The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller

by Richard Long

  We walked up the stairs of a dark brick building until we came to an old teak door with an engraved cross. It was definitely a collector’s item. There was a strong odor inside I’d smelled many times before. I knew what it was, but considering who I was with, I wasn’t shocked. We walked into what I assumed was the living room. The furnishings consisted of a ratty old couch, a rattier chair and a liquor cabinet. He poured us each a glass of whiskey. My stomach churned. I hate brown liquor. The smell of it alone is enough to make me puke.

  I asked if he had any vodka. He looked at me like I was the ultimate pussy and put the drink in my hand. “Cheers,” he said, laughing when I took a baby sip. My head shook involuntarily. He laughed again. I wanted to run away. He must have sensed it because he put a huge arm around me and led me down a pitch-black hallway. It went on for much longer than it should have, twisting and turning until we finally came to a stop and he pushed against a wall. The whole wall moved, or I should say, a section that was four feet wide. It was a door. A door without a handle.

  Inside, I saw the dim flicker of candles. The room was about twenty feet long. At the far end was a large altar with a massive crucifix behind it that went from the floor to the ceiling. It looked extremely old, maybe even medieval. On it hung a life-sized figure carved from wood. It wasn’t like any other crucifix I’d seen before. There were nails everywhere, covering his arms, legs, torso…and wings. The wings were long and white and carved from the same worn wood. As I drew closer, it was easier to see the face. It was beautiful and smiling. The hair was long and blond. There was no crown of thorns. No beard. That’s when I fully realized the figure wasn’t Jesus with wings. It was an angel. A crucified angel.

  It was fastened to the cross with at least two hundred nails. They weren’t exactly nails either: They were more like those handmade spikes African shamans hammer into their magical totem figures in a similar profusion. The more I looked at the angel on the cross, the more I was reminded of those totems. There were leather pouches hanging from the chest. They looked hand-stitched. There were bones lodged between the spikes. There were small photographs here and there, and small, brightly colored objects that might have been children’s toys. Covering all the visible skin was a thick grainy crust that looked like tar. I had a good idea what it was made of.

  My eyes were drawn to the middle of its chest. I gasped, staring at the golden rays of metal emanating from his exposed heart in all directions, like the beams of the sun. I opened my shirt and stared at my implants. I looked back at the angel. And back at my chest. The shape and placement of my implants was exactly the same as the rays on the angel’s chest. How was this possible? When I went to The Striker for my implants, I’d never even met Paul, let alone visited his sinister sanctuary. I stared at the angel and I felt like I was having a déjà vu or remembering something from the distant past, but it was just out of reach, like the hem of a black tattered robe skittering around a corner.

  “Look. Look and learn,” Paul said, pointing at the altar.

  The altar was also wooden, with tall candles on either side. I stroked my hand across the surface. It was black and sticky with the same residue as the cross. There were holes everywhere, reminding me of The Striker’s stool. This was far more gruesome. I followed Paul’s finger to the front of the altar. There was a cabinet inside. I knew from the way he was looking at me that I was supposed to open it.

  I hesitated, but not for long. After what I’d seen while assembling my collection, I was prepared for anything. I let out a sigh of relief when I opened the cabinet. There were only some thick leather volumes inside. In a glance I could see they were bound with hand-tooled leather. I could also see that the bindings weren’t very old—certainly not in the league of any books I expected to see in Paul’s collection given our most recent encounter. My somewhat disinterested response seemed to antagonize Paul and he shook his head ruefully like I was an idiot.

  “You of all people,” he said, but didn’t finish the thought.

  When I shrugged, he pointed at a small lectern in front of the altar with another book on it. I stepped in front of the lectern, which faced the cross and the angel. I read the inscription: The Book of William. It was so creepy I can’t find the words to describe it. It was even worse when I opened it. I saw a baby photo of myself looking right back, and a photo of Mother when she was younger, the same photo they posted on the website. A thousand questions swam in my brain. When I turned to Paul, his expression told me I’d get the same one-word answer: “Look.” So I turned the pages forward. It was the story of my life, a cross between a scrapbook and a biography. I quickly skimmed through the pages, until I reached the most recent entries—photos of the tattoos and a new one of the implants. I read the note next to a large shot of my face: “He’s almost ready.”

  I went back to the beginning, looking for a clue that showed how I was related to Paul—some genealogical information, a family tree—or better still, a picture of my father (“the cunt,” as he put it). There was nothing, which seemed extremely odd considering how thorough the other details were: all the different towns we moved to, all the new schools where I instantly became a target for humiliation. Bully bait. Yet there was nothing connected to Paul, until I read the description of my mother’s death. My own journals were much more detailed, but these were astonishingly complete. They talked about the cancer. How it had moved to her brain. It didn’t say anything about the double mastectomy, which I thought was odd by omission.

  The big shocker came next. He’d written down some of her last words to me. “You’re a good boy, son. Don’t ever forget it.”

  “How did you know this?” I blurted out, horrified and furious.

  “I told you before. All your answers are in this room. Take your time.”

  He walked out and sealed the wall behind him. I guess I should have been afraid, being left alone in a place like that. Instead, I felt oddly comfortable. I looked at the walls and all the photos and carvings. I looked at the votive candles, with pieces of paper tucked between the red glass cups and the silver holders. I thought about Mother’s death.

  I had only talked to her on the phone once or twice the year before she died. She never mentioned the cancer. I still remember how my knees shook when I got “the call.”

  It’s funny. You wait all your life, knowing that one day you’re going to get the call. Even so, when it finally comes, you’re never ready. I was luckier than most. At least she was making it. “I’m dying. I need to see you.”

  I flew in, rented a motel room and went to the hospital every day. It was good to see her. It was bad to see how far gone she was. She told me not to be sad. She was ready to die. In the days that followed, we talked about the weather, the news, anything that didn’t matter. She always seemed on the verge of saying something important. She would begin with some cryptic phrase, then stop herself, looking around like someone was listening.

  On the last day, she was barely coherent. I sat in the corner, knowing she was fading. Suddenly, she lifted her hand to beckon me. “Do you need the nurse?” I asked hopefully. When she shook her head sadly, my knees buckled even more than when I got the call. There was something she wanted to say. Her last words, I thought. I expected them to be about how much we loved each other or how much she would miss me. What she said wasn’t anything like that. “You have to find Martin,” she whispered. “Use your gift. Be careful.”

  “Who is Martin?” I asked angrily. My overwhelming thought at the moment was a selfish one. How could she waste her last moments with this crazy talk?

  “You’re a good boy,” she said, trying to calm me. “Don’t ever forget it.”

  Suddenly the sound of whistling came from behind the curtain dividing her room. The woman in the bed next to her was in a coma. The nurse said she’d broken her neck in a diving accident. She moved in the same week Mother died, but never had any visitors until today, a big man whistling Broadway show tunes. Mother was out of it from the morphine when
he arrived. I don’t remember if he spoke to me. I just remember the sound of his whistling. Mother’s eyes grew wide when she heard it. She pulled me to her whispering lips. “Save Martin…and you’ll save yourself.”

  “What do you mean? Help me, Mother. I don’t know what to do!”

  A sound came from her mouth, but it wasn’t an answer. It was an awful hollow rattle, like a gourd filled with stones. When it stopped, her eyes were empty. I let out a terrible scream. I didn’t remember it until today, but Mother’s death rattle wasn’t the very last sound I heard before I screamed. It was the sound of Paul, still whistling.

  “Do you remember the first time we met?” he asked me that day with The Striker.

  A surge of anger shook me from my recollection. With it came a moment of inspiration. I looked at the other books in the cabinet. They were all the same thickness as the one about me. I pulled the books out one at a time until I found the one I knew would be there. The Book of Martin. When I saw the words, I shuddered. I set the Book on the altar and placed The Book of William next to it. I started reading them…fast.

  When I read about what happened to Martin when he was a little boy, I scanned the opening sections of the other books to see if any of them mentioned the boy’s father.

  Of course not. The sin of omission. I was such an idiot.

  When Paul returned to the chapel, he asked, “Now do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” I said, feeling like I was about to puke, “you’re my father.”

  I paused and waved my hand across all the volumes at my feet. “You’re…our father.”

  “Who art in heaven. So nice to have you back where you belong, son.”

  I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I couldn’t cope with the emotions I was feeling in any way whatsoever, so I did what I usually do in any intimate circumstance: I went straight to the intellect. “I thought these were going to be about Clan Kelly and the Hermetic lineage.”

  “Oh! The Hermetic lineage! Is that what you’re looking for? The noble bloodline of Clan O’Ceallaigh? We, the proud guardians of the Secret Secretorium!”

  He was goading me. But I didn’t know what he was goading me toward. I decided to push back. “Maybe it’s better if I talk to Martin. I noticed he lives nearby.”

  “Yer sweet dead mum would love for that to happen. That is not an option for you.”

  “Why not? Has Martin seen this?”

  “He’s been in this place. Not much of a reader, that Martin.”

  “Does he know you’re his father?”

  “Hard to say. He’s always known me to be High King of the Clans, his Lord, mentor and benefactor. In his heart, I’ve always been his dear swee’ Da, but until he set foot in this room, I’d always encouraged him to think I was his adoptive, rather than his biological sire. To be honest, I don’t believe he cares a fig whether I actually planted the seed or not, any more than he cares for the knowledge you’re so desperate to possess. At any rate, the poor lad has no recollection of our time here together. It seems he’s blocked it out, like a great deal of our fun adventures. I believe it’s called post-traumatic stress disorder these days. I still prefer shell shock. Yet, even with his lack of ambition and Swiss-cheese memory, of all my boys, he’s the cream of my cream, the guardian of our collective heritage.”

  “How can he guard something he doesn’t give a shit about? Why did you bring me here? Am I supposed to be jealous of him?

  “Like your forgetful brother, you’re still hiding from yourself, even more effectively than he. But I haven’t given up on you yet, Billy. Far from it. You have talent, son, and a glorious gift. Still, you haven’t tasted blood…and there’s no salvation without baptism.”

  I felt myself responding. Or part of me. It must have been my pride. No one had ever praised me before, except Mother.

  “Why are you telling me all this instead of Martin?”

  “I didn’t tell you anything. I showed you things, but you arrived at the proper understanding on your own. Or at least a small part of it. If you can embrace the entirety of your past, your prize will be even more glorious than Martin’s. If he can do the same, it will be the sign I’ve been waiting for since he first stood with me upon this bloody altar of our ancestors. But if you attempt to contact him directly and reveal the secrets he has hidden from himself, it would be better if you had never been born. Though you probably think that’s already true, aye?”

  I nodded in honest agreement. I was about to elaborate on that admission when a hazy memory took me by surprise. I closed my eyes and a startlingly clear image appeared…a truck coming up a long dirt road. Two people watching, a woman and a little boy. I’d seen it many times before, in my dreams and in waking. I didn’t want to make that final connection. I wanted to keep that last patch of solid ground under my feet. Paul took it all away with a single question: “What was your mother’s name?”

  “April,” I said, my eyes snapping open as I saw Paul get out of the truck. As I watched him go inside with her. As he pulled out the knife.

  “That wasn’t her name. That’s when she changed it! Stop running from yourself. You can see it, boy…I know it!”

  “No! You’re lying! You’re doing this to me!”

  “You know I’m not! She changed her name and took you as far away from me as she could. Now, she’s eight years gone and you’re finally ready to receive your legacy.”

  “You raped my mother!” I shouted, my blood boiling with hate.

  “Oh, I didn’t just rape her. I cut off her tits. Did a sloppy job of it too, wanted to make sure she didn’t do any more breeding in this lifetime. You two were quite enough.”

  I don’t know where I found the balls, but I charged him like a bull. He looked shocked for an instant, then pleased. He pushed me aside like a kid in a playground. When I got to my feet, ready to take another run at him, his last utterance finally registered in my brain.

  “Two?” I asked, wondering what fresh new horror he would disclose.

  “Yes, you and big brother. The heir apparent.”

  “Martin? How could he be her son?”

  “What you just saw wasn’t her first rape, dear boy. She didn’t recognize me on that long ago day, but I don’t blame her. On our previous encounter, it was quite dark and we didn’t chat all that much. Another reason why rape is my preferred mode of female discourse. There’s something about non-compliance that cuts right through the small talk. Once I escorted her from Martin’s hopeful eyes, put the knife to her throat and mounted her, it all came flooding back—our previous tête-à-tête in San Francisco—such a romantic city, such narrow dark alleys.

  “I knew I’d planted some prime seed in her—and from the way she screamed at the end, I think she knew it too. She must have, since she carried to term, not that I would have let her abort the child. I’d sooner chain her in a dungeon and deliver the baby meself. Sadly, that wasn’t necessary.

  “When she gave birth to the blessed child, stealing him was the easy part. After Martin was born, we substituted another babe that was horribly mutilated, not a pleasant thing to see, or do, for that matter. Since I’m so fond of ironic twists, I gave baby Martin to your wicked Auntie Mabel, who by some exquisitely timed coincidence had gotten herself knocked up on the very same day I raped yer mommy—by my brother Angus!

  “So picture this, and hold on to your ribs, cause it’s a real corker— I snuck my wet nurse and Martin into the cellar, then gave the wicked witch of the west some Pitocin to induce labor. She birthed at home about an hour later, her farmhouse being so far from any medical services. After she delivered and took a little nap, I gave her child to the nurse, and sent them on their way back to Angus. Prince Martin was substituted for her bitty baby and the rest, as they say, is history.

  “Whew! What a horror that cunt Mabel was! I can’t even describe the suffering poor Martin endured until I rode in on my big black horse to rescue him. The tortures of the damned, son. The tortures of the damned!”


  I just stared at him in shock. Paul grinned back at me. “What? You’re not laughing? Well, there’s no accounting for one’s taste in humor.”

  I slumped to the floor and closed my eyes, mourning my mother’s death and her life all over again. I looked at the Book of Martin and saw how much courage she had, how much she had given of herself, to both of us. Everything she told me on her deathbed made perfect sense now. But nothing in what Paul said made any sense at all.

  “Why did you do all this?” I asked, unable to conceive what advantage he could possibly gain from concocting such a sadistically elaborate deceit.

  “Excellent question,” he said like he actually meant it. “When we spoke last night, what did I say was the most important aspect of our collective responsibility?”

  I just sat there, fighting back the tears.

  “The line of succession,” he answered for me. “Your mother was a very special woman, a hybrid of two bloodlines, both endowed with the gift. I knew she’d yield An Té atá Tofa, as she surely did. I was so pleased with her gene pool that I took another dip when the opportunity presented itself, and with our second hate-making session I got another gem from the same mine. You’re every bit the treasure Martin is to me, and one day soon you’ll fully grasp the truth of that.”

  He was sucking me in again. I tried to shake him by repeating my question.“Why all the subterfuge? Why kill a little baby?”

  “All I will say for now is that unlike many of my cruel urges, there was a very specific reason for every action that was taken. Should you apply yourself to your studies, you will understand. You’re not going to beat my blackmail game and you certainly can’t kill me, so stop your whining, put a plug in the pity jug and get busy with these books.”

  I looked at him. At my father. He was right. I’d spent my life wishing I’d never been born, but I’m grateful to be alive now. Not so I can fulfill his twisted dream of my destiny, but to keep the promise I made all those years ago—to my mother, Norine.