Robert Browne - The Paradise Prophecy

Below them, a sacred incantation was written in bold black ink- Quod apertum est, id aperiri non potest.

What is opened cannot be closed.

But it was the figure of the man with the sword that told Batty what he was expected to do, reminding him of the painting he saw in Istanbul, of the widow Judith attacking Holofernes. Reminding him of Saint Christopher’s selfless martyrdom.

The man with the sword was cutting off her head.

LaLaurie stumbled slightly and fell back. Callahan and Grant quickly stepped forward, grabbing his arms, holding him upright.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He looked at her. “You didn’t see it?”

She hadn’t seen much of anything. “A bright light, that’s about it. I covered my eyes for a couple seconds, then it went away. Next thing I know you’re about to collapse.”

He turned to Grant, but Grant just shook his head.

Callahan gestured to the pages. “They’re still blank. What happened?”

“Blank?” LaLaurie said. “You don’t see the drawings? The incantation?”

“All I see is a stack of really old paper.”

LaLaurie pulled away from them now and turned again to Grant. “I need to speak to Michael. I can’t do what he wants me to. Do you have a way to contact…”

He stopped suddenly, glancing around the crypt, then turned to the casket and quickly gathered up the manuscript and the pages. “We have to get out of here.”

“Why?” Callahan said. “What’s going-”

A rat skittered across the casket. Callahan jumped back, and something squished underfoot, squealing in pain. She whipped the flashlight beam downward, shining it on the floor.

More rats, maybe four or five. And as she swept the light around the crypt, she saw that the walls were moving-still more rats crawling out of the darkness, their tiny feral eyes squinting back at her.

Callahan had never had a problem with rodents. One or two on their own was fine. But this many of the hideous little creatures was just too much to take.

They started swarming toward her. One tried to sneak up her pant leg and she yelped and kicked out, flinging it aside. LaLaurie and Grant were kicking, too, shaking them off their feet.

Callahan watched in horror as more rats skittered toward them. Then the walls of the crypt began to shake, and one of the wooden coffins cracked open. A bony arm fell out, and Callahan may have been imagining this, but the fucking thing looked alive .

Then more rats began to crawl up her legs, two, then three, now four…

Grant grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the stairs, pointing the way with his flashlight, LaLaurie trailing behind them.

The steps were teeming with rodents now. Moving together, the three started kicking and stepping, working their way upward, the rats squealing and peeping and hissing, clinging to their pants as they moved. Several more were crawling up the walls beside them.

Suddenly one leapt onto Callahan’s head, trying to burrow into her hair. She smacked it with her flashlight, but it didn’t shake loose. She hit it again, then again, the thing squalling louder with each blow, until it finally gave up and fell to the stairs.

Reaching the top, Grant and Callahan dove through the doorway into the main vault, LaLaurie stumbling in after them, slapping a rat from his book bag. They were about to start back toward the ossuary when a sea of the little bastards skittered toward them like a hideous black wave.

Grant spun, shining his flashlight toward the back of the vault. There was a door back there.

“Come on,” he shouted. “Come on!”

They all moved together, kicking their way toward the door, then Grant flung it open to reveal another set of steps that led toward yet another door above. Grant gestured Callahan ahead of him, and they took them two at a time.

She was almost to the top when, behind her, LaLaurie yelped and fell. Within seconds, the rats were swarming up and over him.

As he flailed, trying to fling them off, Grant turned and got him by the collar, yanking him toward the top of the stairs. As they drew closer, Callahan grabbed a sleeve and pulled, swinging her flashlight mercilessly, feeling tiny bones crunch beneath its weight.

When they got LaLaurie to the top, she threw the door open, feeling the sweet night air rush in, then they pulled him out onto the church lawn.

Swatting the last of the rats away, Grant slammed the door shut, then helped Callahan pull LaLaurie to the center of the yard.

They collapsed next to him. There was blood on Callahan’s flashlight and she tossed it aside in disgust.

“Thanks,” LaLaurie huffed, trying to catch his breath.

Grant nodded. “Happy to oblige.”

And as they all struggled to breathe, Callahan saw something dark and malevolent seep out from under the door they had just come from-a black vapor that hung in the air, as if taunting them. Then it shot across the yard and disappeared into the night sky.

“Was that who I think it was?” Callahan asked.

LaLaurie sucked in a breath and nodded.

“I get the feeling she doesn’t like us much.”

“That’s not the worst of our problems,” he said. “I think she was inside my head. Saw what I saw. And if that’s true, she knows the incantation.”

“Incantation?” Grant asked.

“The key to freeing the sacred traveler.”

They didn’t have to call Michael.

When they stumbled into Grant’s lodgings, located at the edge of the church property, Grant flipped on a light and found a bearded man in his early sixties huddled in the center of the room, looking broken and abused, his face bloodied.

Callahan thought he was a homeless guy, but after a moment of hesitation, Grant seemed to know who he was and immediately grabbed him by the arms, helping him over to a twin bed tucked into the corner of the room.

He left a weapon on the floor behind him. A curved, antique knife of some kind, its blade covered with blood.

Callahan picked it up. “This guy means business. Who is he?”

“It’s Michael,” LaLaurie said. He was hanging back by the door, a somber expression on his face.

“As in Saint Michael?”

“That’s the one,” Grant told her.

She studied the guy. “No disrespect, but I was expecting somebody-I don’t know-a little more … shiny.”

“Shiny?”

“You know, all white, with wings and all that stuff?”

Grant gestured impatiently to another doorway. “Get me a wet cloth, will you? The loo is through there.”

Callahan went into the bathroom, found a washcloth hanging from a rack, then quickly wet it and wrung it out. When she went back into the main room, the guy on the bed-Michael-was stirring.

She tossed Grant the washcloth and he pressed it to Michael’s forehead, wiped some of the blood from his nose.

LaLaurie was still hanging by the front door, looking as if his cat had just died.

What was going on with him?

Before she could ask, Michael’s eyes blinked open. He looked momentarily disoriented, but shook it off and turned to Grant.

“I found her,” he said.

Grant’s eyes widened. “The traveler?”

Michael nodded. “There’s no mistake this time. It’s her. I know it’s her.”

“Where is she?”

His eyes clouded. “I had her with me, but I lost her. Beelzebub and his drudges.” He looked up at Callahan and LaLaurie. “It’s good that you’re both here. I hoped you would be.”

“You know who we are?” Callahan asked. Thoughts of the D.C. connection popped into her mind and she had to wonder how many people were involved in this thing.

Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Michael pulled out two leather straps and tossed one to Callahan, the other to LaLaurie.