The child’s sarcophagus was open, the tiny mummified occupant long gone. The adult’s was closed, battered and devoid of decor, likewise missing its resident linen-wrapped body. At one time they had probably been covered in gold leaf and gems, but such prizes had been long since stolen, pillaged by tomb-robbers. The former occupants’ identities were unknown. Not for the first time, Wilbur wondered who these people had been in life.
Each coffin was protected behind reinforced glass. It was the adult sarcophagus he stood before now, his double chins jiggling with wonder, his blue eyes shining bright. His friend and fellow security guard Joe Dembinski had mentioned that the museum had received shipment of a third sarcophagus recently, this one complete with its own mummy. Wilbur couldn’t wait to see it on show.
The famous bells of Old North Church rang out in the distance, chiming at midnight. Something clattered in one of the adjoining rooms, making Wilbur jump. He rested his hand on the nightstick at his hip and aimed his flashlight beam dead ahead. In that instant he was momentarily transformed from Wilbur, the amateur history buff, to Ace Cunningham, private detective. He’d flunked his police entrance in his midtwenties, thanks to poor fitness and asthma, but he had a vivid imagination.
He stepped carefully through the Egyptian Room, keeping to the carpeted walkway so his footfalls remained silent, and rounded an enormous gold and ebony urn, decorated with scenes of a great and bloody battle. As quietly as he could, he stalked past a long display table, the covered glass lid protecting a variety of grisly looking embalming tools. Wilbur smacked his parched lips, his heart speeding in his broad chest.
A short corridor ran directly into the American Room. Wilbur crept carefully over the threshold, unhitching his nightstick from his belt. He’d been in this job for eighteen months, but the most he’d had to deal with was the alarms going off one stormy night. There had never been any disturbances in the museum itself. No attempted burglaries or break-ins. No thefts or threats. Everything was locked down, everything secure. Wilbur did his rounds hourly, and they were always uneventful. He was the only person in the building. Or at least, he was supposed to be.
“Anyone there?” he called out, instantly cursing himself for being so stupid. Just us thieves, he mused angrily.
The flashlight flickered around the room, sending shadows dancing across the walls. A diorama of early Boston dominated the middle of the chamber, the centerpiece of the exhibition. The room was lined with tableaux, featuring mannequins in traditional dress: soldiers, clergymen, fishermen, and farmers, to name just a few. They appeared lifelike under the flashlight beam, and Wilbur jumped as faces loomed, then gave a nervous laugh. He circuited the exhibits, pausing to check that the fire doors were still padlocked. The American Room, like all the others in the building, was empty. Wilbur was the only living soul in the museum.
“There’s nobody here, you oaf,” he muttered to himself. “Too much coffee. No wonder my blood pressure’s through the roof.”
He started back in the direction of the security office. The flashlight beam swung like a pendulum before him, left to right, arcing as it lit his path. His left foot caught something, sending it clattering across the floor and under the diorama table. Wilbur hitched his belt to avoid cutting his gut in half and crouched down awkwardly, peering beneath the display. A wooden box sat there, quite innocuous but clearly what his foot had connected with. He grunted and reached forward, chubby fingers latching onto the cube and retrieving it.
Wilbur heaved himself upright, straightening and casting his light over the box. It was perhaps six inches square, and made from a rough, unfinished wood. He turned it in his hand, but couldn’t seem to find a lid. He gave it a shake and heard something rattle inside. Where had it come from? The night watchman looked around, retracing his steps back to the point where his foot had connected with it. The flashlight beam illuminated an old iron gibbet hanging bolted from the ceiling, a hokey-looking gallows beside it. Two mannequins were posed side by side, a dour-looking manacled woman and an angry, fire-and-brimstone priest. Etchings and accounts of witch trials had been reproduced and enlarged, displayed on tall boards in all their grim glory.
A tall, empty wooden plinth stood within this sinister collection. Wilbur leaned in close, spying a tiny brass plaque that had been fixed to the top of the polished mahogany pedestal. Two words were engraved into the metal: VENDEMEYER’S BOX. Wilbur shrugged. It meant nothing to him. He looked back at the box he held, then promptly popped it back onto the stand. No sooner had he done this than a clicking sound emanated from the strange device.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” said the night watchman, peering in close again.
There was a thin sliver of darkness running along the top side of the cube, clearly revealing that the uppermost plane was removable. The gap between lid and box was perhaps only a couple of millimeters wide, big enough to poke a knife into but little else. Wilbur reached out once more.
As his fingertips brushed the rim of the lid, a hissing sound escaped the box, wisps of strange green smoke emerging from the pitch-black crack. The cloud wafted straight into Wilbur’s face, making him choke and splutter. Tendrils of acrid vapor snaked into his nostrils and rolled down his throat, crawling into his lungs and settling there. Wilbur coughed, trying to hack up the awful green mist, but it wouldn’t budge.
He staggered back, banging into a fisherman and knocking over lobster pots. Wilbur gasped for air, fingers clawing at his throat. He tore off the clip-on tie, his nails raking his neck as he wheezed and struggled in vain for oxygen. A terrible cold sensation spread through him, from his chest into the pit of his belly, traveling along arteries and veins, finally finding his heart. Death’s icy hand squeezed hard and tight.
Wilbur Cunningham collapsed with a thump onto the carpeted floor, flashlight rolling from his lifeless hand and halting beside the plinth’s base. The museum was deathly silent once again. The night watchman’s body remained as motionless as the mannequins for a few minutes. Then his right hand twitched. Ten seconds passed and it twitched again, quickly followed by the right foot. His left hand curled into a fist as his head flinched. Wilbur Cunningham’s eyes slowly flickered open.
They were no longer blue. They shone brilliantly, malevolently, like emeralds in the sun.
SEVEN
xxx
RUDE AWAKENINGS
“Hey there, beautiful.”
The face in the mirror glowered back gloomily.
It wasn’t a pretty picture. A tangled mop of brown hair hung over his eyes, his complexion pasty and sallow. There was a zit by the dimple on his chin, just begging to be popped, and the bags under his eyes would put Gandalf’s to shame. If this was what being a teenager meant, Max didn’t want any part of it. He’d gone to bed a butterfly and emerged a caterpillar. Stepping into the shower stall, he turned on the faucet. Within moments he was being pummeled by a torrent of scalding water, reviving his weary limbs and spirit.
He didn’t really look any different, of course. That same face awaited him in the bathroom mirror every morning, rain or shine. He always felt the same first in the morning: rotten. He was still Max Helsing, full-time monster hunter and part-time schoolkid. Suitably reinvigorated, he grabbed his towel from the radiator and exited the bathroom.
“Morning,” he called as he strolled through the apartment, securing the towel about his waist. There was no sign of Jed. Books and scrolls littered the coffee table and floor around his La-Z-Boy, the old fellow having clearly burned the midnight oil reading the previous night. As Max walked by, something caught his eye: a familiar red leather photo album, sitting on top of the other books. Max sat down in the recliner, picked it up, and opened the first page. Such a long time had passed since he’d looked through it, and as he did, he was assailed by a wave of emotion.
There was an exceedingly old photograph, clearly pre-1900s. Its sepia coloring was faded by the years, but the figure sho
wn was unmistakable. The man bore the same square jaw and dimple that marked Max as a Van Helsing, in addition to a marvelous handlebar mustache. A snow-scape surrounded him, but there was one particular feature that placed him in the Himalayas. Decked out in thick furs, he struck a pose like a big-game hunter, one foot on the slain corpse of a yeti.
Max shook his head. He flicked through the album as the pictures of his ancestors gradually became more recent. Each featured a dimple-chinned, heroic-looking Van Helsing front and center, posing beside another monster hunter or some butchered beastie.
He was into the color photos now, the seventies and the eighties. There was Jed, looking a great deal younger, his hair in a thick Afro. He had two men alongside him, all three wearing desert robes and turbans, and each holding an enormous scimitar. One of the figures he didn’t recognize—a barrel-chested fellow, a white guy with arms like a gorilla’s. Max thought his guardian was tall, but this other guy had six inches on him, even with the hair. And there, on the other side of Jed, was Max’s father, Conrad Helsing.
Whereas Jed and the other man both looked like they could step into the ring and go a few rounds, Conrad cut a more modest figure. Like his son, he was lean, but with a glint in his eye that said he meant business. Max wondered how he would measure up to his dad as a warrior. He was never going to find out.
There were no photos after that one, no happy snapshots of victors post-hunt. Had the world become more dangerous for Conrad and Jed after this last snapshot? Did the moments where they could smile become few and far between? Max closed the album and replaced it on top of the pile. He had one other picture of his old man, of father and baby taken in a photo booth. He kept it in a memory box under his bed, along with other precious curios. Maybe he’d take it out and look at it tonight, when he went to bed.
Max rose from the recliner and straightened his rather wet towel. He looked down, spotting a circular damp patch on the La-Z-Boy where he’d sat. Good start to the day, he figured, worrying already about how Jed would react when he discovered what he’d done. Max booked it across the apartment to the kitchenette, spying Eightball asleep in his basket beneath the breakfast bar.
“Yo, Eightball, where’s my good morning slobber?” said Max, opening the fridge and grabbing a carton of milk. He popped the lid open and took three huge gulps before returning it to the shelf. He heard a guttural snarl.
“What’s up, pup?” asked Max, closing the door and looking about to see what had startled Eightball. He looked past the counter and toward the apartment door, half-expecting to find an intruder. “Nobody there,” said Max, turning back to the little black bundle of blubber.
The mutt was looking straight at Max. His teeth were bared, and he clearly was not a happy puppy.
“Eightball?” said Max, trying to keep his voice light. He’d only known the dog for a day, but this was out of character. The puppy hauled himself from his basket, squashing his chew toy in the process, a wheezing squeak escaping as his fat belly rolled over it. His little legs landed on the linoleum floor as he began trotting slowly toward his master. He growled, deep and distinctly menacing. Max began backing away, completely thrown by his pet’s behavior. He reached onto the counter, grabbing the box of dog treats and withdrawing a bone-shaped biscuit.
“You want a Scooby Snack?” He tossed it behind the dog, back into the basket. Eightball ignored it, advancing on stubby paws. The glare the little round dog was throwing set alarm bells ringing for Max. He’d encountered monsters that had looked at him the same way, creatures hell-bent on tearing him into tiny, bloody pieces.
If he could get to his bedroom and shut the door, perhaps he could wait in there until Jed got up and sorted out the devil-pooch. He threw the box at Eightball, showering him in biscuits as he dashed around the counter and over the piles of books.
The puppy was waiting for him, blocking the doorway into his bedroom.
“How do you do that?” said Max, about to move once more, when Eightball pounced.
For a little guy, he moved like greased lightning, paws barely touching the carpet. His jaws opened—wide—and Max scrambled back, hitting the bookcase. Eightball’s teeth clamped down on the wet towel, the puppy worrying his head from side to side. Max experienced his second shower of the day, old books clattering down on him. The towel nearly came free, but Max seized one corner and held tight.
Boy and dog wrestled over the damp towel. One fierce tug from Eightball sent the wet bath sheet flying across the room. Max suddenly felt awfully exposed, in more than one way. The dog snarled once more as Max leaped around the La-Z-Boy. Eightball ran up the length of the recliner and leaped, hitting the wall with a thump just as Max ducked. The naked monster hunter rolled across the floor, trampling books, snatching up his towel as he went. He crashed into the broom closet, the door swinging open and almost hitting him. He spun around just as the puppy righted himself, shaking his head and sending great strings of slobber flying.
Max stood, the towel held before him like a toreador’s cloak. Eightball charged. The puppy hit the towel and Max stepped to one side, letting go as Eightball hurtled into the closet, blinded by the terrycloth covering his face. Brooms, brushes, and buckets toppled onto him as Max back-heeled the door shut. He looked up.
Jed stood across from him, staring in disbelief at his nude young charge.
The youth snatched up the first thing that came to hand, an old edition of Moby-Dick, which he held in front of himself. Eightball continued to snarl and hammer at the door behind him.
“What in the name of all that’s holy happened here?”
“He attacked me, out of the blue,” said Max, edging through his bedroom door. “Completely unprovoked, and mad as hell. Either he has distemper or a serious issue with towels.”
Jed shook his head in disbelief. “I’ll look into it. Get yourself dressed.”
“Right you are,” said Max, poking his head back around his doorframe as he tossed the book back to Jed. “Oh, and I think I caught him peeing on your La-Z-Boy, too.”
The bedroom door slammed, and Jed was left, book in hand, listening to the howls of a hellhound puppy, unhappily regarding the wet patch that stained his favorite seat.
EIGHT
xxx
BREAKING STORM
By the time Max departed Helsing House, he was running horribly late. The business with Eightball had thrown his already poor timekeeping off kilter. His homework was done (a rare accomplishment in itself) but had been lost among the books and papers strewn across the apartment. His sneakers had been stored in the broom closet, the puppy managing to savage them with drool once he’d sniffed out that they belonged to Max. Soggy Chucks did not make for a happy Max. He and Jed couldn’t believe the transformation that had taken place in the formerly friendly pet. In all the chaos, breakfast didn’t even make it onto the agenda—no toast, eggs, or bacon—and this was his birthday!
The sky boiled overhead as Max weaved along the road on his Chopper. Fast-moving black clouds churned over one another, flashes of lightning illuminating them from within as they threatened to burst at any moment. It didn’t surprise Max that Syd was no longer waiting for him at the entrance to Gallows Hill Burying Ground. The Chopper hopped the curb and hit the sidewalk. Max flicked his gearshift as a raindrop fell and landed on his cheek. Just one; perhaps nature was going to go easy on him after all. A heartbeat later, the heavens opened.
The downpour was almost blinding. He heard a roaring noise, surprised to find it was his own voice shouting against the sudden maelstrom. The gloom accompanying the torrential weather transported Max to a twilight world of whirling wind and water. He felt like a deckhand on Deadliest Catch, half-expecting a wave to crash over the graveyard fence and wash him away.
But it wasn’t a rogue wave that knocked him off his Chopper. Too late, he spied a pale, spindly branch sticking out from the railings. Max had no time to evade it, and it ca
ught him right across the throat. The bicycle skidded into the gutter as Max landed with a wet thump on the leaf-littered sidewalk, breathless.
His head spun and his tailbone hurt like hell. The last time he had been concussed was during weapon training, when Jed had brained him with a bokken. Admittedly, Max should have ducked before the wooden sword knocked him out. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. He squinted through the rain at the white branch that had struck his throat. Remarkable that the folks at Parks and Rec had allowed a branch to grow through the railings like that, thought Max. It was a lawsuit waiting to happen. He was toying with the idea of hiring an injury lawyer on a no-win-no-fee basis when the branch reached down and seized him by the hood.
Max was hoisted off the ground, spluttering, blinded by the rain, as the branch dragged him back against the railings. He felt it tight across his throat as a foul stench invaded his nostrils and caused him to heave. Then he was being lifted, his assailant dragging him up the wrought-iron bars at his back. Max recalled the sharp spikes that topped the railings.
He began twisting, bending his body, and hooking his own limbs through the bars. Within moments he was at a ninety-degree angle, parallel to the ground. The white arm around him strained as he torqued it to an impossible angle. The limb could bend no further. Max heard an agonized gurgle from behind that almost matched his own. He was choking, nearly blacking out. He threw his right leg up, the sneaker finding purchase between the spikes, and yanked himself up farther in a quick, savage motion.
The arm snapped, instantly releasing its grip on Max. The teenager prepared himself for the fall to the sidewalk, but he never reached it. He hung there, suspended upside down, a rusty black spike spearing through the right-leg hem of his jeans. His head was perhaps three inches from the paved path. He craned his neck and looked through the rails. It was exactly as he feared.
The Thirteenth Curse Page 5