Read Online The Revenant Road by Michael Boatman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Boatman
Tags: Horror
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In the gloom I could make out the first three steps leading down into the basement. Beyond the landing, darkness beckoned.
As I hovered on the edge of that void, my mother’s voice floated up from the dank cellar of my memory.
Why won’t you look in the box, Obadiah?
I beat back Lenore’s voice with curses.
Then I went down into the dark.
14
The Black Guts
of Kalakuta
We descended.
Above me, I sensed the ancient weight of Kalakuta increasing as we tramped deeper into her bowels. The tunnel seemed to squat closer and closer to the top of my head and the air grew heavy.
After what seemed like an eternity, a light flickered on over Kowalski’s head.
“Your old man and I moved in here soon after your folks split up,” he said. “Marcus had been monitoring a year-long manifestation outside San Francisco , but we were both fairly mobile. We went wherever the Referral Service sent us.”
“Referral Service?”
“I’m comin’ to that. Anyway, I took one half of the house. Your pop took the other.”
We reached a plateau: a wide stone platform like a stage blasted from the gutrock of Eastern Yonkers .
In front of us stood another door.
Kowalski reached into his pocket and I heard the lunatic jingle of his massive key ring.
“The Service had discovered something that required full time attention here in New York . Marcus and I were selected for an Indefinite Watch. It was only the second time we’d met. The first time, we were both hunting...”
“Carlos Vulpe?” I interrupted.
Kowalski’s brow tightened. “I told you that part?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn.”
He opened the door. Beyond it, another staircase stretched away, though at a slightly shallower incline.
“Jesus,” I said. “How far down does this place go?”
Kowalski turned to me—for a moment I thought he was going to hit me—and said, “You don’t wanna ask questions like that around here, my friend.”
We descended.
“She was built in 1917 by a Russian immigrant called Grigor Molokov,” Kowlaski continued. “Molokov was a rich man, a banker. He was also one of the blackest necromancers in human history. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said. “What’s a necromancer?”
He paused at a third door.
“One who communicates with and controls the dead.”
“Sweet.”
Kowalski selected a large, brass key.
“A sense of humor,” he said. “That’s good. You’re gonna need one in about two and a half minutes.”
“How much farther?” I said.
Kowalski clicked on a naked yellow light bulb.
“We’re here,” he said. “Take a look.”
The final door towered over our heads.
It was nearly ten feet tall and eight feet wide and appeared to have been hand-crafted from a single massive slab of iron. The iron door gleamed dully as the light from the dim bulb reflected off its polished surface. Celtic runes, characters from various Asian and Western languages, African pictograms and hieroglyphs of every imaginable configuration formed an intricate design.
The writing covered the entire surface of the iron door in a pattern that seemed to rearrange itself as I watched. The moment my attention focused on one part of the design it was shunted away to a different part, pausing only long enough to discover some new segment that hadn’t been visible a moment before.
The effect was similar to that of a mobius strip: a never-ending visual journey, an optical illusion that drew the eye’s focus along behind it leaving the observer vaguely disoriented in its wake.
The center of the design, however, appeared more stable than its outer edges. Two human figures etched in gold stood beneath the rearing form of a fire-breathing dragon.
The figure farthest from the dragon upheld a shield and a sword, but the second figure held my attention: It stood in front of and slightly above the sword-wielder, and carried a simple lantern in one upraised hand. Beneath the two figures, a single Latin
As I hovered on the edge of that void, my mother’s voice floated up from the dank cellar of my memory.
Why won’t you look in the box, Obadiah?
I beat back Lenore’s voice with curses.
Then I went down into the dark.
14
The Black Guts
of Kalakuta
We descended.
Above me, I sensed the ancient weight of Kalakuta increasing as we tramped deeper into her bowels. The tunnel seemed to squat closer and closer to the top of my head and the air grew heavy.
After what seemed like an eternity, a light flickered on over Kowalski’s head.
“Your old man and I moved in here soon after your folks split up,” he said. “Marcus had been monitoring a year-long manifestation outside San Francisco , but we were both fairly mobile. We went wherever the Referral Service sent us.”
“Referral Service?”
“I’m comin’ to that. Anyway, I took one half of the house. Your pop took the other.”
We reached a plateau: a wide stone platform like a stage blasted from the gutrock of Eastern Yonkers .
In front of us stood another door.
Kowalski reached into his pocket and I heard the lunatic jingle of his massive key ring.
“The Service had discovered something that required full time attention here in New York . Marcus and I were selected for an Indefinite Watch. It was only the second time we’d met. The first time, we were both hunting...”
“Carlos Vulpe?” I interrupted.
Kowalski’s brow tightened. “I told you that part?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn.”
He opened the door. Beyond it, another staircase stretched away, though at a slightly shallower incline.
“Jesus,” I said. “How far down does this place go?”
Kowalski turned to me—for a moment I thought he was going to hit me—and said, “You don’t wanna ask questions like that around here, my friend.”
We descended.
“She was built in 1917 by a Russian immigrant called Grigor Molokov,” Kowlaski continued. “Molokov was a rich man, a banker. He was also one of the blackest necromancers in human history. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said. “What’s a necromancer?”
He paused at a third door.
“One who communicates with and controls the dead.”
“Sweet.”
Kowalski selected a large, brass key.
“A sense of humor,” he said. “That’s good. You’re gonna need one in about two and a half minutes.”
“How much farther?” I said.
Kowalski clicked on a naked yellow light bulb.
“We’re here,” he said. “Take a look.”
The final door towered over our heads.
It was nearly ten feet tall and eight feet wide and appeared to have been hand-crafted from a single massive slab of iron. The iron door gleamed dully as the light from the dim bulb reflected off its polished surface. Celtic runes, characters from various Asian and Western languages, African pictograms and hieroglyphs of every imaginable configuration formed an intricate design.
The writing covered the entire surface of the iron door in a pattern that seemed to rearrange itself as I watched. The moment my attention focused on one part of the design it was shunted away to a different part, pausing only long enough to discover some new segment that hadn’t been visible a moment before.
The effect was similar to that of a mobius strip: a never-ending visual journey, an optical illusion that drew the eye’s focus along behind it leaving the observer vaguely disoriented in its wake.
The center of the design, however, appeared more stable than its outer edges. Two human figures etched in gold stood beneath the rearing form of a fire-breathing dragon.
The figure farthest from the dragon upheld a shield and a sword, but the second figure held my attention: It stood in front of and slightly above the sword-wielder, and carried a simple lantern in one upraised hand. Beneath the two figures, a single Latin
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