An old smokehouse stood almost completely hidden in a dense stand of blackberry vines. He tried to push a few aside and got a handful of briars for his trouble. This wasn't going to be easy. He headed back to the house and returned a few minutes later with an old sickle. Its curved blade was pitted with rust and the edge was dull, but it would have to do.
For half an hour he hacked away at the tangled vines. His hands and forearms were scraped and bloodied and his muscles burned, but he felt good. He hadn't had a proper workout since he'd left home, and it was nice to work up a sweat. When at last he'd cleared a path to the smokehouse door, he tossed the sickle aside and withdrew the key from his pocket.
His heart sank. The door was secured by a simple padlock. Whatever lock the iron key opened, this wasn't it. He'd worked for nothing.
“What the hell?” he said to no one in particular. “Might as well see what's in here.” He picked up a rock and took out his frustrations on the padlock until it snapped off. He put his hand to the door but, as he was about to open it, a cool breeze passed over him. He paused, gooseflesh rising up on his arms. Where had that breath of air come from in the midst of this dead, calm forest? Puzzled and a little spooked, he retrieved the sickle, holding it in a white knuckled grip, and pushed the door open.
Grant tested the floorboards before stepping inside. The smokehouse was dark, dusty, and filled with cobwebs. Thin shafts of light pierced the cracks in the rough-hewn walls, shining on heaps of mouldering burlap sacks. A coil of rope hung from a hook on one of the overhead beams.
“Shit.” He kicked a pile of burlap, sending up a cloud of dust that burned his eyes and set him to coughing. When the dust cleared, he looked down and his eyes fell on a small door set in the base of the wall. The keyhole in the center looked like the perfect fit. For no particular reason, he looked around to see if anyone was watching. He knelt, inserted the key in the lock, and turned it.
The door swung open, revealing a small, recessed area carved into the natural rock that abutted the smokehouse. Inside lay a book. The cover was a light tan, creased leather, strangely soft to the touch. The pages were heavy, rough-edged and covered in a curling, crabbed script that made Grant frown as he flicked through. Fascinated, he sat on a pile of mouldering burlap and turned to the front of the book, reading by a shaft of light through a gap in the wall behind him.
An inscription was written by hand inside the front cover, in a different language to the rest of the book. It used the alphabet as he knew it, though still not English. One word was clear, however — Kaletherex. He turned the page and realized the rest of the book was hand-written too, in a dark, reddish brown ink. A crooked smile tugged at one side of his mouth as he wondered if the thing was written in blood, but the smile faded like sunlight behind a passing cloud when it occurred to him that he might be right. A weird leather-bound book, written in blood, in an arcane, indecipherable script. “What the..?” His voice was barely a whisper.
As if in answer, the cold breeze blew again, shifting the edges of the sacking all around, chilling him. The breeze seemed to carry a voice, read read read, like a distant echo.
Grant jumped up, looked around. “Who's there?”
He stood still for close to a minute, listening so hard he felt as though his ears must be standing out on the sides of his head. Nothing but the susurration of the leaves and pine needles outside, the occasional call of a bird. He stuck his head out the door of the smokehouse and saw nothing but trees.
Losing my freaking mind. He sat down again.
The pages were heavy, thick, slightly waxy. He turned slowly through the book, examining each page in turn. He could make no more sense of it than if he had been trying to read Chinese or ancient Greek, but there was something compelling about the shapes and ellipses of the text. His eyes moved slowly, sliding around the words and paragraphs. This had to be something important, something worth locking in a safe carved into bedrock. The key to which was kept far away in a strong box in the bank. Was it something so valuable it needed security? Or something else. Important? Dangerous?
He turned another page and jumped, a small gasp escaping his lips. Across the double page spread was a drawing in exquisite detail, fine lines and smooth shading. It showed a young, naked girl on a table, her arms and legs strapped wide to make an X of her body. There were marks on her skin, spirals over her heart, stomach and forehead. Candles stood around her on the table's edges and strange symbols, similar to the text of the book, were carved into the wooden tabletop. Several figures stood around her holding a variety of implements: knives, scythes, branches of gnarled wood. One held a dripping organ, like the liver of a sheep or cow… or something. It looked too large to be human.
The girl's head was tipped back, her mouth wide in a scream, eyes squeezed shut. Grant held the book up closer to his eyes, fascinated by the gruesome detail. He could see where the straps at her ankles and wrists bit into the skin, rubbed it raw as she pulled against them, could see tears and sweat on her face. As his eyes narrowed in morbid fascination, the picture moved, the girl thrashed and screamed, the sound pierced his ears. A chant rose up from the people gathered around her, candles flickered, somewhere a sonorous drum beat a solid, regular dirge.
With a cry, Grant dropped the book and staggered back, tripped against a pile of sacking and sat heavily. His heart pounded as he struggled to recover his breath.
“What's going on in there?” a sharp voice called from outside.
Grant shuddered, adrenaline coursing through his body like an electric shock. He scooped the book from the floor, shoved it back in the rock safe and locked the door. He shoved sacking up against the door to hide it and pocketed the key as he turned and stepped out of the smokehouse. Three young men stood a few yards down the path, grizzled and a little dirty. They looked at him with hooded, suspicious eyes.
“You all right?” the gangly fellow in the middle of the three asked.
Grant forced a smile, tried to ignore his still hammering heart. “Yes, fine.”
“Thought we heard you holler.”
“Just tripped in the dark and banged my elbow. Wasn't watching where I was going.” He rubbed one elbow for emphasis, not even believing himself.
“What's in there, anyhow?” The young man stepped toward the smokehouse, his grin not quite friendly.
Grant made a dismissive gesture. “Nothing at all, just old burlap and some broken shelves. I had to break the padlock off to get in because I couldn't find the key. I was hoping there might be something interesting in there, but there's nothing.” He stopped, realizing he was rambling like a fool, and shrugged.
“Mm hmm,” the man said.
An uncomfortable silence hung in the air for a few seconds as they looked at each other. Finally, Grant said, “So, can I help you?”
“Wondered if we might help you. I'm Jed, this is Cliff and Jesse.” He indicated the others with a quick gesture. “We're Pastor Edwin's boys. Mama said we ought to come on up here and lend you a hand,”
Grant chose not to mention it was a long trip to lend a hand unasked for. “I'm not really sure there's anything you can help me with. Thanks anyway.”