As I climbed the steps my gaze focused on the lustrous marble altar, I became aware of the whispers once more, stronger than ever. What awaited me atop the altar nearly broke my resolve. Amidst candles, chalice and implements sat a tome, no not a tome, but my tome. The whispers grew more energetic, though of a language neither others nor I had ever heard vocalized. Unquestionably, no one of my world could produce the necessary phonetic variations to recreate the words.
The sound of footsteps broke my reverie. Tearing my gaze from the tome, I looked up across the altar into the eyes of … myself. Dread suffused my being. I now knew the cause of my bouts of weakness, my loss of time. This creature before me had been stealing my strength and will and assumed my guise, was a doppelganger.
On instinct, I snatched up the tome and fled towards the shimmer, only to be halted by a wall of mist. Sydney’s voice called out to me from the mist, warning me of removing the tome. A hand fell upon my shoulder and without thinking I swung the tome, striking the doppelganger. The creature staggered back a step before recovering. It then made to grab me once more but the mist enveloped the creature, effectively separating it from me. Sydney’s voice cried out, “Leave the tome!”, whereupon I dropped the book and fled through the shimmer. Once more, I passed through the gateway demon, the warm sensation slightly different from before. Believing that I would exit into the chamber of echoes I was taken aback to find myself standing in my study.
Not wanting to relive any more of my nightmares, I set a fire in the hearth and retrieved the tome from where it had fallen. Determined to see an end to this horror, I set the tome into the fire and watched as the flames licked hungrily at the leather binding. My relief did not last. As the flames devoured the tome, a dense black cloud of soot gathered above the tome. At first, I thought I had forgotten to open the flue, but soon I realized the truth. The visage of an imp formed in the roiling black cloud, the same image I had seen when first I opened the cursed book. My heart pounded hard against my breast, for upon scrutinizing the image, I could see a distorted version of myself.
Helpless, I watched as the gathered smoke rose up the chimney. I raced outside and witnessed the cloud expand and race away from my Berkshire home. The winds increased and a heavy rain began to fall. Hugging myself, I returned to my study thinking that at last it was over.
Several days later, I learned that a dark cloud deposited 5 tons of grime and soot on the city of London. Oh how I wept. Still I was glad to hear that the cloud had dispersed. But much to my chagrin, I later learned that it was not the end.
The following year was filled with an increasing amount of so-called natural disasters throughout the world: Jan 31, The Princess Victoria sank in a severe storm, 132 people lost, Jan 31 – Feb 5, Severe storms cause flooding in Britain, Belgium and the Netherlands, Nov 27-28, Seven lightship tenders are lost as the Goodwin Sands Lightship is wracked by heavy gales winds lashing the British Isles. In all cases, a report of a roiling dark cloud had been present, in itself not uncommon except that by all reports, the cloud seemed to move against the wind.
As I sit and write this tale, I had hoped for some peace of mind, but moments ago the hearth, which had remained unused since the burning of the tome flared to life. Startled I watched as the flames burned a bright blue and then died out, leaving not ash, but the unscathed tome! Lord, am I never to be free of this cursed book?
###
Bonus Material
Dawn’s Knight:
The Travels of Caleb Walker
Episode 1: Sunset House
From the Journal of Caleb Walker
March 5, 1848
It is hard to believe that a year has passed since the loss of my Ellie and Jesse. With their passing, I have since lost faith in my God and myself. I have spent the last year wandering the Arizona Territories in search of a place to call home, but how can anywhere truly be a home without my loved ones to fill it. Some might say that I am actually searching for myself. Either way, I continue my travels.
#
"Momma!"
"Don't move baby, don't move. Just hold real still."
The woman edged closer to her son, panic straining her features. Her terrified gaze flitted back and forth between her child and the rattlesnake at his feet. Every tear that ran down the little boy's cheek was a stab to her heart. She said a silent prayer. Lord please, he's only four years old. It’s my fault, I should have been watching him closer, don’t make him pay for my carelessness. Gently she slid her right foot forward. The last thing she wanted to do was startle the snake. She was still too far away to make a grab for the boy. The strong Arizona sun beat down upon mother and child, adding to the unbearable tension. The rattler shook its tail, the rattling sound warning of imminent attack, freezing the woman in her tracks. Her child stood trembling, an imploring look of desperation written across his tear-streaked face. Another warning rattle sounded. It was then that the young child's nerve broke and he made to flee towards his mother.
Almost simultaneously, three things occurred: the rattler struck out at the child, the mother screamed and a gunshot erupted. The woman was stunned to silence as the rattlesnake disappeared in an explosion of dirt, blood and sinew. Gathering her frightened child into her arms, the woman turned towards the gunshot source. Her gaze fell on a stranger sitting astride a palomino, his gun still drawn, smoke rising listlessly from the barrel.
"Thank God for your timely arrival,” she said, relief etched on her face.
The stranger holstered his weapon, drawing his travel-worn, duster over the gun butt, but not before the woman spied the cross hanging around his neck. Cold gray eyes peered out beneath his flat-crowned hat. "God don't have no say in what I do these days ma'am." With a touch to the brim, the stranger turned his horse. Making soothing sounds to her sobbing child, the woman watched the gunman ride away.
#
Time lost all meaning in the Arizona territory, with its vast tracks of desert, saguaro cactus plants, mesquite trees, and dry heat. Caleb Walker rode into the desert, lost in his memories that the endangered child had ignited: the Indian attack on the wagon train, followed almost immediately by the painful loss of his own son to fever and then the loss of his wife, Ellie, to the same illness just days later. In the span of just two weeks, Caleb had lost everything he cared about, including his faith. No, God had no say now in the former preacher's life. Caleb glanced up at the afternoon sky, taking a drink from his canteen. Silence followed the gunman as his horse plodded across the sere plain, shrouding him in a cocoon of false peace.
Stopping to get his bearings, Caleb heard the screeching cries of vultures. Ahead on the horizon, he could see the ungainly birds plunge to the earth. Hidden by a small dune, he could not see what the scavengers were feasting upon, but he could imagine the grim scene.
Coming over the rise, Caleb took in the horde of vultures gorging themselves on two corpses. Disgusted, he drew his Colt Dragoon and fired a shot into the air. Startled, the vultures launched into the sky, with the exception of one.
The lone predator craned its neck about to peer at the gunman. Odd red eyes bored into Caleb’s gray ones, before joining the rest of the fleeing birds. Holstering the heavy six-gun, he rode down the dune to view the carnage.
Dismounting, the gunman stalked to the desecrated human remains. Both were men who appeared to be or were (he silently amended) in their early twenties. Entrails lay exposed to the dry Arizona heat, one with his eyes staring sightlessly into the blue sky. Caleb closed the eyes and more from habit than any true faith, he recited the Lord’s Prayer.
The former preacher spent the next hour digging a shallow grave and dumping the bodies within. After covering the corpses and taking time to reload his gun, Caleb mounted his palomino and resumed his journey. As he rode, it occurred to him that the men must have been dead for some time, as there was very little blood, despite the ravaging by the vultures.
#
The sun had begun its descent, when
a sandstorm struck without warning, virtually blinding him. Keeping the grating wind at his back, Caleb guided his horse southwest. He rode wearily on, aware that the nearest town, Gila City was more than a day away.
Several times during his trek, Caleb got the sensation of eyes tracking him. Scanning his bleak surroundings through the wind-born sand, Caleb thought he glimpsed a rough outline of a figure in the distance but when he blinked the grit from his eyes, the figure had vanished. Probably just a cactus he thought, still he could not shake the feeling of someone watching him.
The sun had nearly set, when he stumbled upon the house, the sun's rays painting the house in varying shades of red, from the pilaster-flanked front entry to the heavy stone sills and the ornate roof balustrades. Caleb dismounted and led his horse to the front steps, as a young woman exited the house. Caleb felt his gut tighten and caught himself reaching for his gun. The young woman wore a buckskin dress and had bead and feather-work, woven into her long, silky black hair. Irrational though it may be, since the wagon attack, Caleb was distrustful of all Indian people.
"Good evening sir. I have been sent to see to your animal." Despite the harsh winds, Caleb had little trouble hearing her words, her voice carrying clearly, as if she had shouted. She held out her hands expectantly, yet the Indian maiden did not meet his gaze, focusing instead on the cross around his neck. Noticing her gaze, he tucked the cross beneath his shirt, as he handed her the reins and took down his saddlebags. Giving the horse a pat, the former preacher mounted the steps while the young woman led the palomino around back, glancing over her shoulder as she did so.
Heavy drapes covered the windows, preventing Caleb from seeing inside. Only one type of establishment uses such drapery he thought. Twin setting suns reflected from the door's brass hardware. Before he reached for the handle, the door opened, spilling forth light and soft music to greet him. A stunning blonde-haired woman stood in the doorway, beckoning him inside.
As Caleb passed the threshold, he could see several women lounging around in various stages of undress. While Caleb no longer thought of himself as a man of God, he could not help but feel uncomfortable in such a place. A petite, dark-skinned woman offered him a glass of sherry, which he graciously declined.
"I believe our guest would prefer a more potent drink. Bring him some whiskey, Leanne." The dark-skinned woman nodded and silently withdrew.
Caleb placed his saddlebags on the floor, studying the new arrival. Candlelight sparkled in her green eyes, her luxurious red, curly, hair falling in cascading waves to her slim waist, her dusky hued skin radiating health and vitality. Although the top of her head barely reached Caleb Walker's shoulder, she projected an aura of tremendous strength and authority.
“Greetings and welcome to Sunset House. I am the proprietor, Cassandra Jenkins.”
Her smile was warm and inviting. Caleb could feel his pulse quicken and his throat constricting. It took a moment before he could find his voice. “Evening ma’am, name’s Caleb Walker. ‘fraid I’m a might lost. I don’t recall a house like this on the trail to Gila City.”
“Gila City? My, you certainly are lost. It's the storm. It can mislead a body. Gila City is miles away in the opposite direction, but that’s not such a bad thing is it?” Again, her smile made Caleb’s heart skip a beat. Leanne returned with a silver tray bearing a glass of whiskey, which he gratefully accepted. While he downed the drink, Caleb caught a glimpse of the young Indian woman peering from behind a thick velveteen curtain. Outside, the storm’s clamor began to fade, indicating its passage.
The red-haired woman spoke, her voice sultry and full of promise. “Perhaps I can offer you the company of one our ladies.” A smattering of subdued laughter sang throughout the room. The way Cassandra emphasized the word ‘company’ caused Caleb additional discomfort and he could feel the blush rising up his neck and face. Returning the glass to the waiting tray, Caleb retrieved his saddlebags and shook his head. “Thanks anyway ma’am, but I believe I should be on my way.”
“Well at least stay a while until the storm ebbs,” said Cassandra. Her presence so close to his own seemed to draw the very breath from his lungs.
“Sounds to me as if the storm has already passed,” Caleb countered.
“It’s just a lull, I assure you. Storms around these parts are a might tricky.” As if on cue, the wind sent up an unearthly howl, rattling the glass and setting the house to trembling.
Caleb paused in his exit. “Guess your right about that.”
Smiling, Cassandra looped an arm through his and escorted him down a dimly lit hall. “Why don’t I show you to a room where you can rest a spell?”
Strolling together arm-in-arm, Caleb wondered at the fact that with the obvious business transactions that would take place in such an establishment, that he seemed to be the only male in attendance. He voiced his concern.
“I reckon the storm is keeping the regular clientele away,” replied his host.
Cassandra ushered Caleb into a sparsely furnished room, containing little more than a bed, a large chest and a small table supporting an oil lamp. Dim shadows danced about the walls from the flickering, smoky lamp. Caleb felt a prickle at the nape of his neck, something about the room tickled the edge of his senses. Surveying the room, it finally clicked . . . there were no windows. Before he could make an inquiry, the former preacher sensed movement directly behind him. Caleb reacted, but moved too slow. Struck from behind, stars exploded in his eyes. As darkness filled his vision, Caleb Walker glimpsed the young Indian woman staring at him, from behind Cassandra.
Read the rest of this and the further Travels of Caleb Walker this November
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Thanks!
Thomas James
About the Author
Thomas James is an aspiring writer with interests in Web Design, Art, Weight Training, Fitness Instruction and Horror stories, novels and movies. His favorite and inspirational authors are H.P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, Brian Lumely and Stephen King, and on occasion Shakespeare which he finds truly scary.
Thomas James currently resides year-round in Monmouth County, New Jersey, mostly because he cannot afford to move to Hawaii.
You can visit his website https://www.tjendeavors.com/
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