House of Stone

by R. L. King

  “I’m not going to waste everyone’s time lining up a master for you if you’re not ready to apply yourself,” he’d said shortly before Ian had embarked on his explorations. “You let me know when you want to get started, and I’ll find someone you can get on with, who can handle your power level.”

  Ian realized he’d read the same line at least four times and it still hadn’t sunk in. His mind began to wander further, returning to earlier that day when he and his father had discovered the secret catacomb-like space beneath the mansion. He wondered, given his father’s catlike curiosity, if Dad would be disappointed that he wasn’t more excited about going down there—so much so that he might even be tempted to break his promise and explore the area on his own.

  He wasn’t, though. It wasn’t he didn’t find the discovery interesting, but ancient ruins didn’t hold the same fascination for him that they did for Stone. He wanted to see what was down there, but he could wait until tomorrow. His father was obviously jazzed about whatever they might uncover behind those bricked alcoves and the intricately carved stone door—let him have his fun.

  One thing Ian did know, though—as long as he stayed up here, stretched out on the bed trying to read these dull books, he was certain he’d drop off to sleep any minute now. Since he wanted to talk with Dad more when he got home, that wouldn’t work. Maybe if he went back downstairs he could find something a bit more interesting to read, give one of his friends a call, or possibly even take a moonlight stroll outside for a while.

  It was every bit as quiet on the ground floor as it was in his bedroom. He headed out to the kitchen and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator (he’d thought Brits drank their beer warm, and was relieved to discover it wasn’t universally true), took the two books back to the library and re-shelved them, then scanned the shelves for anything that looked more interesting. When he didn’t find anything, he briefly considered hunting down Aubrey to see if the caretaker had any more compelling reading material.

  Finally, he grabbed a tome on ancient Egyptian magic and returned to the great room, stretching out on the leather couch in front of the unlit fireplace. He glanced at his watch: nine-thirty. It would still be at least three hours before Dad was home.

  It was going to be a long night.

  The book, at least, was more interesting than the others had been. It included sections on the various gods and their magical traditions, as well as several full-color plates showing the details of discoveries inside the Pyramids and other tombs. Not exactly Ian’s usual choice of reading material, but apparently beggars couldn’t be choosers around here.

  He’d lost track of time again when he thought he heard something: a far-off noise that sounded like a heavy object crashing to a hard floor.

  He jerked his head up and sat very still, closing his eyes and craning his ears. Had he heard it at all, or had it been merely a figment of his imagination? Perhaps he’d dropped off again, and the sound had been part of a micro-dream.

  After thirty seconds of stillness that seemed to stretch into many times that long, the sound didn’t repeat. Ian closed the book and sat up straight, looking around. Since he hadn’t even been certain he’d heard it at all, he hadn’t gotten a good bead on where it had originated.

  Probably just a cat or something outside, he thought. If it was anything at all.

  He got up and went back to the kitchen, looking for something he could put together for a snack and another beer. Inexplicably, he felt uneasy, realizing how alone he was in this large, unfamiliar, and forbidding house.

  Don’t be stupid. What do you think is going to happen—a ghost jumping out at you?

  He thought it was possible, despite Aubrey’s statement to the contrary, but the thought of ghosts, or echoes, or whatever they were called didn’t bother him. Hell, a ghost or two might liven the place up a bit.

  He found some bread and cheese and made a hasty sandwich, pairing it with another bottle of beer, and munched it as he headed back to the great room. His stocking-clad feet made no sound on the gray slate floor.

  The feeling of unease intensified as suddenly the rock-solid certainty hit him that someone was watching him.

  He paused a moment, just long enough to convince any watchers that he hadn’t noticed them, then spun around.

  Nothing.

  He snorted, angry with himself for letting the place get to him. Nobody was in here—the only other person on the entire property was Aubrey, and the caretaker wouldn’t sneak into the house and spy on him. One thing he was sure about after spending the day with Aubrey: the old man was about as straightforward as they came. If he had something on his mind, he’d say it.

  Nonetheless, Ian focused on keeping his aura steady as he pondered his next move. Perhaps he should finish his snack and go back to his room. Even if he fell asleep before Dad got home, he could always talk to him tomorrow. Maybe he was more tired than he thought. He had been doing a lot of running around, staying up late partying with his friends many nights in a row. Maybe this old, silent mansion would be a good place to take it easy for a while.

  Another crash sounded, far away and muffled.

  Ian tensed, gripping his beer bottle tighter.

  He had not imagined that one.

  Nor had he imagined his sudden certainty—strong enough that he would have staked his life on it—that the sound had come from the east-wing cellar.

  Hang on. That is stupid. The house was huge and constructed like a fortress—there was no way he could have heard anything coming from that far away, unless the whole east wing had collapsed.

  So why was he so sure?

  He thought about finding Aubrey to tell him about it, but discarded the thought. The old man was probably fast asleep by now, and wouldn’t be too happy to be awakened with some vague and foolish suspicion.

  No—he’d go check it out, just to set his own mind at ease. If something had fallen down there, or the walls had collapsed, or the floor had fallen down into the catacomb, he’d head right back out and find Aubrey. He might even call his father. He’d want to know, even if it did mean having to leave his old girlfriend’s wedding early.

  He set the beer and half-eaten sandwich on a nearby side table and hurried off toward the east side of the house, moving silently and listening with care for any further sounds. When he reached the stairway down to the cellar he switched to magical sight, peering down into the dark expanse, and then turned the light on and headed down.

  The place looked much as he’d remembered it from earlier that day. The sawhorses were still in place with the tape stretched between them, cordoning off a hole that appeared no different than before. Ian glanced up at the ceiling, holding up a light spell for a better look, but it was as solid as ever, with no cracks or signs it had shifted. Same with the walls.

  He paused a moment, staring down into the black hole. He heard nothing, saw nothing, but still that persistent feeling nagged at him: whatever the sound had been, it had originated down there.

  He had two choices, then: he could ignore it and go back to his room, waiting for his father to return home so he could tell him either tonight or tomorrow morning. Or he could go down there and have a look around to reassure himself that the whole thing had been his imagination. Dad wouldn’t even have to know he’d done it if he found nothing, and if he did find something, he’d be too busy wanting to examine it himself to be angry about Ian breaking his promise.

  The decision—if it had truly been a decision—took him mere seconds. Apparently he had inherited some of his father’s curiosity after all. He pulled a shield around him and cast a levitation spell, floating upward over the barriers and dropping neatly down through the hole to the stone floor below.

  The flashlights they’d used earlier that day still lay on the floor nearby. He picked one up and flicked it on, then stuck the other one in his pocket. No point wasting energy using magic if he didn’t need to.

  He crept down the winding passageway, shining the light around.
No cracks here; the floor was clear and obviously nothing had fallen along this stretch. When he reached the other end he paused, dousing the light and studying the area with magical sight.

  Nothing.

  When he turned the flashlight back on, the large, circular ritual area remained as quiet and unchanged as ever. The circle was still on the floor, as was the large pedestal in its center with its rusting manacles and unsettling bloodstains. Once again, Ian directed the flashlight upward, but the ceiling looked undisturbed as well.

  He remained where he was, thinking. He had no idea how big this place was, or how far the passageways radiating out from the center room stretched. The one he and his father had examined earlier had only gone back around twenty feet, but he had no way to be sure the others would do likewise. And then there was the odd, singular hallway leading to the carved stone door. Should he try checking them all out? How long would that take? If Dad returned home before he finished, he knew it would lead to an uncomfortable conversation.

  He crept forward, shining the light in front of him.

  As soon as he stepped into the circular room, the overwhelming feeling that someone was watching him intensified. He stopped again, casting quick glances around in front of him, behind him, and off to the sides, but neither magical nor mundane sight revealed anything out of the ordinary.

  Damn it, calm down, he told himself in annoyance. You’re a mage, not some scared kid. Dad probably deals with this kind of stuff all the time.

  Once again, Trin’s teachings had not prepared him for this kind of situation. Despite her sneaky, manipulative ways, most of her magic had been straightforward in its focus. Ian wondered how many other holes there were in his magical repertoire.

  He cast the light around again, looking for signs of movement. “Is anybody down here?” he called, his voice echoing along the gray stone walls.

  There was no response, but that nagging sensation of being watched didn’t depart.

  “Okay…” he muttered. “There’s nothing here. It’s just a spooky bunch of old tunnels. Not everything is magical.”

  He’d been in catacombs before; he and some mage friends had taken a trip through part of the ones in Paris a few weeks ago. They’d spotted hints of old magic—it would have been difficult not to in such a place—but never had he gotten the same feeling of observation.

  “If somebody’s here, show yourself,” he shouted. The echoes came back even louder, bouncing back and forth as if mocking him. But nothing else appeared.

  Fine. He’d just do a quick scan of the hallways he and his father had already examined. If there was anything else, it obviously didn’t present an immediate danger. It could wait until later tonight, or tomorrow morning.

  Decision made, he picked up his pace, holding the flashlight beam in front of him as he approached the hall leading to the stone door. As he passed the first alcove space, he shined the light down that way for a quick look, relieved that the bricked-in niches remained sealed and silent. Emboldened, he strode forward and poked the beam down the next hallway.

  And stopped, dread slicing through his body and rooting his feet to the floor. He gripped the flashlight tighter as it slipped in his hand.

  Earlier that day when they’d examined it before, the door had been pristine, its intricate carvings seemingly unmarred by the passage of time. Even the strange language his father couldn’t read had been clear and easy to make out around the outer edges.

  Now, it looked as if a bolt of lightning had struck it.

  A massive crack extended diagonally across it about halfway up, reaching from one side to the other. The upper part of the door had broken free of the substantial stone frame, falling into the hallway in front of it and shattering into several pieces. The lower portion was still intact, but as Ian crept closer and pointed the flashlight beam at it, he could see a darkening at the edge that looked almost as if it had been burned. A faint, acrid smell filled the space, along with the dust hovering in the air.

  Whatever had happened here, it had happened recently—and could easily have been the source of the crash Ian had heard from upstairs.

  Except…how could it have been? How could he possibly have heard even something this heavy hitting the ground from halfway across the house?

  Unable to stop himself, even though he knew his wisest course of action now would be to go back upstairs and call his father, Ian took another tentative step forward, holding the flashlight out in front of him like a sword. His shield flickered around him; he hoped it would be sufficient to handle anything that might choose to attack him. He felt suddenly cold, and the “watching” sensation increased even further. Was it coming from inside whatever was behind the broken door?

  Beyond the door, the room was nearly empty.

  Ian shined the light around, picking out the confines of a small room, its walls made of the same rough stone as the rest of the cavern. In the center lay the blasted remains of what looked like a featureless stone box.

  Ian swallowed. A coffin? It looked about the right size, but there was nothing ornate or fancy about it. Merely a possibly human-sized stone box, its shattered pieces spread out over the floor as if someone had set off a bomb inside it.

  He took another step forward, but didn’t enter the chamber. Something else caught his eye: it was difficult to see, but it appeared that all the surfaces in the chamber—walls, floor, and ceiling—were covered with writing. Small, precisely drawn symbols, sigils, and runes had been carefully placed in straight vertical lines, as if someone had run out of paper and decided to write out their thoughts on the walls around them.

  “What the hell…” Ian breathed, leaning in to try to get a better look. Almost as an afterthought, he switched to magical sight.

  The writing didn’t light up, which was what he’d expected, but faint traces of magic floated around the interior of the chamber. Something magical had been here. But what?

  Behind him, an ear-splitting shriek rang out.

  Ian whirled around, reinforcing his shield and raising his hands to prepare a spell. What was going on? Who had screamed?

  More screams joined the first. It sounded like a cacophony of tortured souls all shrieking their agony at once. They bounced off the walls, reverberated, sometimes joining for a moment into a head-cracking blast of sound before each veered back off into its own key of misery.

  Ian jammed his hands to his ears, but it didn’t help. The unrelenting noise penetrated his head and rose once again in volume, almost as if they’d originated from there. Sometimes he thought he could pick out words, but not intelligibly enough to understand them.

  He had only one thought now: he had to get out of here. Perhaps if he could get back upstairs, the shrieking would cease. He could call Dad and tell him what was going on, and the two of them could check it out together. Dad would know what to do.

  Loud banging joined the shrieks. Ian picked up his pace, erupting back into the circular center room and flinging the flashlight beam wildly around to search for the passage that would take him back to the way upstairs.

  Something was wrong with the floor. It was black instead of gray, and it was—

  Moving?

  The beam stilled on one spot long enough for him to get a good look, and his whole body went rigid.

  The entire room was full of spiders.

  They seethed along the ground like a black carpet, climbed up the walls, nearly covered the pedestal in the middle of the circle. Where the light picked them out, Ian could see glowing, multi-faceted eyes on some of the larger ones as they oriented on the beam and began crawling over each other in their haste to reach him.

  “No!” he shouted, unwilling to wade into that roiling, multi-legged mass of terror in his stocking feet. He raised his hands, gathering magical energy to him, and then flung it out in a wide beam.

  The smell was horrific. The energy drove the spiders backward in a wave, burning them until the stench of their cooking bodies made Ian’s eyes water and his
gorge rise. Too late, he remembered his levitation spell, and used it to lift him over the smoldering carpet, trying not to look at their twitching legs as the live ones tried to stand on top of the dead ones to reach him. Several more dropped from the ceiling, getting in his hair, dropping down his shirt, even landing on his face.

  He clawed at them, flinging them aside.

  How could they get past his shield?

  Were they illusions?

  It didn’t matter. Even if they were, he couldn’t break through them. His heart pounded harder as he floated past the first alcove on his way to the passageway.

  More shrieks tumbled out of the alcove—and then blood poured out as well. As if some giant had emptied a bucket of the stuff down at the far end, it flowed out of the narrow opening and engulfed the closest wave of spiders, bearing them upward, forming a grotesque spider soup as the creatures waved their legs in a desperate attempt to swim.

  Ian, fighting the urge to panic, didn’t spend much time looking at them. Instead, he propelled himself forward into the passage leading back to the entrance chamber. Miraculously, he’d still managed to hang on to the flashlight; as he floated by, he couldn’t help noticing the blood was following him. It crawled up the walls, forming interlocking words that kept pace with him, almost as if they wanted him to see them. He caught glimpses of some of the words as he flew by:

  GET OUT

  MURDERERS

  DIE

  The words kept forming, dripping like something out of a horror movie as he at last reached the entrance chamber. Without hesitating, he launched himself upward through the hole in the floor, nearly slamming into the ceiling in his haste to escape.

  As soon as his feet hit solid ground, he leaped over the barrier tape and backed up, unable to resist the temptation to look back and see if anything had followed him up out of the hole.

  The blood, as impossible as it had to be, was crawling out behind him, its red tendrils creeping, seeking, flowing across the floor.