found in traditions that stretched back to Latin culture. The Catholics were a prime example because Mass was conducted entirely in Latin up to the last century and in some orthodox churches the priest still conducted Mass that way. She knew this for a fact because her parents had been Catholic and she remembered the odd prayers that utilized this technique. “Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might.” That was the way one prayer went, describing the Lord as the most holy.
Numerology also played an important role in Latin lore, and indeed our culture is still full of its influence. The number seven was considered the most sacred, most perfect of all numbers and today we still see evidence of that. The seven wonders of the ancient world, seven days of the week, seven seas, everywhere you looked seven seven seven. In contrast six was considered the most imperfect number because it was close to seven as if it were a heretic trying to impersonate the holy number, thus when repeated three times it was considered blasphemy, so 666 became the number of the beast. It all came back to her in a whirlwind, the Sunday classes she hated so much as a child might prove after all to be her best friend as an adult, but she still couldn’t draw any useful conclusion from the number. She placed her forehead on the table and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples gently as she thought.
Wait a minute, there was another seven image closely associated with the number of the beast, the seven signs of the apocalypse. All of this could be found in the Book of Revelations.
Abby stared at the bible sitting idly on the desktop. Could the answer be so simple? Could it have been lying under her nose all this time without her knowing it? She flipped back to the earlier passage and read the last line again.
Behind the second beast lies the passage in which all shall be revealed.
Abby’s anxiety gave way to excitement.
Salvation lies within.
She thought.
It’s been quite a while Jack.
“I know.”
I am most displeased.
“I know.”
Darrow stood his ground, not wanting to show any sign of weakness in front of the demon, but his knees were shaking so badly he had to struggle just to remain upright. The boiler room was exactly as he left it, even his bed was unmade from the last time he slept in it. The demon was speaking to him somewhere from beyond, whispering in his ear like the first time he had made himself known to him. The eerie rasping voice was more unnerving somehow than if the demon had chosen to appear before him. When it spoke Darrow could feel its breath against the nape of his neck, acrid and cold. It was the coldness that bothered him most, the frigid temperature that served as a constant reminder that this thing was pure evil.
Tell me then Jack, how is it that you intend to fall back within my good grace?
Upstairs Abby forced herself to maintain her composure, but the very presence of the raven chilled her blood. The damn bird had been sitting outside her window glaring at her with those blood red eyes. What the hell was she to do? Oh how she missed Brenda, longed to see her ghastly friend if only for one last time, hoping that the little girl had one final piece of advice for her, a way out of this living nightmare. But Brenda was gone Abby knew and she doubted that she was ever coming back. All she had now was that god-awful bird to keep her company.
Within the recesses of her mind a plan began to form, a plan that preyed on the very fabric of her moral decency.
Trying times call for desperate measures.
She tried to convince herself that there was another way, but in her heart she knew there wasn’t. She was going down in the basement again, there was no way around it. Her only guide into this world of the absurd was a journal she had found hidden in the study of a man who might very well have been crazy at the time he wrote it. Still, she could see the one entry in her mind clear as day, the one entry that might hold the key out of her living nightmare.
April 7, 1996
“Destroy the tomb of the dark one, for it is there that he draws his power.” I enquired how I was to accomplish this and he simply replied, “On this date the demon was given new life and it is within these numbers in which he shall be laid to rest. Behind the second beast lies the passage in which all shall be revealed.”
Porter’s journal echoed again and again through her head. She grasped the bible that she had taken from his study, and opened it to the book of revelations using the date as her guide. 4-7-96.
Chapter 4 verse seven read: “The first creature was like a lion, and the second creature like a calf, and the third creature had the face of a man, and the fourth was like a flying eagle.” This was the key to her salvation, she was sure of it, although she did not know yet what it meant. Yes she would venture into the basement one final time and look for the way out of this nightmare. Of course if she couldn’t find it there was always another way. She shuddered as she looked at the rusty blade of Porter’s hunting knife, then she placed it under her pillow and drifted off to sleep.
Outside the rain began to fall. It cascaded down in ferocious torrents, pelting the raven and the windowpane relentlessly. Neither Abby nor the black bird stirred, aware that the cold gale winds that blew inward from the ocean were just the beginning of the storm.
The boat rocked to a gentle stop in New York harbor after weeks at sea. The crew of the Bengali was happy to be rid of their ominous cargo and the eccentric American named Talcott who had dominated the mood of the boat since its charter. They worked fervidly to unload the contents, which consisted of pepper, tea, and of course the large marble sarcophagus that the American was so protective of. He stood at the end of the pier and watched with steely eyes as the crane hoisted his precious cargo high into the air suspended in a large fishing net. He did not breath a sigh of relief until it was laid down gently on the wood planks of the dock.
“You men! You’re not done yet. Not until you load that thing onto the train.” Talcott shouted and pointed as he watched the six crewmen detach the clasps from the cargo netting.
All of them had spite in their heart for the pushy American who had ordered them around for the past several weeks without the slightest hint of respect, but they were eager to see him on his way and collect their money, which was more than ample compensation for the work they had done. Money talks and the American had plenty to spend so no one dared voice a complaint, instead focusing on loading the sarcophagus onto the wheeled pallet that would serve as transport to the waiting boxcar. The task was arduous but within fifteen minutes they had loaded the marble coffin onto the train. Talcott handed a large wad of American dollars to the captain who smiled greedily. Each American bill may well have been a pound of gold when traded against the rupee and the entire crew was eager to get their cut.
When the freight doors were closed and Talcott was satisfied that his cargo was safe, he and McGinty and a handful of hired hands boarded the passenger compartment and headed for their sleeping quarters.
Inside the modest cabin McGinty threw his well-worn black duffle bag onto the bed and began to undress. His clothes reeked of fish and salt water and he was eager to catch some much-needed sleep. He peeled off the malodorous clothes and sat for a while at the edge of his bed in nothing but his undergarments. He was unable to shake the feeling that something bad was bound to happen. Despite his best efforts McGinty was unable to let go of the nagging feeling that clawed at the edges of his subconscious. Perhaps it was just the superstitions of the Egyptians that had him on edge; after all he had been inundated with their lore and myths for several months now. Yes that was it he told himself, nothing but foolish superstitions and not anything to worry about.
He peeled off his socks and lay back on the bed, succumbing to the soft mattress as it cradled his aching back. It was thin and well worn, but compared to the knotted hammock he had been sleeping in for the past several weeks it felt like heaven. The train lurched forward and jerked his entire compartment before the train caught up with its own inertia. McGinty closed his eyes and it wasn’t more than five minutes before he was fast asleep.
The dream was the same, it was always the same, relentlessly and without fail it had come to him every night since they had discovered the tomb. He could hear the screams but he could not see them, the helpless victims, begging and pleading fruitlessly for their lives. The fog was too thick. The more he tried to brush it aside the more it swirled about his head occluding his vision and driving him to the brink of insanity. Still he pressed onward, following the shrieks like a moth drawn to flame, knowing with certainty that he was heading to his own demise, yet not able to turn away. He had to help them because it was all his fault.
At last he is able to see it, a dark patch in a sea of white. It sat on the far edge of his vision and seemed to draw no closer though he ran as fast as he could towards it. The faster he ran the faster it sped away, like chasing the horizon on the open ocean, it left him frustrated and devoid of hope. And then finally, slowly but surely the form began to grow, he was making progress albeit slowly. The lunacy of the situation always sunk into his brain at this point. He was chasing the dark at the end of the tunnel, and he wondered how it had come to this.
The fog was beginning to thin now, and he could make out shapes in the mist from the corners of his eyes. They begged and pleaded with him, trying to lure him away from the path like sirens to the sailors of old. McGinty placed his hands to his ears, trying desperately to drown out their pleas but they pierced through his skull, accusing, begging, pleading, seducing, they all called out to him.
John, over here John. This way, follow. Follow.
He saw the wraiths beckoning to him with their fingers, casting an alluring spell and trying to drag him into the mist where he would be hopelessly lost for an eternity. He forced himself to look away and pressed onward. Now the spirits grew more desperate, and their deceptions more devious, they began to take familiar shapes. His heart nearly stopped in his chest as he saw his mother standing off to his left just feet from the path he walked.
Johnny please, comfort your mother. Come here Johnny please!
And then she began to weep, violently and with such agonizing sobs that McGinty found that his own eyes had begun to tear.
“You’re not my mother!” He said as he brushed his tears aside.
And then the spirits became angry, pelting him with a flurry of obscenities and curses, their voices melding together into one androgynous tongue.
You killed us John. You put us in this miserable place.
“No! It’s not my fault, I didn’t know.
But you did John, you knew all along.
“No! I didn’t, I swear! I didn’t know.”
YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKER JOHN! WE’LL SEE YOU ROT IN HELL!
They were shrieking now, right into his ears and clawing at him from the shadows. He began to run faster, trying desperately to reach the darkness before they overpowered him and drug him into the mist. He could hear their claws and their hooves scraping against the cement floor as they began to pursue him. He looked behind him at the horrors now close on his heels. They came in all shapes and sizes, grotesque twisted creatures of the mist. Blood red eyes shown from beneath the hoods of their cloaks, saliva dripped from razor-sharp fangs, scales and rotted flesh clung to their bony claws. Finally the darkness was just ahead. He began to sprint. The air assailed his lungs as he labored for his next breath, willing himself to continue onward despite the burning in his legs. The darkness grew closer but so did his pursuers. He could feel their claws as they raked along the back of his neck, searching frantically for a place to grab on and drag him backwards into the mist. With one final effort he lunged forward, propelling his body with one last surge of his legs. The claws behind him latched onto his shirt and then and there John C. McGinty knew he was dead, but his shirt ripped free from his chest under the momentum of his own weight, the tearing sound echoing around him as he crashed to the dirt floor. There he lay for a moment, gasping for air, naked from the waist up.
At last he looked around him, letting his eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. Only a few scant torches lit the massive room. And then the fog of confusion lifted and he knew to his horror and with undoubted certainty where he was, the tomb of the Bedouin. The terror in his chest threatened to draw the oxygen from his lungs. He willed his legs to work, but they were shaky and rubbery beneath him. With great effort he hoisted himself to his knees and knelt there trembling and afraid. A coolness emanated from his crotch and thighs and he knew that he had urinated in his pants. He reached down between his legs and felt with certainty the already cold contents of his bowels that had permeated the fabric of his trousers and now clung tight about his skin.
Every night he had wet himself, despite his assurances before he drifted off to sleep that he would not, not this time, and each night his bladder failed him like a frightened child afraid of the monsters in the dark. He knew when he awoke that his sheets and bed linens would be soaked and he would lie there in the cold puddle of his shame.
Slowly he dragged himself to his feet. The torches were beginning to burn low, as they always did in this part of the dream, and the darkness was beginning to close in around him. The five pillars spanned to the ceiling, disappearing into the vaulted darkness high above. He saw the markings of the four horsemen of the apocalypse etched deep within the stone, their chiseled lines calling out to him in their mocking way.
Thank you for setting us free John.
“No, it’s not my fault.” He was crying now.
But it is John. It was your doing that has fulfilled the prophecy. The great one shall walk the earth and we will be set free to bring about Armageddon. Thanks to you John, thanks to you.
“NO!” He screamed from the bottom of his lungs. “I will not let it happen!”
He staggered forward, marching menacingly and with determination toward the sarcophagus that awaited in the center of the chamber. The sledgehammer sat propped against one pillar, the pillar of death, where it always sat in his dream. He reached out and clasped the oak handle, feeling its splinted surface beneath his palms. The ragged shards of wood bit in to the flesh of his palms, drawing minute traces of blood. He moved forward uncaring. As he drew near the voices in his head began to grow louder.
No John, it is not your place. What has been set forth cannot be stopped.
“LIARS!” He bellowed. “I started this and I can stop it!”
Go ahead then John try. Try as you have every night, but you know well that your efforts are fruitless.
He took the final steps towards the marble coffin until he stood just feet from it and stared down at the smooth stone beneath him. He raised the hammer high above his head, ready to smash the object of his torment, and here like always he was unable to bring the mallet down.
The voices in the dark mocked him, called out to him in their taunting ways as they always did, cackling in his ear as his arms quivered, unable or perhaps unwilling to deliver the striking blow. This is where it always stopped, the symbolic failure of his life. All that he had hoped to accomplish, his hopes and dreams never realized played before his mind’s eye. His failures in school, in his love life, his career, they all came back to him. It was these failures that drove him to leave his mark on the archeological world, that pushed him to discover something beyond the realm of imagination. He had sought it, sought it in the elusive tombs of the Bedouin, and when he found it he realized that some things were meant to be left undiscovered. Now he stood before the object of his demise and he was unable to turn back the hands of time, for what has been discovered no man can see undone.
Bring forth the hammer John, if you can.
The voices mocked at him.
You know very well that you can’t. You’ve failed John. Your entire miserable life has been a failure, and now you could erase it with a few striking blows and yet you are unable to do so.
“NO!” He stammered as the weight of the hammer grew heavier.
Your life has meant nothing John, nothing at all, except to be the man who brought forth the wrath of Hell upon the Earth, so go ahead and smash it John, smash it and see what lies beneath.
“NO!” He screamed once more in futility, knowing full well that this is where the dream would end. He would be unable to smash the object that brought him so much fear, he would fail again, and awake in a puddle of his own urine. And then to his amazement something shattered in the realm of his subconscious, a barrier that until now had held fast. He watched in disbelief, almost as if he were standing beside himself and watching the entire event unfold as his arms brought the hammer down in a crushing arc. The air split, emitting an ear-deafening SWOOSH as the hammer fell. It struck the marble with such force that he felt his teeth clash together and a blinding light shoot from the edges of his vision. Chips of stone sprayed in all directions like a Chinese fire cone sparkling in their own brilliance beneath the light from the torches above before falling silently into the darkness below. Unwavering he brought the hammer high above his head once again and sent another pummeling blow to the marble lid of the sarcophagus, the violence of the act captured in the reverberating echo of the sound waves that rang throughout the chamber. He raised the hammer and struck again, closing his eyes to shield himself against the flying rock chips that stung his flesh, leaving small dots of blood as the only signpost of their passing. He struck down one final time, feeling the hammer smash through the stone as it collapsed inward on itself, buckling beneath the unyielding force of the hammer’s inertia. When at last he stopped he stared in awe as he peered into the marble coffin.
Beneath his feet lay the object of his torment, the epitome of all the evils in the world. He glanced at it slowly, letting his eyes take in the horror that he observed. He started at the feet and scanned upward. The creature before him was unlike anything he had ever seen, the essence of nightmares and far beyond.
The skin was drawn tight about the body, clinging to the tendons and bones beneath. It was black as night, arid and leathery yet still managing to shine in the darkness like obsidian in sunlight. It was tall, well over seven feet, he could tell from the length of the legs alone. Grappled claws sat idle at its sides culminating in razor-like hooked claws. The torso was a mass of dried flesh weaving its way back and forth over the massive ribcage with small openings that allowed him to gaze at the decaying organs beneath. He glanced upward and stared upon the face of the demon, a face that would haunt him for the rest of his life and possible well beyond. And then it seemed the earth fell quiet, the face that peered back at him in a menacing grin was his own.