by Grey Durose
THREADS OF REALITY
BOOK ONE:
NAMELESS
CULT
By Grey Durose
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter One
As George sat on the cramped plane he was hit by a sudden wave of foreboding and dread. He was travelling in economy, not to save money but simply to avoid attracting attention to himself; something which he endeavoured to do at all times, even when he was on stage. Cramped conditions were his stock and trade but the smells emanating from the drooling individual to his left, were another matter. George had good reason to expose himself to some pretty foul odours in the course of his work but this man was in a class of his own and, just to compound his offence, he snored like an angry boar as well.
George had a small piece of screwed up paper between his thumb and forefinger, normally he would just zone out the snoring and smells but this dread he now felt had broken his meditative state, forcing him to take drastic action. He flicked the piece of paper to his left; it shot up, looping gracefully in to the open mouth of his offensive neighbour, waking him and sending him in to a wheezy coughing fit. George closed his eyes and feigned innocence.
The next few hours, until he'd cleared customs, were painful. The nagging feeling that something terrible had happened was more than intuition or mere paranoia, it was very real. George had learned from his father, long ago. It was always a good idea to be armed but, in this age of heightened security, that concept did not marry well with flying. All would soon be well, though: home!
Heathrow was some twenty miles from George's home and it took him about an hour to weave his way there. Quickly passing from motorway to country lane as Greater London disappeared behind him, leaving rural Surrey and medium sized towns and villages as his only obstacles. George also had to prepare himself for what might be waiting for him.
Henry stayed in his home; he was part house-sitter, part assistant and the closest thing George had to a friend since his father's untimely passing.
His father had warned him of intuitions like the one he'd felt on the plane, it was part of his inheritance. All the men who'd held his position had certain abilities beyond the norm, his father had them and his Master before him, back through more generations than anyone could recall. Partly it was the training - not just the escapology and stage magic, they were just a front, useful though they were – but also it was innate talent. Selected by fate and intuition, each apprentice had plenty of talents and not all the same. In truth, many of the abilities of the long line of Masters came from a large collection of heirlooms passed down from Master to apprentice - added to by each generation - and a handful of skin markings given to them in their youth. By the time George had inherited this treasure trove, along with the name Horrendo, it had grown to enormous proportions.
George arrived at the end of the driveway, stopping just short, for fear of being observed from within. He reached in to the glove box and extracted what could only be described as a large, primitive dagger. He slipped the knife inside his jacket and braced himself for what might come.
He opened the car door, slid out and pressed up against it, silently forcing it closed behind him. The driveway lay ahead but George chose to make his way around the back of the bushes that were obscuring his car. The drive was gravelled, deliberately, to make it harder for other people to do precisely what he was about to attempt.
There were many trees and bushes in the grounds of the house, each carefully placed to make it hard for any would be intruder to approach the house unnoticed, but not impossible, as George knew he might need to do exactly that on an occasion such as this. He made his way across the lawn along the side of the old house, avoiding the piles of dead leaves which the trees had discarded in autumnal tradition. The musty smell of the leaves would have evoked many memories from childhood on any other occasion but, at this precise moment, George was focused on one objective: get in to his own home, unobserved.
The house had age to it but it was by no means ancient. It had been erected in the Victorian era and was added to, and improved, by successive inhabitants. Thick, grey limestone lined the lower floors, where a dozen carefully placed windows allowed light in, but little else. Long narrow panes of glass were all that gave away the presence of a basement. Above the windows, the limestone gave way to sturdy layers of red brick and yellow mortar, mottled by age and lichen. A steep roof, covered by slate, shone black with moisture and two large chimney stacks stood like bookends at either side of the house.
He reached the North-east corner of the house, a blind spot for anyone within. If he kept low there was only one room from which he could be observed and he could be sure no one would be in there, not the attic. He made a dash for it, across the uncut grass, careful not to slip on the dewy residue left by the hazy drizzle of rain which now filled the air. Upon reaching the corner, he pressed himself hard up against the rear wall of the house, the lichen encrusted stones caught on the fabric of his trousers forcing George to push his feet outwards as he skipped his shoulders along the wall. At last he was at the conservatory, it was empty; a black-painted, steel frame and glass above a nest of brickwork. George crawled along below the window line and stopped when he reached the French doors which normally afforded access to the patio area he was now crouching on.
The lock was simply enough breached by a skilled escapologist such as himself, in fact he'd practiced on these very locks as a small boy. Memories were everywhere in this house and an image of his own tiny hands fumbling with a pair of lock picks flashed across his mind’s eye. He pulled out a pair of picks from the pouch in his jacket pocket and inserted them in the lock. With a couple of quick flicks of his wrist there was a click and the door was ready to be opened. George turned the handle slowly, it had a tendency to squeak and any noise right now could undo all his good work thus far. He opened the door and tentatively moved in, still keeping low to avoid detection.
George looked around, there were a number of improvised ashtrays, brimming over with the roached ends of spent roll-ups, and several dishes in a pile, next to a cluster of cups and glasses. If it weren't for the sweet smell of mould, he might have assumed Henry had been entertaining. As he left the room he wondered what Henry had been doing; undoubtedly it hadn't involved cleaning.
He moved quickly now, passing along the corridor past the kitchen and basement on one side and the study and living room a little further along on the opposite side. The smooth, unyielding oak floorboards aided his quest for silence and he knew which ones to avoid. He reached the entrance hall with its tiled floor, high vaulted ceiling and winding staircase; still there was no sign of intrusion. Henry's familiar shoes and coat were in their usual spot in the alcove by the front door. He wouldn't have left without them. Not willingly, George thought
He began to climb the stairs, slowing to a crawl as the next floor approached eye level. He Peered over the edge of the floor: all was clear again. The only unusual element was the door to Henry's room, which was wide open but there was an absence of smoke billowing out from within. George now felt confident that no one was at home and made his way straight to Henry's room, ex
pecting the worst.
Inside Henry's room all was quite normal, save that the TV was on and a few ornaments were scattered across the floor leading to the doorway. George crouched down to pick one up and noticed spots of blood nearby, not big but unmistakable and lots of them. He picked his way across the floor, careful not to disturb anything. It became obvious that whatever had happened had started at the bed and, by tracing the trail of fine blood droplets, he discovered it had moved hastily to the doorway. George retraced his steps with care, observing with interest the clear signs of a brief and fruitless struggle.
Stepping over the ornaments and the contents of a spilled ashtray, he made his way back to the open doorway. The blood trail led all the way to the opening, the spots of blood becoming slightly bigger nearer the door. He stepped out in to the corridor again, looking for the blood spots that he surely must have missed in his haste to discover Henry's fate. George got down on his hands and knees, 'There must be something here.' he muttered to himself. He was desperately scanning the boards of the floor for a single spot of blood, or even a smear from someone cleaning the floor after the incident. There was no sign of the blood trail continuing beyond the doorway. He went back to the doorway and looked carefully, to discern exactly where the trail ended. The blood spots halted at the threshold, there were fine, and not so fine, spots of blood on the floor and a few on the wall, not easy to see on the dark blue décor Henry had chosen. Last of all George examined the door frame and found the now familiar pattern of spray. It was then that he noticed something odd. One of the larger spots on the frame was incomplete, cut in half as if blocked by some straight edged object and there were others, further up, in a similar state. 'The door must have been closed.' George now had a puzzled look on his face, one not often seen.
Closing the door, George crouched down again but, to his surprise, this hadn't confirmed his theory. The spots did indeed end in a straight line going up the inside of the door frame, however, they all stopped several millimetres inside the door's fully closed position. There must have been something in the threshold, filling the entire doorway in a perfectly straight line, he thought.
George rubbed his chin, and furrows formed on his forehead. There was only one explanation that rang true, and he didn't like it at all. Not only did it mean poor Henry was in all probability lost for good but it also meant something had been in his home; something other-worldly had breached his inner sanctum and such a creature or person could only be considered dangerous.
He was suddenly struck by a dull pain in the pit of his stomach and a clenching in his throat. He was trained not to form attachments but Henry had filled a huge void, in his own peculiar way, and his loss meant that George would be alone again; friendless. He stood for a moment and forced himself to go over the scene once more, distracting himself from emotional pangs while making sure there was nothing he’d missed. With a heavy sigh - which cleared some of the weight on his chest - he decided there was nothing more he could do that night. Whatever it had been, it was no longer there and further investigation could wait until the next day. He went downstairs to bring the car up to the house, came back in and set about cleaning up the crime scene in Henry's room. The Police would not be called, they had no place in George’s life; they’d ask too many questions.
George was dismayed by the mess Henry had left him. There was no point complaining now, Henry wouldn't hear him, besides, for a few moments it made it feel as if his friend was still in the house. He decided to make himself something to eat, thankful there was still some food. After his meal, he set about clearing up the remainder of Henry's detritus. George marvelled at the mess, Henry had clearly forgotten how to use the dishwasher and the concept of emptying an ashtray had not been included in his vast array of knowledge. His annoyance at Henry was tempered by the constant reminder of better times. No tears would fall for Henry, George would grieve in his own way, the only way his well-trained heart could. By the time George had finished the clean-up job it was getting late, or at least it felt that way. He'd had to get up extremely early for his flight out of Vegas and then had to face the flight from New York to London. The length of his day was beginning to bear down on him. He resolved to sleep, but where? he wondered. The events of the day had made him wary of sleeping in his own bed and he came to the conclusion the library, the safest place in the house, was his best option.
The library was housed in the huge attic room, the only room big enough to hold the collection of books and artefacts handed down to George by his busy predecessors and far away from the damp of the earth. The library needed to be protected at all costs, if anyone were to infiltrate it all manner of chaos might ensue. The doors, walls, roof, windows and even the floor had all been re-enforced, to the extent where, if the whole house were to burn down below it, the attic could fall to the ground in one piece and still locked. Beyond these conventional security measures the library was protected in other, more unusual, ways. Some of the artefacts prevented other methods by which someone, or something, might try to gain entry and, if that weren't enough, there were inscriptions carved and printed across every brick and board of the structure - in various ancient scripts and languages - which acted as powerful wards. George retired to the library, taking a blanket and some cocoa with him. 'It could be a long night.' he sighed.
The library had always daunted him as a child but now he found it quite cosy, with its high beams and shadowy corners. He lit a small fire and settled down in the more comfortable of the two, seemingly identical, leather armchairs by the fireplace. 'Tomorrow could be a long day, too.' he mused, as he sipped on his cocoa.
Chapter Two
Yasin could tell that this was not going to be an ordinary day at the compound. From the moment he rose from his bunk, he'd noted the tangible tension among his fellows. Dawn had come and it was his turn to tend to the captive and make sure that their leader was content. As he sat down for a simple breakfast, of dried fruit and oats from the stores, the room went quiet.
Three other men were in the room; Ali was the only one he knew well and, when he was chewing on his third mouthful, it was Ali who broke the silence. 'When you have finished eating, our lord wants to see you.' he said, with a sullen look on his face.
'Just me? Have I done something to offend him?' Yasin had been careful not to do anything which might draw attention to himself. It had taken ten years to infiltrate the cult and now he'd finally been accepted in to their inner ranks there would be no more second chances.
'We both shall go. Do not worry, brother, you have done well since you joined us here, our lord is most pleased by your efforts.' Ali assured him.
Ali was a senior member of the cult, he was in his fifties and had been initiated some three decades earlier. Yasin had overheard some of the others gossiping in hushed voices one night, they claimed that Ali had been exposed to some of the inner mysteries of the cult; secrets that only the most trusted servants ever got to discover. Their voices fell to whispers when they spoke of his ability to hear the thoughts in other's minds but Yasin had seen no evidence of any such an ability.
When Yasin had arrived at the compound, a year earlier, it had been Ali who had taken him under his wing and apprised him of his duties. Yasin had done his best to please Ali, in any way he desired, and his efforts had paid off. Ali had come to look on Yasin as a potential successor to him in the affections of their lord, and his rapid promotion to service duties had led some of the other cultists to regard him with jealous eyes.
He brought another spoonful of oats to his mouth, he was using his left hand. He favoured his right but it was malformed and claw-like and often caused him pain, though not enough to stop him from using it. The hand looked ugly enough for his fellow cultists to notice and expect the hand to be useless, which suited Yasin. Deformities were one of the disadvantages of his lineage. They married only their own and, inevitably, this caused problems on a genetic level.
Yasin scraped his bowl clean and took it to the kitchen
. Ali was waiting for him when he returned and the two men left together. Outside, it was another hot sunny morning, Yasin was well used to heat, though, and it was late in the year.
'Tell me, Ali, what is it that our lord wants of me today?' Yasin was concerned. If his cover had been blown he would certainly be killed and, worse still, it would make it much harder for his replacement to worm his way in to the heart of the cult.
'If I knew, I would tell you, precious boy. Our lord still guards many secrets, even from me. There was a disturbance last night, after he had fed. At first we thought the food might have been contaminated but our lord assured us it was something else. This morning, before the sun rose and our lord retired to his contemplations, he told me I was to return in an hour, and to bring you with me.' A twinge of concern betrayed itself in Ali's face.
'Does this happen often? I have done everything our lord asked and just as you taught me.' It was true, Yasin would have made a worthy cultist, if he were not a spy.
'I am sure our lord merely intends to reward us for our diligence, brother.' Ali sighed.
They reached the ornate entrance to the caverns and climbed the steps in to the cool shade. Inside, they stripped and donned their robes, the silk catching on the rough, scaly, skin on Yasin's thigh. They left through the narrow passage beyond and began their descent in to the lower chambers, where their leader resided. They were silent now, neither of them wanted to be overheard by their lord and, during the day, these passages were usually silent; echoes could carry with alarming ease.
They emerged from the lower passage, pushed the hangings aside and entered the great chamber. The braziers were still glowing from the previous night's entertainment and the lord was sat on a high backed seat on a stone dais ahead of them. He was being attended by one of the other cultists and seemed thoroughly absorbed by his own thoughts as they approached. It was only when the two men set foot on the dais that their lord looked up.