A Haunting of Horrors, Volume 2: A Twenty-Book eBook Bundle of Horror and the Occult

by Brian Hodge

  Breathing a great sigh of satisfaction, he closed the drawer reluctantly, and let his gaze wander over the surface of the desk, only to discover one more surprise. Pushing aside a stack of unanswered correspondence, he found a series of small rectangular lines engraved in the wood, arranged in the shape of a Celtic cross, with three more outlined boxes in each of the four corners. It took a moment for his mind to register, but it finally clicked. Tarot cards. The shapes were there for the arrangement of Tarot cards.

  The windows....

  He rose and went to study the cases along the walls. Here, he found more tribal artifacts some of the oldest civilizations ever discovered, pieces museums would kill for. The professor had always venerated the most ancient minds, deferring to what he termed, “the Lost Wisdom of Instinct.”

  Finally, after he'd browsed the books and the trinkets, the papers and notes left by an untimely departure from this world, he came to the window. It wasn't really a window, actually; it was merely the frame of a window, with the requisite curtains and blinds, but with no opening in the wall, no view of the outdoors or another room. It was symbolic–the center of everything that had brought him to this place, of everything the professor had believed in. It was the window in the solid wall, the veil that cloaked human understanding.

  The barrier to be overcome.

  There are other worlds, other levels, if we can only find the means to see them...if only we are ready.

  More echoed wisdom from the past. He stood for a long time in front of the closed portal, staring at the grain of the wood that backed the frame, watching the way the light brought out the highlights in the paneled surface. He never heard a sound, and the hand that landed softly on his shoulder nearly stopped his heart.

  What do you see, Alex?” Madeline asked, her lips so close to his ear that he felt her breath tickling the hairs on his neck. “What do you hear?”

  “I don't know,” he admitted, forcing himself not to lean back against her, keeping himself rigid and erect and not thinking about the implications of that particular state. In the back of his mind, despite her subtle overtones of reciprocation, he couldn't rid himself of certain guilt. She was, after all, the widow of the one man in the world that had truly made a difference in his life.

  “The question, actually,” he continued, “is what did he see? What did he hear? I've waited a decade to find out, and I always thought he'd be here to guide me when the time was right.”

  "Everything he learned is here," she said, gliding silently to the desk and running her hand smoothly over the wood, "in one form or another. Everything that was a part of him is here. I am here, for the first time since he died."

  Turning from the blank window and its enigmatic challenge, Alex went to stand beside her. She was staring fixedly at the outlined Tarot boxes, lost in some world of thought all her own. After a time, she said, “Do you believe in the cards, Alex? Really believe?”

  The question caught him completely off guard. He thought back to the first day Professor Devonshire had brought his cards to the classroom. Alex's attitude had been one of detached amusement, certain that it was all some sort of experiment, or a joke. There had been many moments since then for reflection on his ignorance.

  The cards–each student had been required to buy his own set, or, if he had the talent, to design and paint his own–had become an integral part of his life. Some of the students had never gotten it, had left with as little belief as when they'd entered the classroom, and, therefore, with as little understanding. Alex had painted his own cards carefully, checking and rechecking his notes to be certain that he had omitted no symbol, no pertinent reference. It had taken nearly two months to complete them, coating them at the last with clear lacquer to make them stiff and slick.

  “Yes,” he answered finally.

  She raised her eyes to his, and moved toward one of the shelves that lined the wall to his left, passing so closely that the silky softness of her dress teased across his shoulders. She reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a small wooden box that he recognized instantly. The professor's cards. The first such cards Alex had ever seen and by far the most intriguing.

  Turning back to the desk, she gestured to him to seat himself again in the leather chair. She perched on the edge of the desk, her leg so close to his arm that he felt himself tremble. What the hell was wrong with him? At a decisive moment such as this, all he could think of was what the widow of the one man he’d ever truly respected would look like without her dress!

  Then she had the box open, and his eyes drifted thankfully down to the cards. They were bright, painted in the most vivid colors he could imagine. They seemed brand new, though he knew they were at least twenty years old. The back of each card, appropriately he thought, bore the image of a window that framed only blackness. Tenderly, Madeline set the cards on the desk.

  “He was the last person to touch them,” she said softly, not letting her eyes drift from the cards. “He used to shuffle them each night, and then read them the following morning before he began his day's work. He shuffled them his last day here – I watched him. They were never read.”

  The implications of what she was saying hit Alex like a sledge. Controversy had surrounded the professor's death, a long string of unanswered questions. Here, in front of him, he knew he could find those answers. Suddenly, he knew with complete certainty that he was not here merely to write a paper for a stuffy academic degree.

  “Why didn’t you read them?” he whispered. “Surely you know the cards. Why did you wait?”

  “I know more than the cards,” she answered enigmatically. “I had a dream, a dream that another would come. It was as if Robert spoke to me as I slept. I was afraid if I touched the cards, if I disregarded my dream, that whatever message they contained would be warped, or lost. I didn't dare.”

  Alex felt tension growing in the air, linking her to him and both of them to the cards, and sweat rolled down the sides of his face. His mouth was dry and his hands trembled. So, this was it. This was the moment of discovery. There would be no weeks or months of study, no delving through notebook after notebook of meticulously recorded experiments and facts. It would come down to the moment, and the belief. The instinct.

  He took a deep breath, reached for the cards, and closed his eyes. Normally this was the point where he would begin the slow shuffle that placed them in the proper order for reading. In this case, he merely held them, clearing his mind of all thought. It wasn’t easy. He felt Madeline's hungry gaze, tasted her perfume in the air, and sensed the beating of her heart.

  Several moments passed before the familiar, warm peace began to settle over him, and he felt the beginning of the trance state calming his nerves. He didn't begin until he was absolutely certain he was ready. There would be no second chance.

  The professor had taught him the pattern long ago. It was not the system used by most followers of the Tarot, nor were these cards exactly those one could buy in a store. Subtle changes had been made over the years; steps had been taken to obscure the strongest secrets locked in the ancient symbols and designs. A few questionable luminaries, such as Aleister Crowley and Eliphas Levi had hinted at these changes, even giving a second, and also erroneous, set of cards and numbers to further confuse things. The secrets were there, locked away in the collective unconscious of mankind. It took many years of study, however, to sort them out and make a usable system.

  Alex turned over the first card, representing the person for whom the reading was done, in the center spot on the cross, face up. The Magus. Of course, he thought, flipping over the next card, crossing the first with it. The Queen of Cups. A water card. Probably Madeline, he thought, but he brushed the intruding images aside and continued. It was necessary to keep his mind clear, to not influence the reading in any way.

  He flipped the next card and placed it directly above the first. The Knight of Wands. Fire. He was a Leo himself; could he be an influencing factor? At the bottom of the cross, he placed the
foundation, the Ace of Pentacles. Primal energy. Earth. To the left, the Nine of Cups–Debauch–excess in pleasure, in indulgence; to the right, the Four of Swords. Four, a number of completeness–an air card.

  He felt a slight ripple in the air around him, the familiar detached tingle that working with the cards always brought; but stronger than he remembered, and more intense. He was aware, on a level just beyond his concentration, that Madeline had moved closer, that her thigh was pressing tightly against his shoulder, and her long auburn hair was draped down, forming a framework around the cards. Her perfume was like incense.

  The next three cards he flipped in rapid succession: that which has gone before. The Fool, naive innocence and unshakable faith, walking into the unknown. The Ace of Cups, the fountain of malleable energies. The Four of Pentacles, stabilized power, completed work. An Earth card.

  The next three cards, bottom left corner of the cross. The cards that expressed the central focus of the reading. The first, the Universe. Totality. Understanding. The second, the Two of Pentacles – the infinite inevitability of change. The Hanged Man, upside down, head to the stars, the earth and its control falling away below. Images invaded Alex's mind, as if the meaning of the cards had begun manifesting itself via pure sensation. Instinct.

  Madeline's fingers touched his hand, and suddenly, his perceptions sharpened, heightening the sensation that he was observing the reading from a distance. The air felt heavier, moist and clinging. He made himself continue.

  The third corner, the method – the answer. The Hierophant – a spiritual teacher. The Two of Cups – partnership, constant blending. Lust – originally labeled Strength– passionate energy, primal desire. Her fingers felt like fire on his skin, moving over his body in a sweet caress, but he could not be sure of its reality. His heart pounded so strongly, so fiercely, with the energy of the card and the heat of her touch that thought fled on its own this time.

  Three more cards. One more corner of the cross. Powers that influence, but are beyond the control of the querant. His hand, somehow, reached out and flipped the cards, three in quick succession, and they fell into place as though unseen hands had guided his. The Ace of Wands – Fire, unleashed energy, unchecked passion. The High Priestess – the mother spirit – the source of all growth. And Death. Not the physical death, but the end of one thing and the beginning of another. These last three cards danced before his eyes as he felt himself falling back.

  The chair was gone, but though he braced himself mentally for the shock, his head and back did not strike the floor. Madeline pressed so closely against him now that they seemed one body, one being. Their clothing had melted away, and they drifted, afloat in some other-worldly bed of buoyant dream. There was a violent snap – a twist of vertigo that nearly drove him into unconsciousness. The walls of the room faded to green.

  Trees stretched out in front of him, and he heard the rushing of the river’s water somewhere to his rear. His knees scraped on the stone of the altar and rubbed into the soft fungus that grew there, but he ignored the pain.

  Madeline lay beneath him, her eyes closed and her head thrown back in ecstasy. Her long lithe body moved like slow, powerful swells on an ocean, undulating with relentless, growing ferocity. Alex felt his naked flesh sliding over hers, thrusting roughly, pounding to a rhythm that rose from deep within him, pressing in from the line of trees and rushing over them in the sounds of the river and the buzzing flight of insects.

  Madeline moaned meeting every thrust with her hips and grinding back against him. Her cries blended in smooth harmony with the birds and the rushing of water. Dim thoughts invaded his passion, calling to him, calling him back but he cast them away with violent mental strokes, bending the energy to the motion of his body, and the heat of hers. The world around them, the impossible world of giant trees and primordial energy, ceased to exist. He bent his lips to her writhing form and sought her tongue with his own.

  The moment rose toward ecstasy, toward a dizzying peak of blended sweat and blinding energy, pulling them both into a spiral beyond thought, where each motion, each bend of muscle or twist of limb was primitive – instinctual. The sensation was of such completeness and fulfillment that he wept, and he saw tears running freely from her eyes as well. He moved his tongue over her face, cleaning away the salty droplets and wondering at the sweetness of their taste.

  They climaxed together, just as they had begun, one body blended of two psyches – trembling and quivering; his seed rushed into her in great spurts and his arms encircled her so tightly that he felt his own grip, through her, where their bodies met. He surrendered to the moment, pressing himself into her as though she might melt into his flesh.

  Then, overcome by maddening fear, he pulled away from her with sudden, desperate strength. She clung to him, called to him with her eyes, molded her limbs around him, but he was moving shaking his head slowly back and forth. It was too much. His mind spun, and the vision lost clarity. He no longer felt the stone, or the silken sweaty touch of her skin on his own. There was nothing but haze, spinning and receding and a face, a familiar face, fuzzy, yet discernible through the mist.

  Alex’s head struck the desk with a sharp crack. He slid to the side and dropped to the floor in a heap. The pain made it difficult to focus on his surroundings. He lay on beige carpet, huddled against the side of Professor Devonshire's desk. Although her perfume lingered tantalizingly in the air, there was no sign of Madeline. Shaking his head slowly, and regretting the action instantly, he rose to his knees, pulling himself back into the chair with great effort.

  The cards were gone, all but one, and it lay in the center of the desk. It was The Universe, but it was not one of the professor's cards. Alex recognized it as coming from the Crowley deck, the deck he’d preferred prior to creating his own. His memory sought and found the words from Crowley’s Book of Thoth, and a sad smile drifted across his features.

  He had been there – a place where every separate molecule of the universe was a jewel, where all universes converged. The body of a woman.

  He rose and walked around the desk to stand once more before the window. They were gone, on to the next challenge, the next level - or beyond. He now understood his role here, Madeline's need for his energy, which had

  been fired and consumed in the final Tarot reading.

  His own work was just beginning, for he now knew at least one of the answers he had sought; he was not ready. There were still things to draw him to this world, things that he could not take with him. He would follow, though. Someday, in some way, he'd yet to discover, he would open that window again, and he would step through.

  Alex glanced over his shoulder at the desk, and the notes, and the work to come, but before he moved, he turned once more to the window, gazing into its empty depths. Smiling, he raised a hand, and he waved.

  More Than Words

  The lines shifted as his fingers walked the page. The symbols, so familiar after long hours of study, blurred and danced across the ancient scroll, evading translation. Cyrus knew he would have to stop soon. He was doing no good by pushing so hard, and he’d have to go over anything accomplished in such a state for errors. Wasted time. Better to start fresh. But the symbols would not be still. Patterns shifted. Cyrus blinked.

  Stick-footed birds and dog-headed Anubis swirled over reeds and crocodiles; the names of kings long dead shifted and blended, creating new names — new sounds and words. Cyrus’ eyelids drooped, and he fought to remain upright. He cursed his own lack of common sense. No coffee. Not enough light. Not enough sleep.

  He shifted in his seat and tried to use the motion and the discomfort of sitting in one position for too long to fight off the fog stealing over his thoughts. In his left hand he held a coin formed of hand-beaten gold. It was very old, and the front was emblazoned with the likeness of Mark Anthony. Roman. Like a Centurion, he sent it marching across the tops of his fingers, flipping it along with a solemn dexterity. The gold caught the dim light and flashed rhythmical
ly.

  Cyrus was a sight. His hair stood out at odd angles, half the product of heat, the other of humidity. Too many sliding fingers where a comb would fear to tread. His glasses were fogged around the edges and his eyes burned at the corners from the sweat. It was hot. It was late. He needed to sleep.

  The scroll beckoned like a long lost lover.

  His thoughts shifted from the present, and he drifted. Three years back, in a tent in a fly-by-night carnival just outside Chicago, Illinois, he’d had a “past lives” reading. Wax dripping into a bowl of tepid water and too-long, gaudily painted fingernails tracing the shapes. Eyes lined in every color of the rainbow — melting ghost-like to pale, white cheeks. Long, dark hair that might have been real — or not.

  The interior of the tent had been draped in deep colors. Royal Blue. Scarlet. Gold. Imperial Purple. Tapestries depicted scenes from the worlds behind the world. The past. Temples and kings. Pharaohs and queens. Cards had lined the edge of that table, untouched. The Fool. The Universe. Crystals of all shapes and sizes glittered and spun on chains and leather thongs, catching the candlelight and flinging it about the room.

  “Old.” The voice was powerful — quiet — insidious. Old. “You are old. Your flesh is of this time, but your soul has walked before.”

  “What do you mean?” His words drifting back to him, stinking of the inanity he’d felt.

  “Old is what it is. Nothing more to be said.” Long nails swirled wax droplets. The silence reverberated with those sounds that are only present in the absence of other sound. Breathing. Heartbeats. Soft, better-left un-defined skittering in the corners of the tent.