“So what became of the Reverend?” Ryan asked.
“Ah yes, the Reverend. Well, it has been said by many that the great and abiding human frailty of the preachers of our day is that they do not live what they teach. That could not be said of the old Reverend. He lived it, to the ultimate fault.”
The passageway opened up, and Ryan realized that they were standing in what remained of the worship hall. The front had all but caved in, the pews moldered and rotted where they were left behind. An ancient baptistery sat at the front near where Ryan stood. It was bone dry, a scattering of dead leaves within, and Ryan thought it remarkable that such a thing ever contained water.
“When Sally Jenkins went missing,” Samuelson continued, “the last place the authorities thought to look was here. But one can only search the woods and fields for so long before the truth becomes evident. They found the Reverend, bathed in her blood, in the heart of the stone edifice that is the foundation of this church. Her body lay upon the ancient alter, her insides spilled across the floor. He had cut off her arms and legs, leaving one in each of the cardinal directions of the circular room, as if forming a bloody compass.
“It is said that the old man had gone crazy. Mad, as any man who does such a thing must be. When they found him, he would speak not a word in answer to their questions, muttering only to himself that he had made a mistake. That he had been wrong. That more was required than her blood. When they found him, he held a needle and thread in his hands. One of her eyes, he had already sewed open. He was in the midst of doing the same with the other. It was said that, in his madness, he thought that if only her eyes remained open, life would return to her body as well. A foolish thing, though I suppose no more foolish than some other such beliefs.”
“What happened to him?” whispered Ryan. “Was he tried for his crimes?”
Samuelson chuckled. “No, no, no trial. No, those were the days when justice for such incidents was often swift and devoid of mercy. When they found him, they did not waste their time with lawyers, judges, evidence, or courtrooms. The tree, the one that stands in the midst of the graveyard, the old oak with deep roots that burrow into the earth, the one that looks as though it has stood here since the beginning of time? It was there then as well, and its branches were strong enough to hold a man. It was from it that they hung him.
“He did not protest. Rather, he accepted his fate. Accepted it gladly even, some said. He thanked his captors, thanked his executioners. He told them that they were doing what must be done. It enraged them further, to hear him speak so. That he had killed the girl was bad enough. That he had butchered her as he had, sadistic. But the thought of this man welcoming the end? Praying for death? That was simply too much. Too much for any good man of Salem to bear. Thus they not only killed him, they left him there, hanging from that tree. Till the birds and the beasts and the insects of this land devoured the whole of him.”
Samuelson looked at Ryan and smiled. “As you can imagine, such a thing had a negative impact on church attendance. With its flock gone, this edifice fell into disrepair. That is, until my associates found it and restored it to its former glory and purpose.”
Ryan cast a glance around the empty worship hall, allowing his beam of light to guide his eyes. “No disrespect, Mr. Samuelson, but it doesn’t seem like much restoration has been done.”
Samuelson smiled. “Ah, let not your eyes deceive you, Mr. Dixson. All this is but an illusion. Follow me, and we shall see what goes on beneath.”
Ryan did as he was told, following behind Samuelson as the man climbed the steps behind the broken down altar and empty baptistery. There was a tomb in the rearmost room, a stone sarcophagus. Samuelson’s lamplight fell upon it. He looked to Ryan.
“You seem to be a perceptive young man, Mr. Dixson. This is the oldest of the sarcophagi in this church. Notice anything about it?”
Ryan looked, but he did not see. Before him was nothing but a great stone slab, the familiar winged death’s-head at its crest. But it was only a moment before it became obvious.
“There’s no name,” he said. “There’s no name on the tomb.”
“That is correct, Mr. Dixson. There is no name, but there are words. Do you know your Latin, sir?”
Ryan grinned in the darkness. Where he came from, Latin was not high on the list of required courses. “Two years of Spanish,” he said, “and I don’t remember much of that.”
“Well, then allow me to translate. It says, ‘sepulchrum omnes’ which means, ‘The Grave of All Men.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“Death, my friend, is everywhere. All men will die, whether they truly live or not. And when they do, they will return to the earth. But there are some places where death is more present than others.”
Samuelson placed his hand upon the skull and pressed. To Ryan’s amazement, the stone slab seemed to give away at the simplest of efforts, opening a great black maw, like the mouth of some unholy beast. But it was not so long before Ryan became aware of a preternatural glow emanating from the cavern beyond.
“Let us go, Mr. Dixson. What I want you to see is beyond here. What you need to see if you are to find our Angela.”
Samuelson stooped low, slipping beneath the marble overhang, sliding into the shadowy mist, passing into what was both an unnatural light and a frightful darkness.
Ryan rose to find that the cavern opened up after he passed beyond the mouth. It was tall enough, in fact, that he could stand upright with no trouble. There were stairs that led further down. Without speaking, Samuelson began to descend. And so, without speaking, Ryan followed.
Down they went on that spiraling stone staircase, curving around itself into the depths of the earth, until the air that had been frigid seemed warm by comparison, the cool constant of an underground cave. How long did they descend? Ryan couldn’t say. But when they reached the bottom, Samuelson turned and said, “Follow close. The corridors are many and winding. As in life, they are full of twists and turns. We must follow the right path, lest you find yourself lost.”
The old man had not exaggerated. While the descent had been long, the walk through the curving tunnels was interminable. It was only when Ryan wondered just how far they had gone that they turned the final corner.
They came to a great archway. Two men, suited and stoic, were standing on either side of the rounded opening. Beyond them, Ryan could see the flickering light of great candles or torches. And he could hear the murmur of the gathered crowd. When the men saw Samuelson, they nodded. One turned, and from somewhere beyond the archway he produced two goblets, handing both to Samuelson. He in turn gave one to Ryan.
“The drinking of wine,” Samuelson said, “is a holy rite in all the world’s great religions. It is, in some, the only truth they bear. For as man bleeds, and in bleeding dies, so too does the grape give up its life to produce that which in lies truth. And just as the blood maintains its vitality even when it leaves the body, so too does wine give life even when it has been pressed from the grape. Don’t you think?”
Ryan had questioned his presence here several times, but it wasn’t until then that he began to consider that perhaps Samuelson might truly be mad. It was an unfortunate time for such a revelation, here in the depths of this place, where he was at the man’s mercy. So he did all that he could to appear as if he believed fully in the person who stood before him. He nodded once, and took the cup that was offered him.
“Excellent,” Samuelson said. “To the gods!”
He raised his glass, and without waiting for Ryan to do the same, drank down the wine in one furious gulp. Ryan followed suit. But just as the liquid had barely touched his tongue before he swallowed it, it was but only an instant before he regretted the decision.