The Book of Paul -- A Paranormal Thriller (71 page)
William has always been the writer in our family. No one in all of time has exceeded his ability to spin his words into an inevitable web of actuality. That is his gift and our curse. My curse. Yet before I relinquish the pen and our grip on him, I thought of a clever ending to our chapter that seems worthy of his talent and our intrusion. Let us know if you agree.
While William was in the library, our loyal servant Ryan patiently awaited him outside the locked door, so he could fulfill his imperative duty. After a long while, he began to grow deeply concerned. He knew it was not his place to interrupt, that it could even be mortally perilous. Still, he was under strict orders to transport William and the Book to safety at the preordained time. Cautiously, timidly, he pressed his face against the door, rapping upon the wood as lightly as he could and still be heard. When he received no reply, he spoke as softly as he knocked.
“Sir, are you alright in there? Can I be of any assistance?”
There was no answer.
“Your car is ready, sir. Your father gave specific instructions that you were to be escorted safely home before nine o’clock this evening. It is of paramount importance.”
When William at last opened the door, his simple reply carried more weight and substance than any of the words or phrases he made before or since, in this or any other book.
“Yes,” he said. “I remember.”
He smiled. Martin looked in the rearview mirror and smiled. Rose was sleeping peacefully on the big back seat. She matched the leather and chrome perfectly. They’d been talking for hours before she dozed off. Hours. He couldn’t believe he had so many words inside him. She couldn’t either.
He suggested a drive upstate. Pay Johnny a visit. Bust him out. Rose shook her head and said with absolute certainty, “No. He wants us to stay away. Let’s go somewhere else.”
Somewhere else. They were heading west now. Fast. At this rate, he calculated they would be at the farm shortly after sunrise. He wanted Rose to see the wheat field in the early morning light. See how beautiful it was. Maybe they could even have that picnic.
He glanced backward every few minutes. Making sure she was still there. He watched with complete concentration, immersed and absorbed in every breath, every twitch of her hands, every pulse in her veins. Then he looked back at the lines on the highway.
He smiled again. Naturally. Honestly. It looked so different from the old imitation, the clumsy mask he tried to carve. Just thinking about Rose made the muscles gripping his mouth rise and bloom. He was here and she was here and they were here together. She would sleep and he would drive and watch her and guard her. Forever.
Before this moment, Martin could never understand why people talked about forever. He was trapped and would always be trapped in the smells and rhythms of the moment. But now he could see all those moments linking arms and stretching out a long, long way.
He sighed and smiled again. A final surrender. And he knew from a place deep inside that he could not…would not…ever kill again.
Tonight.
I woke up this morning in a huge mansion on Fifth Avenue, right across from the Met. I can see the banners hanging from the columns right outside my window.
The bedroom is pretty high up. Five floors. Everything in the room is white. White sheets, pillows, carpet, furniture…everything. On the sheets, right in the middle of the king-size bed, I found this ledger book, mottled black, blue lined pages. Blank.
So was my head. I couldn’t remember anything. Where I was, how I got here, anything. I thought I must have been on a real bender, but I didn’t have a hangover. Then I got really scared because I couldn’t remember what day it was, what month, what year.
I freaked out even more when I couldn’t remember my name. I went a little crazy at that point, searching around the room for my clothes. I found them folded neatly on a white bench at the foot of the bed. Black pants, black turtleneck…really soft and expensive. But no wallet, no identification. I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I didn’t recognize my face. I thought I was going to totally lose it, but the more I looked at my reflection, the more it seemed to fit, except…I looked so young.
Everything else seemed okay: big muscles, blond hair, blue eyes, smooth, pale skin. But something was missing. On my chest? Wasn’t something there before? Some scars or something? I don’t know. I don’t remember where I got this necklace either. With a key on the end. I looked around the room for a lock box, but all the drawers were empty.
I got a little pissed and started throwing things around, but then I calmed down and jumped in the shower. By the time I was finished, I was laughing. Loud. I got dressed and the clothes felt really good on me. I whistled a happy tune, opened the door and saw a gigantic elliptical staircase going all the way down to the bottom floor. White marble steps. Black iron railing. Black on white.
“Is anybody home?” No answer. So I walked down the staircase. There are long hallways going off in both directions on every floor. Lots of doors. The wood looks really old. Carved. Ornate.
When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I was in a big hall with really high ceilings. I must have been gawking, and I got a huge jolt when I heard a voice behind me.
“Is something wrong, sir?”
I grabbed my chest and laughed. The guy who asked me the question—Jacob, I learned—was very old and very scared. I don’t know why, but that made me laugh even more. I slapped him hard on the back, like we were old buddies, and asked, “Could you be telling me what the hell I’m doing here, you rickety old rascal?”
Jesus Christ. I have an Irish accent.
The old fucker didn’t say anything, but he looked like he was going to faint, especially when I shook my head and headed for the front door. He threw himself in front of me. “Out of my way,” I snarled, like I was really angry. But I didn’t feel angry.
And get this: He dropped to his knees in front of me. His knees!
“Forgive me, Master, but you left explicit instructions last evening that you were not to leave the house under any circumstances. Not until tomorrow. You said you wouldn’t be…ready…until then.”
“Master?” I asked, but part of me was chuckling inside. The old geezer stared up at me like I was going to chop off his head or something, but he stood his ground and started pleading with me again.
“Master, I’m following your direct orders. If you came downstairs, I was to request that you return to your room immediately…and begin writing in the book that was left for you. The journal.”
“My room? What are you prattling on about? Whose house is this? How did I get here?” I demanded, really feeling my oats now.
“This is your house,” he said, utterly terrified. “I am your servant, Jacob.”
My house. My fucking servant! I thought he was crazy at first, but somehow I knew he was telling the truth. I was feeling a little shook up myself, but I nodded and walked back up the stairs. Five floors. It was so easy. I felt so good. So strong.
So here I am, back in the bedroom. Writing. Why? Who knows? But as soon as I put pen to paper (nice pen, by the way), I have to say it felt really good, like it was my job or something. Anyway, that’s my day so far. I’m getting hungry now. I think I’ll have another talk with Jacob. Grab a sandwich. On the way down, I guess I’ll poke around a little. I noticed an open door on the third floor. A library.
Good. I’m getting bored with this shit. Maybe I can find something to read.
Richard Long is the author of
The Book of Paul
and the forthcoming young-adult fantasy series
The Dream Palace
. He lives in Manhattan with his wonderful wife, two amazing children and wicked black cat, Merlin.
The Book of Paul
is the first of seven volumes in a sweeping mythological narrative tracing the mystical connections between Hermes Trismegistus in ancient Egypt, Sophia, the female counterpart of Christ, and the Celtic druids of Clan Kelly.
Coming Soon in The Clan Kelly Chronicles:
THE BOOK OF DRUIDS
THE BONE KING
