What Hunts Me

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What Hunts Me - book excerpt

Prologue

June 20th, 1825

The terrain only worsens as we ascend. Even as the solstice nears, the sun barely reaches this treacherous, wicked mountain. Our sirdar and sherpas become wearier by the day, more frightened as we near our destination.

We are a party of ten men and one woman, but others linger among us that the ordinary men cannot see. Heinrich and his wife Ida, both extraordinarily powerful ghost killers and longaevuses, are the benefactors of this sure-to-be ill-fated expedition.  Heinrich has spent his disturbingly long life seeking out ancient artifacts designed to harness and control the supernatural forces that linger so precariously between our world and the next. Ida, a mysteriously beautiful woman, hardly speaks; she is believed to be a sorceress capable of invoking the rituals her lover needs to activate the artifacts. And I, an unknown traitor to their cause, along with my young companion, who is also a powerful ghost killer, and whose allegiances lay, like my own, with all that is good in our supernatural world.

The remaining seven of our party consist of our sirdar, Dmytro; although he originates from somewhere in the Ukraine, his knowledge of our location is extensive. We are also accompanied by six Sherpas, who Dmytro has recruited to help us traverse this Godforsaken mountain. And then there are the ghosts and demons…so many of them. They are under Heinrich’s command, but I see they are desperate to haunt the mortal men we travel with. There is a hunger in their eyes, yet they obey Heinrich’s directives to abstain.

In the beginning we travelled on sleds, covered in furs and woolen blankets, but as we approached the last few miles, the dogs became unruly, frightened…they could sense the evil more keenly than our human companions. We were forced to abandon them, set them free in the hope the poor creatures could make their way back to the village where we acquired them. Now Dmytro’s men carry our supplies on their backs, their snowshoes sinking with the weight of their burdens. But they too are exhibiting signs of fear, and I do not think it long before they abandon us as well.

Our breath comes out in great white puffs, so much so, it is as if we travel in a great fog. Yet suddenly, as if out of nowhere, further up this dismal mountain a reddish radiance can be seen. It pulses like the heart of a ghoulish monster, and penetrates the mist that surrounds us. Heinrich’s eyes glow with its reflection. He appears to me like a madman, which, of course, is what he is. Ida too is transfixed by the eerie glow. The men see the madness in Heinrich’s eyes and they are frightened; they halt and begin to speak rapidly. Dmytro attempts to calm them, but I know it is of no use…I can see the terror on their faces. Although Heinrich does not know the language of these men as I do, he too can see their fear and he turns to me, orders me to calm them.

It is useless though; the men will not stay. They begin to remove their packs, taking only what they need to retreat down the mountain and the assumed safety of their village. Yet that too is useless; Heinrich commands his demon army, and one by one, the men are possessed. They will die on this mountain, not from the elements and treachery of the environment, but from the ghouls that now possess their souls.

The physical strength and stamina of a ghost killer exceeds that of a normal man by much. As such, my companion, Heinrich, Ida, and I are very capable of making the final stretch to our destination, and now that our Sherpas are possessed, they too have the strength to continue, temporarily fueled by the evil that now controls them. We trudge up the mountainside, and within the hour, we have reached a wall of ice and snow. It soars into the sky, its uppermost heights shrouded in a mist so thick its peak is indiscernible.

The light is stronger here, though still slightly muted by the rime.  Heinrich orders the possessed men to scrape the snow and frost, and as they claw away, a translucent surface emerges. The light is more defined now as it flows through the wall in tendrils, bright as freshly spilled blood.

For millennia the vault and its contents have remained secreted from those that sought to harness the power within. Behind the glowing translucent wall, entrapped malevolent divinities, hungry for human souls, are imprisoned.

Heinrich orders the men to take up their picks and break through the wall. His obsession is singular and he pays no attention to Ida, myself, or my companion. I write frantically in this journal, my fingers aching in the devastating cold. As the men break through, the light brightens. Heinrich and Ida appear to grow in strength as they stand in the direct path of the Muttata’s glow.

Heinrich savagely grasps Ida’s hand, and together they enter the opening; the possessed men follow. My companion and I go too, but keep our distance out of fear. Our haunted sirdar lights a lantern, but there is no need…a crimson glow pulses from the stone which sits in a silver cradle atop a pedestal surrounded by quartz and placed in the center of the circular shaped cavern, bathing the chamber in an eerie light.

Heinrich and Ida approach the antediluvian artifact, and as he runs his hand over its glowing surface, his touch causes the crimson light to pulse faster, brighter, and he smiles so wickedly, a shudder runs through my entire being. He then lifts the Muttata from its pedestal and the blood-red light gains strength, pulsing stronger with each second it is in his possession. He summons Ida to his side and together they hold the Muttata, raising it above their heads as he begins to chant in an ancient tongue, and with each word the scarlet light becomes stronger as it courses from the stone and flows into Ida and Heinrich. Their eyes are now crimson pulsating orbs, their mouths obsidian darkness, and together they shudder violently.  Ida speaks for the first time since this wretched journey began, her voice shrill as she cries out unintelligible words.

Still holding the stone, Heinrich orders his ghoulish army to release their victims, and as they do, the men collapse to the ground with a dull thud. The air has become thick with the ghosts and demons Heinrich has brought to this desolate place, and with a sudden chill, which reaches into the depths of my soul, I realize why they are here. They summon the ghosts and demons to them, they absorb them, and with each one, they transform. I watch in horror as images of the long dead flash across their faces, as if they are trying on a variety of masks. This infusion…absorption…causes Heinrich and Ida to convulse violently, and the Muttata falls from their grasp. As it crashes to the frozen earthen floor, the cradle expels its precious cargo and the stone shatters. Ida’s face now contorts in pain, and I realize, as I believe she does, that Heinrich has incorrectly performed the ritual, opening a forbidden door that may never be closed, allowing the entrapped to cross the threshold into our world; destruction and death will most certainly follow.

The cavern begins to vibrate, the pieces of the shattered Muttata seem alive as they begin to quiver on the hard-packed earth, and as I watch in utter horror, translucent tendrils begin to snake upwards from the broken stones, and dear God, I can see the faces of horrible demons and ghouls through those tendrils. These are the demons which have been held captive by the Muttata’s power for many millennia, and now they slither up the immobile bodies of Heinrich and Ida, anxious to be absorbed by them…and for a moment I wonder, who is consuming who? Are the monsters now the masters?

My companion, who had been huddled against me, was now gone. I frantically searched the cavern for him, and as my eyes return to Heinrich and Ida, I see him standing at their backs. The speed in which he moved astounds me. He now holds two daggers, and with extraordinary strength he plunges each blade deeply into Ida and Heinrich’s backs, so forcefully it pierces through their abdomens, the bloody tips protruding. Heinrich and Ida’s mouths open in simultaneous and soundless screams and they began to falter, each grabbing at the hilts, which are stuck so deeply in their spines. The stone fragments have ceased releasing their captives, and the youth falls to the ground and frantically gathers the pieces of the Muttata and its cradle. As he finishes his scavenging, the cavity continues to vibrate violently, and he flees as if the devil is on his tail.

The cave seems to explode then, a blinding light, an ear-shattering rumble and then blackness overtaking me. I awake sometime later, the lantern still lit. As I survey my surroundings, I am greatly saddened…the dead bodies of our sirdar and Sherpas lay all around me. The young man is gone, as are Heinrich and Ida. I am alone in this desolate place.

Chapter 1

April 2016

“And that’s how it happened.” The words came out sloppy and sort of squelchy. I tried to sound sober, over-enunciating my next sentence. “That’s how I killed her….”

An hour before, I’d pulled off the interstate onto the main street of a dusty little town, ironically named Flourish, population seventy-one. It was somewhere between the intersection of nothing and nowhere, but it had the two things I needed and wanted the most; a tavern and a small motel. I walked to the motel first, paid for one night, and dropped my backpack in the room, then headed straight to the tavern a few doors down, hell bent on getting drunk.

The tavern was as dusty as the town it sat in, with a dispirited décor that hadn’t been updated since the mid-twentieth century. I sat at the bar, paying little attention to the other patrons, of which there were few, and ordered a whiskey and beer chaser. I quickly downed the whiskey and ordered another, which I put away equally as fast as the first. Just as I was about to order my third shot, the man a few barstools down began to cough…I was pretty sure he hadn’t been there when I sat down.

When the coughing fit stopped and I asked if he was okay, he turned to me and said, “Fine, just fine. But you, kid, you look like you been dragged through hell and back.” He was old and worn out, his skin leathery, a severe red scar on his neck, his hair white and sparse, but his eyes were bright and sharp and his smile was warm.

I looked into the dingy bar-back mirror and saw a haggard version of my former self in its reflection. I’m not a bad looking guy—I keep myself fit, muscled, well groomed—but today was definitely the exception; my normally neat and trim brown hair was too long and starting to curl around the edges in an unkempt manner. A long scab graced my forehead; I’d only just gotten the cut hours before, but as a ghost killer, I heal very fast, and it would be gone in another day or so.  My T-shirt had blood on it, but it was dry now and mostly blended with the dark color of the shirt.

I looked into the mirror again and caught the old man’s gaze, then nodded and smiled. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

He replied by saying that he was a damn good listener, and if I was interested in talking, he’d be happy to hear what I had to say. It turned out I was interested, so I talked and drank. By the time I’d slurred my last words, the old guy had started coughing again, and when he got it under control he waved at the bartender for another round. He’d been putting bourbon away almost as fast I’d been downing whiskey, but his level of inebriation didn’t hold a candle to my own.

He finally said, “That’s a hell of a story, kid. I’m sorry about your friend. Maybe you should give this whole quest of yours up and go home.”

I looked at him through the bar-back mirror. His eyes had narrowed and turned an inky color. His skin looked grey, and the wrinkles appeared to slither and move. He grinned at me, his teeth darkly discolored; a front tooth was chipped to a jagged and violent point, and two others were missing. He looked like a ghoul. I shook my head to clear it and looked back at the mirror, where clear hazel eyes and a light smile on a rough and wrinkled face reflected back at me.

The old man’s forehead furrowed and he asked, “You okay, kid?”

A year ago, I was just a normal guy with a normal life and a normal job. But that all changed, and now I not only saw ghosts and demons that haunted people with illness, in some cases killing their victims violently, but I, George Sinclair, had the unusual gift of killing these monsters and alleviating their victims of pain and suffering.  I’d encountered ghosts so strong they could possess ghost killers like myself, and I’d been an integral part in stopping a vault full of angry demons, sanctioned by Satan himself, from being unleashed on San Francisco. I’d spent the last week chasing a monster so vicious it could unleash an army of ghosts and demons, and it killed indiscriminately. What I thought I just saw in the mirror could only have been brought on by my recent experiences and the fact that I was damn good and drunk, but deep down inside my brain, something was screaming, trying to tell me to run; I just wasn’t listening.

I smiled and exhaled loudly, “Yeah, but I think it’s time for me to turn in.” I slid off my stool, pulled some money out, and dropped it on the bar.

The old man started to do the same, saying, “Yep, that’s a good idea. I’m guessing you’re staying over at the motel?” I nodded and he said, “Me too. We can walk over together.”

The town’s main street was sparse, consisting of a market, the motel, and the bar, all of which ran along one side of the cracked asphalt road. The west side of the street was comprised of a dirt lot that looked onto the railroad tracks and the Truckee River below. The interstate was just beyond that, but concealed by a small hill. Traffic had been at a standstill earlier, but it sounded like it was moving now. I knew I needed to get back on the road, but what was the point? Billy was dead, and the monster I’d been chasing had gotten away, not to mention I was in no condition to drive.

There weren’t any street lights either, but there was a full moon to light our way. As we exited the tavern and turned towards the motel, our shadows were outlined in moonlight before us. I had my hands in my pockets, head down in drunken despair, when I noticed my companion’s shadow changing. He was no longer a hunched-over old man, he was growing, elongating, transforming into something grotesque. My drunken exhausted state slowed my reaction, and by the time I turned to him he was lunging at me, his hands like claws, his eyes that inky black color, but this time large and full of malevolence. His lips pulled back in a hungry grimace, all of the teeth rotten and jagged.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and dug in. I could feel the talon like nails breaking into my skin and scraping my collar bone, and pain reverberated through my body. Drunk or not, I was still a ghost killer and still damn strong. Raising my arms up and out, I broke free, but not before he tore a chunk of skin and T-shirt off my shoulder. I flipped out of reach and started to run, but he was fast and on me in a matter of seconds, landing solidly on my back, and then I was face down in the dirt of the vacant lot across from the tavern and the motel. He grabbed me by the hair, and the next thing I knew my head was slammed to the ground, over and over again. Blood trickled into my eyes and then nothing, just blackness…