The Median
Copyright© 2011 Nicholas House
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.
All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For my mother who always believed in me and helped my dreams become reality
Contents
The Median
Prologue –The City of Light
I-I – A Long Night
I-II – A Dark Past
I-III – VI of I
I-IV – Desert of Desolation
I-V – The Wretched
I-VI – The Other Side
I-VII – Necrosis
About the Author
Titles by Nicholas House
Book I
The Median
Prologue –The City of Light
“Then I saw a great white throne and him who was seated on it. Earth and sky fled from his presence and there was no place for them”
-Revelations 21:11
Mankind’s affliction with the physical and the spiritual has surpassed what anyone could have expected. Nations wage wars for the supposed 'Glory of God' in vein attempts to obtain their deities grace. No-one ever supposes that they are fighting for the wrong side, plunging themselves ever deeper into the satanic flames.
Evil has always existed, not in the form of a devil or land of flaming brimstone but in people. People’s greed and lust for power fuels deeds that shouldn’t even be thought of let alone carried out. An evil such as this can spread beyond life and if the will is strong enough, grow beyond control. Accepted is the fact that no-one should speculate about the next world. Is there an afterlife? Heaven? Hell? The true question is “What lies between?” A ghost world? Some kind of never plane, where the restless dead await their passage to the gleaming city of light. Or await their trial and judgement. None the less, no matter where, the evil of man will rule out and tyranny of the worlds hate will consume.
There are those who know things. Things about the Earth and beyond that should never be known. Most of these few people don’t believe it to be real and even fewer who acknowledge it to be true. Those few who do accept it are oppressed and dismissed by the masses and their ‘righteous’ religions as kooks and members of the occult. These people, though, are strong. Their abilities can place them in situations where reality can seem like a dream and dreams like nightmares. Still, the naive are at risk, the weak and the inexperienced. They can be seen as portals, unguarded gates by those longing to return from the other side, and are readily open to possession by powerful spirits with a long history in the median world. However, instances of possession are rare and are dealt with as much due care as they deserve, hidden as cases of extreme schizophrenia.
Like they can travel to our world, we too are able to cross the silent borders that divide our planes. But only the most skilled of Medians may do this at will with little fear of a lack of success or worse. These instances, though, are even rarer than possessions and are not only thought about by the masses with speculation but with a great air of impossibility. It is unlikely that Medians can physically control the dearly departed, to do this would require a power far greater than anyone has ever possessed, but they can merely commune with them, ease their concerns. Medians exist solely to guide the lonely dead to their spiritual destiny with as little disturbance to the world at large as possible. Maintaining the illusion to the mass populous that the unknown beyond remains exactly that. But on occasions restless souls will make themselves known and the medians purpose is called upon for much more than its original intentions.
I-I – A Long Night
“Absent in body, but present in spirit”
-Corinthians 5:3
As a child I was never a large believer in anything other than what I knew to be true and as far as I was concerned that was simply the world around me. There were dreams, though. Every child has nightmares but these were different; terrible visions of what I was sure couldn’t be real. My parents always told me that I had an overactive imagination. How could they understand when they never even wanted to try, what’s worse I believed them. At least up until that night. I was only twelve; the driving rain had never been a good condition to drive in. Our car was run off the road by a jack-knifing lorry and…No one should have to see that sort of thing, let alone a child when his parents are involved. There was only one possible thing worse than it and that was having to live thought it twice. In my dreams I had already seen it, every harrowing detail yet the very essence of what I had been taught told me not to accept it. For the next few months I lived with my aunt and every day wrestled to come to terms with everything that I had lived though and all the time experiencing more and more vivid visions, amazing places constructed of what was almost pure light, shadowy figures and an ever present feeling that I was not like the others. Eventually I accepted that I could no longer go on denying that what was so obvious. I had something, a gift, and to deny it would bring something that wasn’t even worth thinking about.
Sure, I’d been christened…Haven’t we all? It’s not as though I liked the religion or anything. Bunch of hypocrites really, to say the least. It all basically adds up to me trying to keep as much of a distance as possible between me and any sort of church. It must be that it’s some sort of cruel irony of fate that happens to be the first place they always tend to think of heading.
A dark, cold, October night. A flickering streetlamp casts an intermittent yellow shadow onto the wet street. A dark figure sits in a car parked adjacent to an old stone chapel, watching shimmering silhouettes against the strained glass.
After a minute or two he abruptly opened the car door and swung a leg out into the drizzling rain. He paused and looked to the gloomy sky, then back down and shook his head. The man continued to exit the car and slammed the door, forcing numerous beads of water to run forward from the sunroof onto the windscreen. He pulled forward his leather jacket and adjusted the collar in a vain attempt to gain protection from the rain, then began to stride towards the chapels double panelled opening.
He grabbed the Iron handle and listened though the door to what sounded like a scuffle, or at least a one sided struggle. Eventually the doors were pushed open and he entered briskly, leaving a drizzly mist in his wake.
Two youths were attempting to pull a poor box from the clenched arms of a clergyman.
“Hey!”
The youths quickly turned around and gritted their teeth, with one stepping forward and flicking his own collar up aggressively. “Wha’ du ya want!?” this was barked as though it were a command, even though the individual had absolutely no authority to command it with.
“I would like you to leave…” the man looked them both up and down in turn, “right now,” he began to walk forward, slowly sliding his hand inside his jacket.
“And ‘ow ya gunna make us!?” the second youth snapped, squeezing the tip of his Burberry cap together and spitting on the ground.
“I said now,” he smoothly drew a long barrelled six round revolver from a holster concealed under the glistening wet leather and pointed it casually yet very accurately at the nearest youth. “I suggest you comply,” he finished after a few seconds.
The youths shuffled uneasily and then started towards the door. The barrel of the gun tracked them out of the chapel and then began to fall as the door creaked to a close.
The priest stood, unsure whether to be pleased by the actions of this mysterious individual or appalled. Before he had a chance to spe
ak the chamber of the gun was quickly flicked open, its sharp click making the cleric jump and a voice came across from behind the still dripping leather as the revolver was brought into open view.
“Don’t worry…It’s not loaded,” the chamber was flicked back into place and the weapon was replaced into its holster.
“Thank you, my child,” the priest spoke at last and loosened his grip on the poor box as the stranger slowly turned around. “What is your name?”
“As if it matters…” he once again straightened his jacket and then looked directly at the priest “Weignright…My name is Richard Weignright,” his voice discerned itself as soft yet with an oddly distant texture followed by a quality described only by that of an echo. His general appearance seemed to perfectly match his voice. He was clean shaven and his thick black hair fell loosely into whatever style it appeared to see fit with flecks of his fringe tumbling about his brow.
“Thank you, Richard,” the priest reached a free hand forward in order to distribute a blessing but it was quickly pushed away.
“Don’t think you can thank me yet,” he looked around the chapel alter carefully. Two large candles burnt steadily, their light partially reflected by the polished brass cross at the centre of the