Brian Keene - Ghost Walk

“I have fasted according to the Nomos, which is the Law, and have eaten none which is unclean and have drank only water. I have avoided spilling my seed and have abstained from worshipping at the temples of Ishtar or Lilith. Thus, I have kept my essence and remained pure for thee.”

Maria almost giggled when Levi mentioned spilling his seed, but managed to remain quiet.

“My lanterns are of the appropriate and required color. With them I have cast light upon the four Gates of the Earth, and have done so with only the guidance of the moon. I face the Northern Gate. There is no roof or lamp above my head, save for the sky. I have done these things in accordance with the Nomos, which is the Law. And thus, I command thy attention.”

Pausing, Levi picked up the broken silver spoon and placed the sharp edge against the ball of his thumb. Maria shuddered, biting her lip to keep from crying out as he pressed the silver into his flesh, slicing his thumb. He didn’t flinch or moan, gave no indication that he’d felt it. He held the wound over the copper bowl and squeezed three drops of his blood into the oil. As each drop fell, he repeated the same phrase:

“ Ia unay vobism Huitzilopochtli. Ia dom tergo Hathor .”

Maria tried to decipher the words. Some of them sounded Aztec or Mayan in origin. Others sounded Egyptian. And the rest seemed like total gibberish. She remembered what Levi had told her about the Daemonolateria . She’d commented that it sounded like Latin, and he’d corrected her, saying it was from a language that didn’t exist on Earth.

Humming, Levi held his thumb against his pants leg until the bleeding had stopped, and then he continued.

“I sit in the appropriate and required manner, safe inside a circle of protection. You may not molest me. I come here to open a gate. I come with awe and respect. I come seeking passage. I call upon the Gatekeeper, who gave to us the Nomos, which is the Law. I call upon the Doorman, who is the Burning Bush and the Hand That Writes and the Watchman and the Sleepwalker. I call upon he who is called Huitzilopochtli and Ahtu. He who is called Nephrit-ansa and Sopdu. He who is called Hathor and Nyarlathotep. I call upon he who’s real name is Amun. And thus, by naming thee and offering my blood thrice, I command an opening.”

Levi reached into the basket again and pulled out a worn paperback. The spine was cracked and a sales sticker from the used paperback store was affixed to the creased corner. The book was When the Rain Comes by Adam Senft. He held the book over the north-facing candle. It smoldered, then caught fire. He then placed the flaming paperback on top of the copper bowl. Smoke curled out from around its edges. The bowl’s contents must have been flammable because the fire quickly flared. The scent of burning oil became almost overpowering. Levi’s voice grew louder.

“This is the avatar of the one I seek. By following the Law and naming thee, I command you grant him safe passage to this place. He may not be harmed or molested by those who dwell between the walls or within the halls, or the denizens of Heaven nor Hell, or the realms between them, or the Thirteen, or the things that live in the wastes beyond the levels. Nor may he end up wandering and lost in that realm beyond the Labyrinth, in which there are no exits save death. I command thee, and so shall it be.”

Levi breathed a heavy sigh and then sat up straight. His body stiffened, his shoulders tense and rigid. His eyes remained fixed on the burning book. Maria’s legs were beginning to cramp. She started to stir, but Levi held up his hand, silencing her. Keeping still, she watched the flickering fire expand as it consumed paper and oil and blood. A plume of smoke curled lazily from the ashes. At its base, the fire remained only as wide as the mouth of the bowl, but the flames reaching into the air grew taller and wider. First a foot, then two. Maria shrank away from it. She felt the heat, smelled the singed hair on her arms. It didn’t seem to affect Levi. Beads of sweat ran out from under the brim of his hat and into his eyes, yet he remained motionless, unblinking.

His attention was focused on the fire.

It blazed higher. Impossibly so. Despite the diminutive bowl and the spare amount of fuel therein, the fire towered far over their heads. The flames changed color—first yellow, then orange, then a deep red. The smoke dissipated, leaving only fire. Maria leaned forward slightly and peered into the bowl. The oil and paper were gone, yet still the fire burned, even without any combustible fuel. The flames turned green. Instead of crackling, the fire hissed. Still, Levi did not move. Maria reached out and grabbed his arm, but he brushed her away. Reluctantly, she turned back to the blaze.

There was movement in the center of the emerald flames. As Maria watched, a scene unfolded, as if the fire was a window looking out on somewhere else—the interior of a small room. She saw grayish-white, featureless walls, devoid of paintings or fixtures. The flames expanded, revealing more of the room. There were three more walls, a yellow-tiled floor, and a single, heavily barred window. The details were stark and clear. To her amazement, she could see through the window. Maria realized it was looking out on the hospital’s parking lot, directly at the spot where she’d been sitting earlier that morning.

The room was empty of furnishings. A naked lightbulb hung suspended from the ceiling. A lone iron-framed bed sat in the corner against one bleak wall. A man lay on the bed, sleeping. He was covered in a single sheet and gray blanket. As they watched, he sat up, rubbing and blinking his eyes. Then he looked directly at them. His expression was one of astonished disbelief.

He can see us , Maria thought. Just like we can see him .

She recognized the man right away. Two years had passed. He looked different than he had in the newspaper clippings and his dust jacket photo. His face was lined and haggard and his once-thick hair had been shaved down to stubble. He’d lost weight. His wrists were twigs and his cheekbones stood out at sharp angles beneath his skin. His goatee, once neatly trimmed and jet-black in the pictures on the inside back cover of his books, was now wiry and washed with white. Not gray, but pure white. But it was his eyes that had changed the most. In photographs, his eyes had always hinted of amusement, or perhaps mischief.

Now, Adam Senft’s eyes just seemed haunted.

Maria felt a sudden wave of sadness, but didn’t know why.

Adam ran his hand across the top of his head, gaping at them. His mouth moved, but he made no sound.

“Mr. Senft,” Levi said, “please don’t be alarmed. We’re here to help you.”

The author’s voice drifted out of the flames, faint and faraway. “Y-you…this is…but I’m awake. They said the medicine would stop this. I’m dreaming.”

“You are not dreaming, Adam. I assure you of that. But you must listen to me. We are here to help you. We can get you free. But you have to hurry. The gateway won’t stay open for long. Can you move?”

“Y-y-yes…”

“Then step through the door,” Levi urged. “Quickly!”

“You—you’re Amish.”

“Not really. It’s a long story.”

“Do you drive a horse and buggy?”

Levi paused. “Yes. But I don’t see what—”

“Why do you drive a buggy if you’re not Amish?”

“The price of gas has increased quite a bit since you went into this institution. We’re at war. But that’s not important right now.”

“Why not? It’s my dream, right? I get to make up the rules.”

“Please,” Levi pleaded. “We know what really happened to you. We know about Hylinus and Nelson LeHorn.”

Adam cringed, pressing himself against the wall.