by Kevin Lucia
With a creaking, rock-on-rock groan, the sarcophagus’ lid trembled. Before Norman could spin and flee, he heard it, felt it lumbering up the passage and to the doorway, its heavy bulk scrambling across sandy rock toward him. He sprinted past the quivering sarcophagus and away from the huge lumbering thing through the shimmering rectangle into a room much grander than he’d yet seen. A floor of shining gold reflected the fires in scones mounted on walls. Murals depicted scenes of rites and practices so inhuman and abominable he gibbered, clenching and unclenching his hands in useless fists, teetering on the precipice of madness.
At the far end of this ornate room sat a golden throne inscribed with strange, alien symbols and characters, one of which he recognized dimly: Three hooks spiralling around a center. On each side sat not statues of sphinxes—as he’d seen in his textbooks as a child—but terrible statues of the thing lumbering behind him, an abominable two-legged horror with twining tentacles for arms and a serpentine head with no eyes but a gaping, fanged mouth.
In the center of the room shimmered a pool of water, which bubbled quietly. As Norman stared, the pool rippled outward from its center. Something rose from it. Not the serpent-headed horror depicted by the statues on either side of the golden throne, but a man. Or something that looked like a man. An Egyptian pharaoh wearing a high, glittering headdress and a curiously blank but cruel countenance, with a hard mouth, square jaw and deep, emotionless black eyes.
The pharaoh rose from the pool and stepped smoothly onto the floor. His blood-red robes were dry, the gold around the robe’s neck glittering in the fire burning on the walls.
Norman’s mind cracked. Heedless of the thing behind him or the opening sarcophagus, he screamed and spun back out the door, away from this thing which looked like a man but wasn’t.
The instant he left the throne room an angry hiss filled his ears. Nothing but a mass of reflexes and terror now, Norman spun and felt his last bits of sanity slip away as the marble Christ leaned away from His marble cross, craning His neck to hiss at him.
“Faithlessssss. Faithlessssssss.”
A great crack, the groan of stone pulling away from stone, and the marble Christ on His cross tore away from the wall and fell toward him. Norman flung up his hands, feeling a warm flush as his bladder finally lost its battle.
A strong, muscled hand shot out from beneath a blood-red robe and arrested the marble cross’ fall. Norman peered through splayed fingers as the hand threw the cross to the far corner of the room. It shattered against the wall.
A great peace filled Norman.
Heedless of his wet crotch, he sank to his knees. Standing before him was something worth serving at last, a great and powerful force that could not be denied. An entity commanding absolute obedience.
The great pharaoh stretched out the hand which had saved him. In a paroxysm of ecstasy Norman grasped it, kneeling at the feet of something which could use him for A Great Service, indeed.
The pharaoh gazed at him, black eyes glittering as he intoned, “Follow me.”
A moment of hesitation.
Deep inside, Norman knew he had no choice. He’d made his choice the instant he’d brought the black pyramid home. He nodded wordlessly, feeling something shift inside him as he opened himself in a way he never had, before.
The pharaoh opened his mouth, but instead of words, out flowed black sand . . .
ashes
. . . buzzing like the swarm of hornets he’d disturbed as a child. As the rippling mass flowed toward him and covered his face, filling his eyes, pouring down his throat, he didn’t fight his new communion. He accepted it, eating of a new and terrible Body.
***
Norman jerked with a sharp cry, dropping the black pyramid back to the floor, hands flying to his face to dig away the sand blinding him, filling his mouth, clogging his throat.
Only to find unblemished skin.
He glanced around and saw not an ancient, alien, gleaming throne room, but his church office.
He covered his face with his hands, closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting an icy fear drain from him as his muscles relaxed. Must have dozed off while composing yet another message he didn’t want to deliver and didn’t believe in. And oddly enough the dream (which was already fading) of running lost through a maze of subterranean tunnels was frightfully appropriate. He’d gotten lost in his mission. He’d lost his purpose. But then, of course, there was the black pyramid.
The black pyramid.
He opened his eyes and gazed down upon the black pyramid, lying on the carpet, next to the shards of ceramic Jesus on His cross. As he stared at the broken effigy of his faith, something shifted deep inside him.
He smiled.
Bent and grabbed the black pyramid with one hand, scooped up the remains of his faith with the other. He dropped the broken pieces into the wastebasket next to his desk, then gently and reverently sat the black pyramid on the edge of his desk. Right where it belonged.
At home.
***
“S’yknow how it is, Pastor,” Jed Sykes cringed, whining in a high-pitched voice which normally made Norman grind his teeth but tonight didn’t bother him at all. “My back’s been actin up somethin fierce. I ain’t been able to work at all, but cause itsa pre-existin condition workers comp won’t cover it. I cain’t get my insurance to gimme a referral to a chiropractor, so things is awful tight round home.”
Norman smiled, hands folded on the desk, barely listening to a single word Jed Sykes said. He also ignored the man’s thin face and unhealthy pallor, his bloodshot watery eyes and slobbery lips.
Instead, fantastic images wheeled through his brain. A majestic throne room with golden floors. Walls adorned with portraits of ancient men and women. A tall, regal man wearing a pharaoh’s headdress and a crimson robe. A man with a cruel face. Norman, kneeling before him, reverently taking his strong hand.
“I been tryin real hard, Pastor, ta stay way from that demon hooch, but it’s powerful hurtin when ma belly’s so empty.”
At this the good Reverend Norman Akley gave poor Jed Sykes a wide, sincere smile. “No worries, Mr. Sykes. I have a feeling after tonight your belly will never be empty again.”
Jed’s eyes and face lit up with a beatific glow, one Norman knew well by now. “Oh, I know, Pastor! All I gots to do is ask fer the Spirit an He’ll fill me up an I’ll never feel that demon thirst no more!”
Norman stood, reverently took the black pyramid from his desk and handed it to a slightly confused Jed Sykes, offering another wide smile. “Indeed. You will be filled, I guarantee.”
Fifteen minutes later, when eyes now deep and black (like Norman’s) returned his gaze, the good Reverend Norman Akley knew Jed Sykes had indeed been filled, to the brim.
Unlike poor Mildred, who unfortunately hadn’t been as accepting of the black pyramid’s ministry.
No matter.
He wasn’t the first prophet whose spouse couldn’t find it in her heart to support him.
“Now,” Norman said pleasantly, accepting the black pyramid back from Jed’s suddenly steady, unwavering grip, “let’s bring the others in and spread the Good News, shall we?”
9.
I wasn’t dying after all. I heaved a big cough and blew little speckles of stuff—not insects, more like sand—all over me. Then I had a sneezing fit lasting about ten minutes or so before I finally cleared my throat with several hacking gasps.
I blinked dust and grit from my eyes. My mouth and tongue tasted gritty, but I was all right. Nearly passed out after that dark sandy stuff puffed in my face, but I was all right. I dropped the black pyramid to the floor damn quickly, though. No more rubbing it and reading those weird-ass words, for sure.
What was that stuff? I never found out. At the time I thought maybe it might’ve been some sort of hallucinogenic drug. Something that screws with people’s minds, makes them hallucinate. The things I saw when I accidentally snorted it was worse than any nightmare I’d ever had.
&
nbsp; I’m not sure how long I sat there, blinking and spitting. Felt like a long time. Weird images spun in my brain, the worst of them a snarling, hissing Jesus on a cross, some guy in Egyptian robes, and a lizard-snake-headed thing with no eyes and all teeth. Also, sidewalk sales, for some reason. Weird sidewalk sales, with body parts and heads on display. Or maybe used Barbie dolls? I dunno. Like I said: Thought I’d snorted some sort of drug.
Anyway, when I finally got myself together, another thought hit me. The back of the store. There had to be a way out somewhere back there, especially because the creepy shopkeeper had disappeared back there, right?
Here’s the thing. I knew why I didn’t want to go back there, why I’d subconsciously avoided it until then. When I first looked down that hallway, trying to figure out where the shopkeeper had gone, I hadn’t liked it. It stretched out way longer than it should. It seemed endless. Some part of me was afraid if I started wandering around back there I’d get lost, kinda like the crazy lady on the iPhone was saying she was lost. The hallway out back had way too many rooms, too.
I’m not afraid to admit I was not a fan of going out back, but by then? I was desperate. So desperate, in fact, if I had my .38, the one I couldn’t remember putting back under my bed in The Motor Lodge . . .
Well.
You get the idea.
When I finally got my wits about me, I managed to stumble upright and limp over to the counter. Steeling myself, I placed my hands on it, leaned over and peered down the long hallway with no end.
It was endless, or at least looked like it. Shelves ran on both sides for the first few feet, cluttered with all sorts of stuff. Old baseball gloves, football helmets, hockey sticks, books, old televisions, VCRs and DVD players. Some radios, too. Newer ones and old mammoth jobs with eight-track players. After that, the hall stretched away into darkness. Every few steps open doors led into rooms filled with who knew what. At the time, I had no intention of finding out, but I’d have to walk past them to get out, and that was working on my imagination.
There wasn’t anything else left to try by then. So, legs shaking, I pushed open the swinging gate and stepped through to the back.
And fell.
Bounced and rolled, tumbling ass over tea-kettle so fast no coherent thoughts could form. I crashed onto a hard concrete floor, smashing my shoulder. I’m not gonna lie; I screamed, not only because it hurt, but because I was so pissed.
A door.
A fucking trapdoor. Why hadn’t I checked when I’d stepped through? I mean, I guess no one expects an open fucking trapdoor under your feet, but you would’ve thought I’d gotten to expect about anything. I don’t know. All I knew was I’d fallen down a flight of stairs to smash my shoulder into a concrete floor. I was hurt, pissed, and freaking out, big time. No, check that. I was scared. Out of my mind, losing it, for sure, maybe for real.
I lay there, curled in a fetal ball, holding my shoulder and swearing, kinda screaming the whole time, too. Finally, it weighed down on me how dark it was. Only dim light filtered down the stairs. If there was one thing I didn’t want, it was to be lying in the darkness down in some storage cellar. As the throbbing pain in my shoulder eased, I rolled onto my knees and dug into my pocket for my lighter. I pulled it out, flicked it on and panned it around.
The walls were brick. Which was odd. Who would take the time to brick and mortar walls to a cellar? Also, the cellar wasn’t nearly as large as I’d first thought. In fact, it was damn small. Too small to be much use, really.
I pointed my lighter to the far corner. I saw an altar or something like it made of plywood. An altar with shelves, and with things on it. Thick white candles, which had burnt out long ago. Dried up flowers. A garden hat. Toys. A football, basketball and baseball. Pictures, too, of boys, but I wasn’t about to take the time to examine them closer.
Something scratched in the other corner, the one covered in darkness.
Common sense would say maybe a mouse. Still, when I heard it again—scratch—my heart leaped into my throat. Yeah I know it’s a horrible cliché, but that’s what it felt like.
Scratch.
Again.
In the dark corner to my left.
On rubbery legs, my knees buckling, I slowly stood. Backed up several tottering steps to the stairway leading up and away from the scratching sounds. I put one foot on the bottom step, turned to go up . . .
You know this part, of course.
I had to look, right?
Had to. Because it’s what humans do. We look. Most especially when we shouldn’t.
So I pointed the lighter into the far corner.
Opened my mouth wide.
And screamed silently, my mind falling to pieces, finally.
WHEN WE ALL MEET AT THE OFRENDA
The horizon above Hillside Cemetery was slowly bruising a crimson-purple, shading to the velvet darkness of an autumn Adirondack evening. Night birds sang. The crisp air nipped Whitey Smith’s hands and face. Dry leaves rustled underfoot as he shuffled along the path leading toward the cemetery caretaker shed. His assistants, Judd and Dean, had raked leaves all week, but it hadn’t mattered. Never usually did. When autumn came, leaves covered the ground. This was the way of things.
Flowers bloomed in spring. Crops grew during summer. Leaves fell in autumn, and things died during winter. Except Maria, who died a month ago of pancreatic cancer, which was the way of things.
People died.
He shuffled to a stop, grasped the knob on the shed’s door, swallowing a grimace as arthritic pain arrowed glass slivers into his knuckles.
“Sonofabitch.”
He turned the knob and tried to open the door but couldn’t. It had rained yesterday, and the door had swelled as it always did afterward, catching in the doorframe.
He tugged harder.
The door popped open, but he was rewarded for his efforts with an aching pulse in his right shoulder. It had been hurting lately. Ever since he’d twisted it when burying the Jensen kid last spring, after he rolled his car on Bassler Road.
Whitey stood before the shed’s open door, right hand still on the knob, left hand gently kneading the leathery meat of his right shoulder, which throbbed dully. Dr. Fitzgerald at Utica General said it was probably a torn rotator cuff. He’d recommended surgery. Or at least physical therapy. Whitey had waved off the recommendation, claiming he had neither the time nor the money for either, a self-fulfilling prophecy after Maria’s diagnosis.
Whitey didn’t enter the shed immediately. He stood there, eyes closed, rubbing his shoulder, savoring the heady scent of oil and gasoline from the lawnmower out back. It was one of his favorite smells because it reminded him of the night he first saw Maria.
***
He’d first seen Maria Alverez while standing outside the pit area at Five Mile Speedway, hands hooked on the chain-link fence separating him from the powerful cars tended to by mechanics wearing gray smudged overalls. Some of the cars were jacked up, tires being changed or their undersides inspected by men lying under them. Others had their hoods open, swallowing mechanics intently fixing either carburetors or changing spark plugs. A few cars roared as drivers tested their engines.
At age ten, the world beyond the fence appeared grand. Every Saturday night men conjured strange masculine magic from gasoline-fueled beasts. After spending his childhood watching the races with his father, Whitey Smith would race himself during the early years of his tenure at Hillside Cemetery. This, of course, earned his modified 1940 Ford coupe (number 72) the nickname Grave Wagon.
Those future days were distant dreams when he first saw Maria in the Five Mile pits. He’d only been ten, she an exotic twelve, handing her father tools as he worked under a chopped and stripped Chevy.
Whitey fell in love instantly. She hadn’t been wearing anything remotely girlish, clad only in a smaller version of the gray overalls other mechanics wore, her hair pulled tight into a ponytail. Face composed and serious, she intently watched her father (Carlos Alverez, Whit
ey would later learn) work underneath the Chevy. Whitey fell in love with her focused expression, her narrowed eyes, pursed lips, (which he suddenly wanted to kiss), and the oil smudge—a beauty mark on her cheek.
He would chase her, worship and annoy her, woo her and then win her. He’d someday race for her, and would always cherish her.
Now he mourned her.
Whitey inhaled another breath of oil and gasoline, then reached in and flicked a light switch inside the shed’s door. Dim orange light spilled from a single bulb hanging from the shed’s ceiling, illuminating the Spartan area, which had become his living space since he’d buried Maria here at Hillside.
Against the wall sat a simple cot, blankets tucked in. Next to it, a wooden crate served as a nightstand for a small lamp he’d bought at Handy’s Pawn and Thrift. At the cot’s end sat an old footlocker he’d bought at a clearance sale at Save-A-Bunch furniture long ago. Pushed into the far corner of the shed was a refrigerator, with his Coleman stove on top.
The tools of his trade hung neatly on the far wall. Two different sizes of shovel, several kinds of rakes, a weed whacker, a pick and a pitchfork. The small riding lawnmower, push mower and snow-blower (to keep the access roads clear during winter), rested in an adjoining small garage. In the center of the shed sat a kerosene heater.
Whitey grunted as he moved slowly toward his cot. The shed offered everything he needed, regardless what his eldest Carlos thought. Carlos kept saying he’d catch his death out in the cold. Claiming he understood Whitey’s pain in one breath, accusing him of “playing Huck Finn” in the next. Ungrateful snot had grown too big for his britches, partying in New York City with his writer boyfriend. Said Whitey was foolish to believe all the old tales of Dia de los Muertos, that Maria wouldn’t come back. Hell with him, anyway. When had Carlos . . .