Nathrotep

by William H. Nelson

  Infinite Worlds Publishing

  Copyright © 2018 William H. Nelson

  All rights reserved.

  Website: www.williamhnelsonbooks.com

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/williamhnelsonbooks

  Nathrotep

  ISBN: 978-1-7344642-0-7 (paperback)

  Kara Scrivener, Editor

  www.emergingink.com

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  In Loving Memory of

  Theresa M. Nelson

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I would like to thank Lisa Paschke. Without her encouragement and support, I wouldn’t be the person I am today, let alone an aspiring writer. If it wasn’t for her, this book might never have seen the light of day. I would also like to thank Tara Gilliam. She’s the only person I know who you can call up at three in the morning and still get good feedback without too much grumpiness. Her suggestions, and in fact her encouragement that I write this book in the first place, have been invaluable. And a special thanks to Kyle Penney for his support and the proofreading he helped with right at the very start all those years ago. If there is anyone else I missed, I apologize for leaving you out and promise I’ll try to remember to mention you in my next book! Thanks again to everyone for reading this and continuing to support me.

  1

  Day One

  Wednesday, April 27th, 1988

  The smell of incense clung to her as she stood shivering in the dank air. This could not be happening, and yet it was. She was in a chamber buried deep beneath the earth, her surroundings wavering in the thin, uncertain light cast from infrequent candles. Paralyzed by a sense of pure terror, she stood transfixed as the shadows swelled around her and slid upward into the spaces above.

  Tears blurring her eyes, she glanced about, the fear clutching greedily at her thundering heart. To either side were only waves of darkness, flickering and dancing, but before her was the sight which captured her unwilling attention. A low altar stone, painted by the feeble glow of the diminutive candles, sat nestled beneath a swirling chaos of rippling energy. It throbbed under the vortex like a living thing.

  As its foul malignancy washed over her, she searched for breath enough to scream. Finding none, she slid to her knees in the acrid, clinging darkness, praying for release from the paralyzing emotions that held her fast. The robed figure was there, like always, his filthy, black cowl shrouding him in the colors of the grave. Waves of noxious evil poured from him like clouds boiling in the forefront of a terrible storm, and the hellish ritualistic dagger poised in his upflung fist seemed to pulse to the pounding of her frightened heart.

  She cried out then, somehow becoming one with the blade as it struck down toward the small figure chained to the stone. The hatred, the blind rage, the mind-numbing, soul-shattering vileness coursed through her. She was the knife, the cascading energy within it, and the towering, all-consuming bleakness of evil inherent within the very room. And, as she struggled in vain, trying with frantic urgency to stop herself from the violent impressions, the blade that was her struck deep into the captive child’s breast.

  Robin awoke with a shrill scream. Stunned and panting, she lay in the dampness of her own sweat, the sheets rucked and knotted around her slender, adolescent body. For a moment, she couldn’t tell where she was, the images of that hateful chamber still etched into her mind like patterns carved into living glass. The dream surrounded her. With maddened intensity, her eyes darted about the room, not really seeing the posters of George Michael, the small, color television, or the stuffed animals on the chair by the window. Her gaze spun wildly around, searching for the black priest, the living blade.

  After what seemed like hours, her heart slowed its maddened pounding and her tear-streaked vision cleared enough to take in the normal, everyday clutter of her small living space. She recognized the vanity mirror with its many pictures of her and her friends, the dresser with its customary plethora of knickknacks, and the pile of unfolded laundry heaped by the closet door. Gulping in huge breaths of air, she fought to further calm herself. It was, after all, only a dream, wasn’t it?

  Or was it something more?

  No, she told herself, shaking her head in a violent, twisting motion. It was only a dream. Another nightmare. Although she could still remember most of it: the dark, incense-filled chamber, the helpless child chained to the altar stone, and the figure of the vicious priest, raising the repellent dagger in his hate-filled grasp. The extreme vividness of it frightened her. Getting out of bed, she tried to rid her mind of the lingering images as she shuffled down the hallway and into the bathroom.

  After shedding her sweat-soaked nightgown, she turned on the shower and stepped in. As the heated water poured over her, she felt her thoughts clearing, the visions of the dream receding to the back of her mind like fireflies fading with the dawn. Soon, after a vigorous scrubbing, she was refreshed and unhindered by the disturbing imagery, no longer even thinking on it as she toweled herself dry.

  Standing before the mirror, she began to run a comb through her wavy brown hair, judging herself critically through narrowed hazel eyes. Not altogether unattractive, she decided, but also not exactly the prettiest girl at her school. As she dressed, her thoughts turned to Mark Cook. If only he’d notice her, see her as someone he’d want to spend more time with. No, she thought, a light blush creeping across her freckled cheeks, Mark had bigger fish to fry. It was no secret how he felt toward Kelly; all the boys felt that way. Suffering a momentary flash of jealousy for her best friend’s good looks and easy grace, she finished tucking in her blouse and adjusted the belt that encircled her petite, denim-clad waist. As she rechecked her reflection once more for unseen blemishes, she heard her mother calling from the kitchen.

  “Robin, you’ll miss the bus if you don’t hurry up!”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I dry my hair, Mom,” she shouted. After whirling the blow dryer’s hot breath through her hair, she threw a small can of hairspray and a selection of makeup into her purse, then hurried down the hall.

  As she ran out the kitchen door, she waved to her mom. “Bye, Mom; see you tonight.”

  “What about breakfast?” her mother called, but Robin was already out of sight.

  The street she lived on was a typical American suburb. All the houses were the same drab architecture that marked the degradation of craftsmanship that had come with rapid development and cheap building supplies. Most of the homes were the type that were thrown together almost overnight by greedy businessmen who’d bought out the area years ago seeking profit from the sale of affordable living. Some of it, however, predated the entire town.

  At the end of the road was an old graveyard that dominated the landscape. It had become a landmark in the now thriving community having been there as far back as anyone could remember. The land that it crouched upon was sprawling and extensive, consisting of many acres of prime real estate. But the brooding, age-old monument was not for sale at any price. A great number of well-loved kinfolk had been laid to rest there over the years, and any attempt to purchase the property would have been met with the strongest of opposition. The land developers had wisely decided to build around the site, even using it to boost sagg
ing property sales by claiming that the historical landmark added an air of ‘quaint mystery’ to the area.

  As she headed toward the bus stop, Robin glanced up at the abandoned caretaker’s house that perched atop the steep, overgrown incline, and was startled to see a flash of movement in one of the upper story windows.

  “Hey!” she called out to her friend who stood waiting for her. “Someone’s in the old house on Graveyard Hill!”

  “Where?” Kelly asked, peering up at the house, “I don’t see anything...”

  “There.” Robin pointed, turning to squint back up at the dilapidated structure. “In the attic window. Hey! They disappeared!”

  Laughing, her friend leaned on her, placing an arm around her shoulder. “You really had me there for a minute, Robin.”

  Kelly Miller, like many girls of her generation, had been forced to mature quickly, perhaps even too quickly. With her deep blue eyes, long golden hair, and winning smile, she was much sought after by the boys at her school. Robin knew, and actually Kelly had never made it much of a secret that she just used the ones she liked and led the others on, taking great pleasure from their fruitless attentions. She had once told Robin she never had to worry about any pain that might arise from an uncertain relationship that way, but Robin knew it was just a flimsy excuse; Kelly had been hurt early on by a boy who’d played her in much the same way. It was a vicious cycle, but it kept her from the mindless depression she’d suffered in the aftermath of the previous romance. Now she was smirking at Robin, her head tilted to one side in mock solicitude.

  “There was someone there! I really saw them!” Robin insisted.

  “Come on now, you don’t expect me to fall for that crap, do you?”

  “There was someone in that window. I’m telling you the truth!”

  “Alright, alright! You saw someone in the old caretaker’s house. So what? I wasn’t calling you a liar. Really, Robin, you take everything too seriously.” Turning, she glanced down the street. “Here comes the bus...”

  “I’m sorry,” Robin blurted, the disturbing images surging back to the forefront of her mind, “it’s just these nightmares I’m having—they seem so real! I’m almost afraid to sleep.”

  As the bus pulled up to the curb, Kelly turned and considered the rambling old structure. Turning back, she smiled again, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

  “Are you coming to my slumber party this weekend?” she inquired.

  “I think so; I still have to ask my mom, but I’m pretty sure I can go.”

  “That’s great!” Kelly said, taking her arm. Within seconds, the conversation had turned to the other girls who’d be at the party, the inevitable phone calls they’d make, and all the things they planned to do on the upcoming Saturday evening.

  Entering the vehicle, they walked to the back and took a seat, still talking about their big plans. As the bus began to move forward once more, creeping off down Mercury Street, there was no one left to hear the chilling, deranged laughter reverberating from deep within the house on top of Graveyard Hill.

  2

  Carol LePrade sometimes had to work long hours at the hospital, but the pay was good, and being a nurse was something that she really enjoyed. In her heart, she felt that she was giving a lot back to the community, especially after all she’d taken from it. But it did her no good to dwell on the past; it was done and over with and she had made a new life for herself. Still, the choices she’d made had been quite difficult.

  This morning she had hoped to spend some time with her daughter, but now she was shaking her head in annoyance as she put away the breakfast dishes. Ever since the loss of her husband eleven years ago, she’d struggled to raise her daughter on her own. She liked to think she’d been somewhat successful, but at times she seriously doubted her ability. Robin was headstrong, rebellious to a fault, and sometimes infuriating. On the other hand, she was intelligent, spontaneous, and what many would refer to as happy-go-lucky.

  Carol was not at all sure that these were entirely good qualities.

  Sighing, she began to clean the countertops and furnishings that occupied their small kitchen and dining room. Humming a bit to herself, she let her thoughts wander as she stared out the window. She was polishing the surface of a teakwood cabinet when she accidentally bumped against a picture frame, sending it tumbling to the floor. Leaning forward, she reached down to pick it up.

  Seeing the image inside the old frame, she faltered, running her hand over the picture while trying to repress her swelling emotions. The somber face of her late husband stared out at her, his right hand resting on her shoulder as his left arm enfolded their giggling daughter. His eyes penetrated deep into her soul and she was unable to look away, tears running freely down her cheeks. The past was done, but some things would never truly go away. She stood that way, wrapped in painful memories, for quite some time.

  After an uneventful day at school and a mediocre dance recital, Robin had been more than happy to head home for the evening. She’d had little enough sleep the night before and it was starting to catch up to her. After eating a late dinner of leftover Chinese food, she put her dishes in the sink and started toward her room at the opposite end of the house.

  Her mother had been rather distant tonight. Sure, she was sometimes a bit melancholy, but tonight she’d appeared to be filled with a strange emptiness and an almost total lack of awareness. She sat in an old, overstuffed chair in the corner of the living room, pulling at a strand of her curling, auburn hair while staring off into the distance. Robin knew about her mother’s sudden mood swings, but this seemed different. Maybe there was something wrong? No, the bleakness would pass as it always did, given enough time. Confident that things would work themselves out, she smiled at her in a reassuring way.

  “I’m totally beat; I guess I’ll do my homework and go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mom... I love you.”

  Her mother gave her a distracted nod and a faint smile in return as she passed through the living room and headed off down the hallway.

  After finishing up her book report, Robin crawled into bed and fell into a slumber that was deeper than it had ever been. The mists rose up and swirled around her, dragging her through the doors of night and into the dread world that lay beyond.

  The chamber was nebulous, the candles spaced widely apart in the shadowy depths. To the right and left of her, shrouds of darkness licked and devoured the feeble light. Swaying, Robin’s attention was yet again drawn toward the altar stone. It was there that the answers were to be found. In that obscure cavern, sealed away by the forces of shadow, the brutal scene replayed itself over and over in the depths of her slumbering mind.

  The priest was there, as always, the wicked dagger grasped in his upflung fist. But this time she could almost make out his features in the dim illumination. The cold, grasping darkness surrounded her, stifling her whimpers with an onrushing tide of evil malignancy, but she was somehow able to retain a semblance of control.

  There was something different this time, something extraordinary, that she could sense deep within herself. She felt compelled to try and stop the evil figure clad in the soot black robes. In fact, this time she would stop him!

  Edging forward, her teeth chattering and legs wobbling, she fought her way to a small candelabrum just to the left of the altar. Stumbling up against it, she grabbed it in a clumsy, two-fisted grip. Then, she swung it around.

  The priest turned at the last minute, somehow alerted to the threat, but he was too late to avoid it; the blaze ignited him as the sputtering candles grazed against his fetid robes. Consumed by the flames, his body became a paroxysm of smoking fire. Flailing in agony, fiery arms brushed aside the robe’s hood, exposing twin orbs of smoldering fury where his eyes had once been. A gasping shriek erupted from him as the flesh melted from his skull in bloody rivulets like the flowing of hot, meat-colored wax.

  Sitting bolt upright in bed, Robin found she was on the verge of hysteria. It was a dream, she told hersel
f, not really believing it, only a dream. She tried to throw off the covers, but couldn’t seem to get her arms to function. Sweat poured off her in the darkness, making the room even more unpleasant as she twisted, gasping, onto her side.

  A dream, only a dream.

  Or was it?

  Then, she heard a faint noise coming from her bedroom window. A kind of soft scratching sound that sent fresh chills crawling up and down her spine. Drawing on all her courage, she stilled her quaking body, then turned her head, bit by bit, toward the window.

  Uncontrolled spasms overcame her as her blood ran cold.

  Just outside the window stood a ghastly apparition of both horror and repulsiveness. Huge, luminescent eyes glared at her as rotted lips curled back in a gruesome sneer, exposing jagged, yellow teeth. Pieces of decayed flesh and moldering vegetation hung from its face and body and, as she watched in growing horror, a greenish-brown slime oozed from its almost nonexistent nose. Its bony claw scratched lightly on the window pane as it spoke to her in a hellish, rasping voice.

  “Let me in, Robin... Let me in...”

  Then it laughed. Not an amused or happy sort of sound, but a snarling chortle that sent pieces of flesh and strands of spittle flinging from its blackened tongue.

  Quivering in total mind-numbing terror, she found her voice and screamed. The shriek rebounded off her poster-strewn walls and cascaded in and out of the corners like an agile wraith, causing her to wail even louder with the unexpected volume of it.

  Regaining her strength of will, she leapt from the bed and darted down the hall, jerking open her mother’s bedroom door. She was unprepared for what she saw.

  Her mother lay in a pool of dark, congealing blood, the curtains mocking her from where they rustled to either side of the shattered casement. Taking an involuntary step forward, she gazed down upon her mother’s tortured face. The flesh had been peeled back to expose bloody strands of contorted muscle. Black holes, weeping sluggish, oily fluids, now marked where the clear blue eyes had once been.