“Want a drink?” Victor produced the bottle of rum and gave it a little shake. The usual mirth in his expression was missing. He wasn't offering because he wished to unwind or have fun; Victor wanted a drink because he knew, perhaps instinctively, that there would be some unsettling things in the book that he'd be better able to handle with a buzz. He always had a kind of sixth sense about objects like this one. Reggie shook his head, but Victor wrenched off the cap nonetheless. “I'm having one,” he said, taking a pull from the bottle. “Two, depending on how this goes,” he continued, walking over to the book and pulling up a chair.
Seated before the book, Victor set down his bottle and picked it up with evident difficulty. It was cumbersome, heavy, and the filth that tumbled from it in small puffs with every move made it a terrible thing to hold. But it wasn't simply the filth clinging to the silver cover that disgusted Victor. Reggie knew all too well, could sense even from across the room, the other filth that emanated from it. He'd have been hard-pressed to put a name to it, and under any other circumstance, would have felt just as foolish as the whimsical, superstitious Victor for attempting to do so. But this book, whatever it was, had an energy about it.
Opening the front cover, Victor leaned over the book and began to study it. He ran his finger across the crisp paper, taking in the script. “Carte de Umbra Lungi,” he said. Turning to face Reggie, his olive-colored face went a little pale. “I never was any good at Italian. Grandpa spoke it around the house when I was little, but for the most part I only ever retained how to order at restaurants.” He gulped, the flicker of humor in his voice dying out at once. “But unless I'm losing my mind, the title is translated loosely to mean “The Book of Long Shadows.”
Reggie cringed. Taken in turn with the hideous illustrations he knew to dwell deeper inside, the title was a fitting one. “It's... it's an Italian book, then?”
Victor shook his head. “Don't think so. Whatever it is, though, it's real close to Italian. I'm thinking maybe it's Romanian or something.” He paused just long enough to take another swig of rum, before flipping ahead a few pages.
The illustration of a woman getting her throat slit came into view, and the rum very nearly spilled from Victor's lips. Reggie wasn't even close enough to the table to get a good look at the image, but still he stepped further away, fearing that he might glimpse it afresh.
“What the hell is this, Reg?” demanded Victor, pushing away from the table.
“I was hoping you could tell me that, actually,” was Reggie's rejoinder. “I don't know what this book's all about, but...”
Victor shut the book. Pacing from the table, be rifled through a small cabinet in the corner that teemed with junk. Reggie could hear the clinking of glass, the rustling of paper as Victor rummaged. “I tell you one thing,” muttered Victor, returning to the table with a stick of incense and some sprig of plant matter with long, pale leaves. “I've never seen an old book quite like this one. It's bad news.”
Reggie grimaced. He wanted to disagree but knew on an instinctual level that his friend was correct. “I mean, it's just an old book, Vic. Right?” The words sounded forced and cheap even to him.
Squaring the book in the center of the table, Victor lit the incense and vegetation with a silver Zippo and blew on them both until they began to smoke profusely. Then, holding them both in one hand, he began waving them over the volume. “It's an old book, sure... one that's probably worth a lot of money to, you know... certain types of collectors. But me? Personally? I wouldn't want anything to do with it, Reg.” The smoke was mild, sweet-smelling.
“What is that you're burning?” asked Reggie, watching the smoke pour off of the burning materials in small puffs.
“White sage and incense,” replied Victor, never once taking his eyes off of the book. “Look here, Reg.” He was holding the burning materials close to the Carte de Umbra Lungi, allowing the smoke to linger around it. And yet, something strange seemed to be happening. The book, by some method which Reggie couldn't explain, was somehow warding off the sweet smoke. Though Victor waved the burning mass again and again, the smoke would not accumulate around the book, but would instead part, as if the smoke didn't want to get too close to the thing. The sight made Reggie shiver; he'd felt some sort of aura surrounding the book before, but to see it manifest physically in this way was more than a little alarming. Having made his point, Victor stood back and put out the smoking bundle. “I'd wash my hands of this thing, and fast, if I were you. That's purifying smoke I've just used, but as you can see...” He coughed a little, pursing his lips. “That book's rotten, incapable of purification.”
“Vic, I'm sure there's... there's an explanation...” Reggie searched in his mind but rational theories proved elusive. Could an object be considered truly malevolent? Could a book exude an aura or energy of some kind that could interact with the outside world?
“You laugh when I talk about my horoscopes and such, Reg. I know you think I'm a chump, too whimsical. But you and I can both feel the power dripping off of this book, and I'll tell you, straight up, that it's something that shouldn't be messed with. Leave it be, Reggie.”
Reggie paused, his gaze wandering back towards the glimmering cover of the book. Its metallic shell glistened in the light of the back office, seemed to beckon to him. After a moment's hesitation, he reached over and picked it up, tucking it under his arm and nodding. “I'll keep that in mind, Vic. Thanks.”
Throwing the book into a trash bin and never thinking about it again might have spared him from the feelings of dread that now assailed him, but such a course would never soothe his curiosity. Though he had no good reason to be, Reggie was frightened by the book. Nevertheless, his fear couldn't altogether extinguish the intrigue that surrounded it. An object with this much personality, he felt sure, must be linked in some way to the disappearance of Agnes Pasztor. It would be valuable to his investigation, would open some doors where previously he'd thought himself at a dead end.
Thanking Victor profusely, he left the book store in a hurry, ignoring Victor's repeated calls to “Get rid of it!” Rushing out into the evening, he dropped into the LeSabre and tossed the book once more into the passenger seat, where it seemed to leer and fume like an irate hanger-on. Starting the car, he pulled out and zipped along the dim streets, corralling his thoughts away from the book; from the dim, dusty room where it'd been found; from its former owner, whose pale visage still glowed bright in his memory.
Pulling into his garage, Reggie sat in the driver's seat for a few moments, hands on the wheel, and attempted to collect himself. Suddenly, his cell phone began to ring, the vibration against his thigh sending a start through him. He didn't recognize the number. Lowering his voice, he gave an unenthusiastic “Hello.”
“Hello, Reggie?”
“Yes?”
The caller cleared their throat. “It's Kenji Ando. Remember me? I'm one of the guys who met you out at that, uh... shack. In Akeley?” He paused. “My friend Dylan here seems to have stumbled upon something. Do you think that Agnes' disappearance might have to do with numbers stations?”
Reggie worked his jaw over in his hand. “Nah,” he finally replied. Then, looking narrowly at the book, he shuddered. “I think things are moving in a different direction, actually. I... I think I got a pretty good lead going here. I don't suppose you fellas could meet me at the shack again soon, could you?”
Kenji chuckled weakly. “You want us to go back there?” From the background, Dylan's reluctance came through in a series of mutterings. “What have you found?”
Carefully, Reggie picked up the book. Setting it in his lap, he cracked the cover and scanned the title page. “You study languages right, kid? Tell me, does Carte de Umbra Lungi mean anything to you? I found this old book with that title, and I think it's got everything to do with this... thing. I can't read a word of it. Buddy of mine wagers it might be Italian or Romanian or something of that kind. Pretty sure we'll find something in it tha
t ties this all together. And it ain't looking good, because our buddy Agnes was probably into some weird shit.”
“Yeah, I'll look into it. I speak pretty good Italian. That title sounds like one of the Romance languages, for sure. I'll... I'll see what I can do when we meet up. When's good for you?” Dylan's hushed protestations reached a fever pitch.
“The sooner the better. I got this awful feeling that we're on a deadline here. Not much time to be had.”
“We can drive out there tomorrow,” replied Kenji. “Sound good?”
Reggie had to force himself to reply in the affirmative. “Sounds great,” he said. Of course, “great” wasn't really the word. Returning to the shack sounded awful. Dangerous, even.
“We'll see you then.” Kenji hung up.
Reggie remained in the driver's seat for a long while, looking down at the book in his lap. The garage light dimmed and a pestilential quiet filled the space. He gulped, his eyes scanning his surroundings slowly.
More than once, while peering into the rearview mirror, he fancied he'd seen a human silhouette crouching behind the car. The corners of the garage, too, when glimpsed in the side mirrors, yielded similar shadows. Shaking his head as if attempting to knock the sights from his eyes, he stepped out and entered the house.
The book, however, would be staying in the car. There was nothing that could possess him to bring it inside.
TWENTY-ONE
The arguments had gone on almost without surcease since the minute Kenji hung up the phone. Kenji and Dylan still had a fair bit of their Winter break left, but Dylan was vociferous in his desire to stay out of this missing person's debacle. He would have preferred staying in the dorm, whiling away his time, and said as much no less than a dozen times before they actually set off in the clear, cold morning.
Dylan white-knuckled the steering wheel of the old Honda as they skipped up onto the entrance ramp. “I can't believe I'm going through with this,” he groaned. “It's my fault to begin with. Never should have driven you out there in the first place. I really wish I hadn't. And the only reason I'm going back there now is because...” Dylan fell short of completing his thought. He didn't have a good reason for making the trip, and wasn't ready to admit that, despite his fear, his curiosity had gotten the better of him.
“Just drive, man. I want to take a look at this book Reggie found.” Kenji nibbled on his thumbnail and looked out at the frigid scenery. The grass along the shoulder of the highway was frozen, a pale green, and every blade looked like a glistening needle in the light of the morning sun. He pressed his forehead against the window, the cold sending a shock wave through him. “That book... he gave me the title. I'm pretty sure it's in Romanian. Carte de Umbra Lungi. Unless I'm mistaken, that means 'The Book of Long Shadows'. I picked up a Romanian dictionary from the linguistics department before we left this morning, so hopefully that'll help me translate it.”
Dylan didn't even look over. He kept staring out at the road ahead, coldly. “Sounds great. Sounds real fun, Kenji. 'The Book of Long Shadows', what a hoot. I'll bet it's a medieval cookbook or something, right?” He shook his head. “I was an idiot to get mixed up in this shit with you. This is all my fault, really. I'm the one who helped you clean up that audio. I don't know what I was thinking.”
“Cool it, man.” Kenji sipped at his gas station coffee. Frowning, he choked it down, grounds and all. “I think we're going to get this all figured out very soon now. And just think; we could crack a missing person's case. Don't you think it's kind of exciting?” He spoke as energetically as he could, but that he was gripped by a terrible fear was undeniable. The slight tremor in his voice, which he might've attributed to the cold, was proof positive. He'd hardly slept a wink the night before. After translating the book title Reggie had given him, Kenji had spent an hour or two searching the web for any mention of the book. His search had turned up nothing, however. Neither the original title, nor the translation yielded anything.
“After this, I'm not coming back,” Dylan declared. “I'll drive you out this one time, Kenji. One last time. But after this, I'm tapping out, got it? If you want to keep up with all of this after today, you're going to have to call a cab or something. I won't... I won't drive back to this place again after this, got that? We shouldn't even be wasting our time. It's none of our business. But I'm going to humor you. Next time, well... I won't be there to watch your back, man. I'm just warning you now, in case you decide to keep this up. It's not my scene, Kenji.”
“I get it.” Kenji crossed his arms and closed his eyes. “I appreciate your coming along nonetheless. I'm a little creeped out by all of this, too. But we've gone too far to give up now. I want some answers.”
Dylan scoffed. “Creeped out?” He muttered something unintelligible afterward. It was clear he wasn't willing to voice his apprehensions in full, for fear that he appear a coward. But he didn't have to. The terror was scrawled all over his face. Kenji knew he'd tossed and turned all night in anticipation of the drive. No matter how hard he worked to appear indifferent or annoyed, Kenji knew Dylan to be every bit as frightened, and interested, as he was.
Traffic was very light. Even during their pit stops for gas and food the eateries and gas stations were almost wholly deserted. They ate and drank in silence, the two of them too deep in their own thoughts for further arguments or discussion on the matter. Till they arrived at the shack and met with Reggie, there would be nothing new to discuss.
While munching on a lukewarm burger at a rest stop diner, Kenji wondered what sort of woman Agnes Pasztor was. Or had been. This book, which he presumed to have some link to her, was certainly not a normal, everyday kind of book. It sounded ominous, and to hear Reggie nervously tell of it was enough to make him uneasy. Nothing in this case was easily explained or natural, and the emergence of some sinister book wasn't so hard to believe when everything else was taken into consideration. Agnes may have been a strange woman with stranger interests. Till he'd had a few hours to look over the book and decipher it he wouldn't know for sure just what they were dealing with, but to say that he had a bad feeling about the case would have been something of an understatement.
On the road again, Dylan navigated a light snow. The snow transitioned into a warmer rain, which dressed the sides of the highway in a vaporous mist as the day wore on. Passing once again through the sparse, rural towns of Minnesota, they entered into Akeley. The GPS unit dinged, indicating the long, seldom-tread road that would lead them straight to the shack.
It was with no little reticence that Dylan steered them onto it.
They hadn't spoken much since their last stop. With the familiar, open scenery now running past their windows they said even less. Kenji watched the boring fields fly by at sixty miles an hour, the dread in his gut welling and welling till he feared it might dribble from his mouth. He gripped the edge of his seat, waiting for the small shack to come into view.
When it did, the two of them could be heard to loose a small gasp at once. There was nothing in the shack to warrant such a reaction; it was as nondescript and unmolested as it'd been during their first encounter with it, and yet the two of them, at seeing it in-person once more, could barely believe their eyes. Here stood the quiet little habitation where the two of them, along with Reggie, had spent a strange night together just over a week ago. This was the spot that the vanished Agnes Pasztor had led them to in her cryptic transmission.
And soon, probably, they would come to understand why. It was very possible that Reggie's newest lead would shine some light on the reasons for Agnes' transmission of the coordinates.
More to the point, Kenji had never expected they would return to the spot, and at seeing it once again, felt suddenly as though he'd made a terrible miscalculation of some kind. A great mistake had been made in returning, one whose consequences would be felt for some time. The time for turning back, for throwing in the towel in the search for Agnes, was over. Not for the first time Kenji considered that the
three of them had been led back to the shack as pawns by some invisible hand. Reggie, the third pawn, was not in sight, however. There was no sign of his olive green LeSabre. Apparently he hadn't arrived yet.
Dylan let the Honda creep up the snaking drive and then parked a dozen yards away from the front door. His expression was one of trembling hopelessness. He, too, could feel that returning to the shack was a mistake, and could be seen to long for the quiet comfort of the campus. “Goddammit,” he muttered, wiping his eyes. He looked at the structure ahead as though hoping it were a mirage, but when it didn't vanish he grit his teeth and sank back in his seat, allowing the car to idle while he let the sight sink in.
“Let's go inside,” offered Kenji, taking his book bag in hand and unbuckling his seatbelt. “Doesn't look like Reggie's here yet. We'll wait for him.”
Without a word, Dylan killed the engine. Then, limping out of the car, he made his way towards the door, eyes glued to the crisp grass. A cool breeze shot across the field, but he didn't seem to feel it as he lingered outside the shack. Kenji met up with him, reaching for the knob and pushing the door open. The light outside was quickly fading, and the pervasive inkiness of the shack was profound. Carefully, Kenji reached inside and sought out the light switch. Flipping it, the dull bulbs in the ceiling came on, bathing the room in light.
The desk. The TV and VCR. The window. The bulky radio. The videotape Reggie had brought with him during their first visit, only to subsequently toss across the room. Everything appeared exactly as they'd left it. At the center of the room were the folding chairs, where Reggie and Dylan had passed the night. Their footprints were visible in the dust that coated the floors, proof of where they'd tread.
Something didn't sit right, however. With a howling wind to his back, Kenji shuffled inside and shut the door as Dylan entered. The place was undisturbed, completely. Nothing had been moved since they were last there, more than a week ago. And yet, something felt awry. Walking into the tiny structure, Kenji picked up on the weight of some other presence. It was as if someone had been there only an instant before he'd opened the door, and had disappeared through an unseen exit. It was impossible, of course; he knew that wasn't the case. Still, the feeling persisted. The dusty air within felt as though it'd been stirred up by the movement of another inhabitant, just seconds before they'd made their nervous entrance.
Transmission: A Supernatural Thriller Page 11