Limbus, Inc.

The Sacrifice By Brett J. Talley

He couldn’t see anything, and all he could hear was a steady drip, drip, drip that thundered in his ears. Drip, drip, drip in regular beats, too loud to be real. And then it wasn’t real anymore. It faded out and almost away — but not quite — as his consciousness expanded to encompass something more than just that sound. His eyes fluttered open, but all he saw was red. A pool of crimson that seemed to expand beneath him as he grew colder. The drip of blood from his forehead added to the flow, but it was a larger opening somewhere else on his body that served as the fountainhead.

He started to lose focus, and the black shroud of unconsciousness mixed with the crimson of the blood on the edges of his vision. As darkness took him, his eyes fell on a piece of white cardboard floating in the midst of the red ocean. It hung there like a ship on the verge of floundering, until a rivulet of red water poured over its side. He watched as the blood touched the thick, black letters. And then, in the instant before consciousness left him, he would have sworn those same letters ignited in a flash of red light, the name they formed glowing in the night.

“So what were you doing at Cliff’s Edge last night?”

Katya. It all went back to Katya.

The detective waited, drumming his notebook with his pencil while Ryan thought about her.

“It’s a simple question,” he said finally, leaning forward in his chair and putting the sharpened end of the pencil to paper, ready to write.

Ryan looked at him. “No,” he said, “nothing is ever simple.”

Detective Fox frowned. Ryan wasn’t trying to be mysterious, but he knew that’s how he came off. The detective had been patient, giving Ryan time to recover after he was found that night, lying in a pool of his own blood outside of the Cliff’s Edge nightclub. Ryan had almost gone over that edge. He was as near to death as a man could be and still come back from it.

“There’s nothing much simpler than a bar fight, son. But I’ll never find the guys that did this if you don’t give me something to work with.”

Ryan thought back to Katya. “I was there to meet a woman,” he said.

“Ah,” the detective mumbled in a knowing way that made Ryan cringe. It wasn’t that simple, but he had chosen his words poorly. And now for Fox, it would always go back to the girl. A jilted lover, a guy who tried to flirt at the bar only to be rebuffed. A rival for her affection that saw Ryan as a threat, one that had to be eliminated. Yeah, for the detective, the answer was obvious. But he was right in one thing. The girl was the key.

But even that wasn’t true. It went back further than her. It all started with the nightmares.

A few days before the incident at the bar, Ryan lay in his bed, fighting sleep. It was a losing battle.

When they first started, Ryan had told himself that the dreams would go away. That once he was home long enough, the familiar would kick in. He would be reminded of who he was. Not Lance Corporal Ryan Dixson. No. He was Ryan from Carbondale. Starting linebacker on his high school football team. Son of David and Joy. Regular guy with a regular life. But the dreams wouldn’t let him forget. So he lay there, waiting. It hadn’t gotten better. In fact, it had gotten worse.

At first, when he landed in the States, they had come once every couple weeks. But with every few days that passed, he saw them more. The last night he had slept through without having the dream was Saturday. Now it was Wednesday, and he didn’t know if he could handle another one.

He wasn’t sure that he should call them dreams. They were more like memories in dream form. Night terrors of an actual event. No embellishment needed, for it took no dark conjuring to turn Ryan’s dreams into soul-rending flights of horror. No, the dirty work had been done in the real world. The only conjuring needed was the fumbling hands of a tribal rebel.

He was probably still alive, out there somewhere. That singular day was no doubt burned into his mind as well. Perhaps, on long nights in the Afghan waste, he and his fellows would sit round a low fire. In the sparking embers, as the others waited silently, ready to hang on his every word, he would weave the scene.

It was a convoy, seven Humvees deep. The Afghan raiders sat on a low hill a mile from the dusty, desert road on which the soldiers traveled. They were members of a local tribe. Not Taliban, but angry enough at the world and the invader to accept their generosity in the form of crude explosives.

Their methods were simple. Bury the device along the side of the road. Wait. When the target was over the area, trigger the bomb with a remote. Run.

The last part meant they were never really sure whether they succeeded. Sometimes the bomb went off too late or too early. Sometimes it just disabled the vehicle or caused minor damage. Most times it was more of a nuisance than anything else. But every now and then, it all fell into place. And that was the story the Pashtun man would tell his brothers in the dark watches of the night. Of the time that he killed an American.

Of course, Ryan never saw it that way, figuratively or literally. The dream was always the same. He was in the middle Humvee, the one that, by all rights, was the safest. He was sitting in the center of it, protected by the vehicle’s most heavily armored section. His back was to the windshield, facing Philip O’Connor. Philip was grinning. It seemed like Philip always was.

That smile was the last happy memory Ryan ever had.

It happened in an instant, as these things always do. One moment Philip was smiling. Then, somewhere on that distant hill, a man Ryan didn’t know and would never meet pressed a button. It took a split second for the signal to travel from the hill to the road. Long enough for a heartbeat. Long enough for the Humvee to roll the few extra feet it needed to for fate to have its due. But as thunder follows lightning, so too did the roar of the explosion follow the pressing of that button. On that roar rode death.

He only really heard it for a singular instant. After the pressure wave burst his eardrums, everything that followed was more of a low, echoing murmur, like he was sitting at the bottom of a well. Somehow that made everything all the worse.

He felt his stomach drop as the whole vehicle lifted into the air. But it wasn’t the feeling of weightlessness or the bursting of his ears that filled his nights with horror. It was what he saw.

Philip was sitting across from him, smiling. Then he was ripped apart. Even as it happened, even as parts of his body were twisted and torn off, he still wore that smile.

They said he died instantly, and Ryan believed it. He often wondered what exactly it meant to die instantly, though. It was true — the smile never left his face. But that only meant that his brain didn’t have enough time to register what was happening and send a signal to his muscles to better reflect it. Even if the control of every fiber was cut in that instant, even if that smile remained frozen in place, Ryan still wondered what the brain knew. If Philip’s last thoughts were simply the echo of soundless screaming, confined within the walls of his own mind.

Then Ryan wasn’t just thinking about it — he was living it. In that instant of reflected terror, he watched it happen again through his own eyes but with no power to stop it, a passenger in the flights of his own subconscious. As much a prisoner as one bound by chains.

He awoke from the dream as the sound of thunder ripped through the cabin of the vehicle and the body of his friend.

That night, the transition was a quiet one, his eyes simply fluttering open to the darkness that seemed eternal but in fact ended in the ceiling above. It had not always been that way. At first it was a shock. He would jerk himself from the dream, sitting bolt upright in his bed, drenched in sweat. At least, with time, he had overcome that part. Now that the dreams came more frequently, he had plenty of chances to practice self-control.

Not that it made it any easier to fall back asleep. No, in the hours that followed, he was as awake as he would ever be, even as he knew he would pay for it in the coming morning. There was no point in lying there and fighting it. If anything, that would probably make it worse, prolong the agony. He sighed as he pushed down the covers and pulled himself out of bed.

He wandered down the steps in the dark, not bothering with the lights. As if there was anyone else but him there, someone he might disturb, someone he might awaken. But he was alone, and he felt it.

He tripped on the final step, almost falling as he stumbled into his living room. He let himself collapse down into the recliner that sat in front of his television and turned it on. Then he reached over and opened the small refrigerator that he kept permanently stocked with beer. As he opened one, he couldn’t help but think that he was drinking more of it these days.

Bottle in one hand and remote in the other, he pressed a button and the electronic firelight of the television outshone the meager glow of the moon that had, until that point, provided the room’s only illumination. Ryan flipped through the channels, pausing briefly on an infomercial that made him smile for the first time in what seemed like ages. But it was a horror film that struck his fancy, one of those bad sci-fi flicks they only play at three o’clock in the morning. It wasn’t long before his eyelids began to grow heavy. They had almost closed completely when the movie faded out and the commercial began.

If it hadn’t been that particular commercial, Ryan wouldn’t have remembered it. If it had been anything else, he simply would have slipped away into sleep, never recalling the televised message he’d seen before dreams took him. Maybe then things would have been different. Maybe then, everything would have changed.

But it wasn’t just any commercial. It was something much different. Ryan watched through barely opened eyes, and later he would tell himself it had been a dream brought on by too much beer and not enough sleep. It started as a flash that filled the screen in blinding white before fading to an equally empty black. There was a pause then, the image emanating from the television now giving no light, and darkness held sway. But then from that black void, letters started to form, silhouetted in a dirty red. But it was the voice that broke through the dream-like haze that gripped Ryan.

“We are Limbus,” it said, as the shadowed outlines cleared into letters that formed the word. “We stand on the edge. We stare into the abyss. We do not discriminate. We do not forget. We employ. Join us.”

Then there was another flash of light, and in that flash Ryan saw a girl, no older than thirteen or fourteen. In that solitary moment, he watched her, wearing flannel pajamas covered in shooting stars and moons and unicorns. Rough hands grabbed her tightly around the arms and legs. And though she struggled, they did not relent. She screamed, and Ryan awoke, still in his bed.

The next evening he found himself in the bowels of Hendricksville Community College, standing in one of the basement hallways, staring down a corridor to a classroom that contained the support group for sufferers of post-traumatic stress disorder. HCC was housed in an ancient government building of post-War vintage. If it were one of the new lofts in the warehouse district, the exposed pipes and naked brick would no doubt have added hundreds of dollars to the cost of rent, and young couples and hip singles would call the place home. It just made Ryan feel dirty and worn down.

He had known for a while that someday, somehow, he would find himself in a place like this. It was hard enough holding down a job in the civilian world anyway, and bosses didn’t like employees who at any moment might find themselves back in the middle of a firefight or a roadside bombing outside some dusty town in Iraq or Afghanistan.

The dream of the night before had been the final straw. Somehow, he’d grown accustomed to the other nightmares, as horrible as they were. But there was something about this one, something sinister and disturbing, that he could not shake. He needed to get help, even if that help was only the kind ear of someone who had suffered the same pain.

That had been the plan, but like all plans this one was laid waste by the unexpected. His started to unravel the moment he saw Katya.

He would always remember that moment, the one when he caught a glimpse of her for the first time. It had been a revelation. She had been walking from one open classroom to another, probably finishing one meeting before his own was set to begin. It was a passing glance, but in that instant she cast a singular look down the hallway, and Ryan froze.

Maybe it was her eyes, pale green flashes that grabbed him even from that distance. Or the hair, a bright, crashing red all the wilder above the tight cut of her black jacket, one that covered a matching skirt that somehow seemed incongruous with the rest of her. Whatever the answer, it lasted only a second before that locked gaze was broken as she passed into the next room.

The session had not gone as Ryan expected. Sure, there were the obligatory introductions, the stories, the heartbreak. In a way, everything about that hour had made Ryan feel worse. At least his problems didn’t include lost limbs and shattered bodies. But he couldn’t brood on it, because he barely noticed it. He had something to distract him. Those eyes and their flashes of green were always upon him.

She didn’t make it obvious. She nodded at the right times during the others’ stories. She said the right things, and some of it probably even helped the poor souls that surrounded him. But he was the only one she really saw.

“So,” she said, leaning over the table, swirling with her straw the last remnants of cracked ice cubes around the bottom of an empty glass, “why did you come tonight?”

She had found him, after the meeting. He had pondered, as the last of the men’s stories drew to a close, how he would approach her. For that had been the one conclusion he had reached during that interminable sixty minutes — that approach her, he would. But in the end, he didn’t have to figure out an angle; she found him leaning against the refreshments table, pondering his next move, half-eaten stale cookie in one hand, watered-down Coke in the other.

What had followed had almost been too easy, one thing leading to another, tumblers falling into place in a lock. There was an Asian bistro down the road. Sushi place. He had never eaten there and he didn’t care for raw fish. But the local scuttlebutt had been that it was good, and he judged, unfairly no doubt, that it was the kind of place someone like her would like. She just seemed the type.

Things were cautious at first. They made small talk over drinks and edamame. The alcohol helped to smooth the introductions. Asahi for him. Something more tropical, a Mai Tai to be exact, was her preference. When the drinks were drained and there was nothing left but the clinking of ice, she had finally broached the question.

“So, why did you come tonight?”

It had been one, in all honesty, that he had not expected. “You heard my story,” he said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

“Oh, I heard your story. It’s just, it’s never the story, you know? Not the story by itself, at least. Everybody who comes to my meetings has a problem, but it’s a problem they keep to themselves. Problems they don’t deal with until something happens. Something bad. Guys like you, they come back damaged, but still unbroken. Usually it takes something that goes wrong here, in the States, to finally break them. PTSD is a lot like addiction. You can’t even start to cure it until you admit that you have a problem, and most people can’t admit that they have a problem until they hit rock bottom. What was rock bottom for you?”

Ryan leaned back in his chair until it creaked beneath him. Nervous laughter had never been his style, but it was the only thing he felt like doing in that moment. He rubbed his hand across his mouth and stared at the ceiling. Now he remembered why he never went to a shrink.

“I think it was the loneliness,” he said finally. “Day after day, sitting in my apartment. No job, no family, no one to talk to. My parents died a few years ago. Car wreck. I always meant to settle down but I never quite made it. My buddies, such that they are, they’re either still in or dealing with the same thing. Either way, I don’t want to bother them with it.”

“So you kept it in,” she said, “simmering, just below the surface?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“And what else?”

Ryan frowned and looked down at his empty plate. It didn’t matter. Suddenly, he wasn’t very hungry. “Well, the dreams. You know what I mean? I guess you hear that a lot,” he said with a sigh. “It was fine, and then I started having them. I don’t know. Dreams, nightmares, memories. Like I was there. Again. Like it was happening all over.”

“And you had those every night?”

“Not every night. But more and more. And then…“ Ryan trailed off. How to explain what he didn’t quite understand himself? “I don’t know. It’s just…” He could feel the sweat beading around his forehead. He wished she would speak. He wished she would say anything that would let him off the hook. Instead, she just stared. “It’s just, they seemed to reach a crescendo, I guess.”

“They got worse?”

“No. It’s hard to say. They got different.”

At some point in the conversation, her friendly, almost flirty, demeanor had dropped away and the clinician had taken over. Now he was very much a patient with a doctor, and as she sat there, fixing him with her eyes, staring across that distance, he felt uneasy. Almost frightened for the first time in years, like she was peeling away the layers that he hid beneath, one by one. Uncovering something below the surface, and maybe even deeper, that he had tried to hide. But when she smiled, the magic was broken.

“I don’t normally say this,” she said, “’cause there are too many guys trying not to deal with it, trying to just cover up the problem. But you, I think your issue is a little different. I think maybe you focus on it too much. You don’t bury it deep; you dwell on it. So what you might need,” she said, “is a distraction. A diversion. Something to change things up.”

He grinned. “And what exactly do you suggest, doctor?”

“Well,” she said, blushing ever so slightly, “I was thinking maybe you should get a job.”

“Ah, a job.” He was disappointed, and he didn’t do much to hide it.

“But,” she added, “I can think of a few other things that might take the edge off.”

This time when she smiled, it was with a touch of the forbidden.

That night was the first in many that he had slept till the morning, with neither the dreams nor the fear of them disturbing his rest. He awoke to the light of a risen sun shining through his uncurtained window, the soft feeling of her skin beneath his hands. Her breathing was deep, and it took all his concentration to remove himself from beneath her arm without waking her. He sat on the edge of the bed, smiling to himself about what had happened and what it might portend. He almost didn’t notice the piece of white cardboard that was sitting on the side table, right next to his wallet and her cell phone. He saw it, and then looked away. But it took his brain only a second to process what the black lettering said. And when it did, he felt the sweat bead on his forehead, cold and foreboding. Beneath a globe sprinkled with sparkling flecks was the word, “Limbus” and then, “We Employ.” He jumped when she put her hand on his shoulder.

“Whoa, there,” she said, giggling. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Where’d you get this?” he asked, letting it pass.

“Oh, that’s this employment agency I heard about from one of the guys down at the college.” She wrapped one arm around his chest and kissed his neck. “I thought you might want to look into it. Why?”

Suddenly, he felt very foolish. “It’s nothing. I just thought I saw this before somewhere.”

“So, you’ll look into it?”

“Actually, I’m thinking of going back in.” He felt her body tense.

“The Marines? But why would you do that?”

Ryan shrugged. “I’ve just been thinking about it for a while. I really belong there, you know? Maybe the best thing for me is to go back to what I’m good at.”

He turned to her, and in the brightening morning he watched her smile weakly.

“Yeah,” she said, “maybe that’s a good idea.”

Her heart wasn’t in it though, and he could tell. But he didn’t think long on it. If he’d had any doubts about his future, something about picking up that business card had removed them.

Ryan met Katya the next evening at The Cliff’s Edge. He’d never been before; she clearly had. He’d heard of it, and he knew it was one of the trendiest places in New Orleans. The formidable rope line proved no obstacle, though. What must have been only a few words from Katya to the well-constructed man in the short-sleeve shirt resulted in a quick nod and a wave of his hand. Perhaps it was that she was wearing a slinky piece of black nothing that revealed almost as much as he’d seen the night before.

The music was thick and pulsating. He let it surround him as he walked in, and each step seemed to be a little more difficult than the last, as if the sound and the air formed a solid mass. Katya said something to him, but the noise ruled over all, and he couldn’t make it out. She repeated it again, and this time he watched her lips. Does he want a drink. Yes, he does. He said so, but his voice was lost somewhere in the reverberations.

Katya left, and as she disappeared into the herd of people, Ryan turned to face the dance floor. It too was filled with bodies moving to the music that surrounded them. He supposed they were dancing, but it seemed more like a case of spiritual possession. Like the music was inside them. Like they were an instrument unto themselves. Or one of those crazy, psychedelic displays that changes based on the song played.

He felt Katya’s arm slip around his waist, her other hand holding a drink to his lips. Then she smiled and pulled him into the mass. The beat took them. Ryan felt himself become one with the tribe, and with every hit of the thumping bass he heard words in the rumble. Katya lowered her eyes, and between the beat and her dress and the words and her stare Ryan lost himself. The song morphed into another and then another, but Katya’s body always matched it, her knees bent and her hips swaying. Her hands traveled down Ryan’s neck and his body. Her hair flowed and swirled around her face.

It was the third song, or the first depending on one’s measure, before the feeling truly set in. A tingle in his hands and his toes, a fire in his stomach. Something unaccountable, as if he had ten drinks instead of half of one. A smile crept up Katya’s face, and he thought he saw something sinister in it. Then the music seemed to grow quieter, but he felt it in his chest, more intense than ever.

Ryan fell backwards, the room starting to shift if not quite to spin. Katya stood at the edge, the crowd behind her and around her all at once. The music played on, and Katya swayed with her eyes ever on Ryan. Her hands moved up her body until they were at her head. Until they ran up her face and through her hair. And then they were higher. Climbing and climbing. And then it was the same with them all, each person that surrounded her. They swayed to the sound of the beat. Pagan penitents at prayer. For what did they pray? For what did they reach? What did they seek? Ryan never got the chance to find out.

There was a commotion behind the crowd. Shouting, pushing. Katya disappeared into the melee, while Ryan was caught up in it. The roiling mass carried him from one darkness to another. It was then he felt the sharp pain in his side, the one that opened a hole and spilled his blood upon the dirty asphalt, the one that nearly killed him. The stab wound that left him lying in a hospital bed, answering the questions of a police officer.

The detective flipped his notebook closed and looked up at Ryan. “So that’s it then?”

“The next thing I remember, I was here.”

The detective frowned. “That’s not a whole lot to go on.” Ryan didn’t know what else to add, so he said nothing. “Oh well,” the detective said, pushing himself up and straightening his coat, “I’ll keep you informed, and I’ll call you if we need anything else. Oh, and by the way,” he said, turning as he reached the door and then walking back to where Ryan was lying. “I meant to give you this. Whoever stuck you took your wallet, and this was the only thing left in your pocket.”

Ryan shivered as the detective removed the thin piece of white cardboard from his pocket and dropped it on the table beside the hospital bed. He could really only read one word, but that’s all he needed: Limbus.

Ryan stood outside 453 South Rampart Street in New Orleans, only a couple blocks away from the Mississippi River. He removed the thin sliver of cardboard and studied it. This was the right address; the business card confirmed that much. But somehow Ryan had expected more than the non-descript and somewhat run down warehouse of which Limbus was one of the tenants. He checked the address one last time, and seeing that nothing had changed, stepped inside the front door.

There was no receptionist, only a callbox. It seemed as though at some time before there had been a number of tenants who called the warehouse home. But now the only name that remained was the one that he was looking for. He pushed a button, heard a beep, and waited only a couple seconds before a female voice answered.

“Yes?”

“Hi, this is Ryan Dixson, I have an appointment with Recruiter Hawthorne.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Dixson. Please, come in.”

The buzzing sound announced that he had been admitted, and Ryan opened the inner door of the warehouse, walking up the stairs that lead to a hallway. He had to pause half-way up, clutching his side where still-fresh sutures kept him from bleeding out of a wound that had cost him any shot at going back into the Marines.

“New beginnings,” he whispered to himself. That’s what Katya had told him when she encouraged him — almost made him, really — seek out Limbus. He started climbing again, and after only a few more steps, he found a sign that directed him down the right corridor. He hadn’t gone far before he stood in front of the Limbus office.

The waiting room itself was relatively bare. The Limbus company logo hung on one wall, a large globe that seemed to sparkle, and Ryan assumed that each tiny point of light indicated an office of the agency. Beside the globe was the picture of a fresh-faced kid younger than Ryan. “Employee of the Month: Dallas Hamilton” was written beneath it. Otherwise, there were only some chairs and the receptionist desk to fill out the room. He didn’t even see any magazines.

The brunette, who he assumed was the receptionist, was sitting behind an ancient looking computer screen, filing her nails and talking loudly on the phone. She winked at Ryan as he walked in, but didn’t bother to interrupt her telephone call to give him any further instructions. Down he sat in one of the grubby chairs across from the logo and waited. He’d begun to wonder if this was all a mistake when the door opened and out stepped a man.

He seemed completely out of place here. Ryan was no expert, but he knew the suit the man was wearing was high-dollar. The lines were too crisp, the shirt too delicate and constantly on the verge of falling into a thousand wrinkles, the tie too bright and the cufflinks too shiny for this ensemble to be a Macy’s special. Apparently, recruiter gigs at Limbus paid well.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Dixson,” he said extending his hand. He smiled, and Ryan couldn’t help but notice that his brilliantly white teeth lined up perfectly. “Of course, you are.”

“Please, call me Ryan.”

“Yes, Ryan. You may follow me.”

The two men went through the door behind the receptionist. She still didn’t say anything, but she did give Ryan a smile and another wink.

“So, Mr. Dixson,” Hawthorne said as he led Ryan down a hallway of what seemed like row after row of empty offices, “we were most fortunate that you contacted us. It is quite difficult to find good help these days.”

“Yeah, about that,” Ryan said, wondering if they would ever reach Hawthorne’s office, “what sort of positions are you looking to fill?”

“Oh,” Hawthorne said, turning and smiling again at Ryan, “all kinds. You can’t even begin to imagine the jobs I’ve doled out over the years. Everything from dog walking to other, more… how shall we say it… esoteric endeavors.”

“Ah.”

“But please, come in and sit down.”

Hawthorne opened a door and made a sweeping gesture to the seat in front of his desk.

“So, Mr. Dixson, I believe we have the perfect job for you.”

“Uh,” Ryan stuttered, shifting in the chair he had only just sat down in, “how would you know that?”

“Oh Mr. Dixson, we do our research,” Hawthorne said, reaching into a drawer beside him and pulling out a sheet of paper. “It’s so easy these days to find out everything you want to know about a person. I mean, your entire life is on the Internet. Did you know that, with a simple search, I can find the address of every place you’ve ever lived? Every parking ticket you’ve ever had? It’s amazing really. Of course,” he continued, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head, “I’ve always preferred the more old-fashioned methods. I find the tried and the true to be more reliable, don’t you think?”

Ryan looked at the strange man sitting across from him and a sense of unease settled uncomfortably on his shoulders. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Ah, yes, of course not.” Hawthorne put his elbows on the desk and picked up a rather attractive fountain pen. “Do forgive me. I tend to ramble on occasion. A bad habit, no doubt. But in any event,” he said, uncapping the pen and placing it on the piece of paper, “we should get down to business.”

He slid the document to Ryan, who leaned over in his chair and looked at it. “Employment Contract,” it read in big, bold letters at the top.

“This is what we have available for you.”

Ryan picked up the paper and began to read. “Not much to choose from, huh?”

“Well, you must understand. Our reputation is built upon our ability to provide the perfect candidate for every job.”

“Wow, Boston? You couldn’t find somebody closer?”

“As I said, our clients expect the perfect candidate. And in this case, that candidate is you. You will of course be compensated for the inconvenience. And, as you can see, the remuneration is quite significant.”

“Yes, I see that. Though you are a little short on the details here.”

In fact, the document Ryan held in his hands was completely devoid of details. The only concrete thing it provided was that the job was in Boston. Under the job description the document read only, “Perform instructions adequately, not failing to see the job through to the end.”

“Yes, about that. I know this is unusual, but I must request that you sign the document before I tell you what the job entails.”

Hawthorne saw the look on Ryan’s face and held up his hand. “Let me explain. The details are quite sensitive. Once you have heard them, you can back out if you wish, but we need you to be bound by the confidentiality clause. If you decide the job is not for you, we will pay you a hundred dollars, no questions asked.”

“But I didn’t see a…” Ryan looked down at the contract, and sure enough, there was a confidentiality clause at the bottom. He would have sworn that it had not been there before, but there it was, nonetheless. “Well,” he said after a moment, “it’s not illegal, is it?”

Hawthorne responded as if that was the funniest thing he had ever heard, laughing to the point of cackling, before trailing off into a simple, “No.”

“Alright,” Ryan said uneasily, though swayed by the thought of what he could get for the easy hundred, “that seems reasonable, I suppose.”

Recruiter Hawthorne watched as Ryan signed, the amiable smile never leaving his face. “Excellent. Now it is time to discuss your assignment. A week ago, a fourteen-year-old girl named Angela Endicott was kidnapped from her home in the Beacon Hill area of Boston.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ryan said, throwing up a hand as if to defend himself from some assault. “What is this, man? Shouldn’t that be something for the police to handle?”

Hawthorne frowned, obviously irked at being interrupted. “The police have been notified, I assure you. Her parents are cooperating with them fully. As of yet, they have no leads, nor do we believe they will find any. The culprits are professionals of the highest order.”

“Was there a note? A ransom or whatever?”

“Nothing. There has been no communication between the kidnappers and the authorities whatsoever. It is as if she simply disappeared into thin air. If there is evidence to be had on her whereabouts or her ultimate fate, the police have not found any.”

“Wow. And so now the parents have contacted you for help?”

“Not the parents, Mr. Dixson, the uncle. The parents are wealthy, yes, but the girl’s uncle is extravagantly so. Only he could afford our considerable fee.”

Ryan couldn’t help but glance around the barren white walls of the office, decorated only with the stains of previous tenants. Hawthorne took note.

“We spend our money wisely, Mr. Dixson. And we long ago found that office space and the baubles and trinkets that often fill it are not a high priority. We put value in our talent, and we pay them accordingly.”

Ryan nodded. “Understood. I meant no offense.”

“None taken,” Hawthorne said, the smile returning to his face.

“But I have to ask, why me and why you? Why not go with a detective agency?”

“Because the uncle, a man named Bernard Samuelson, understands that no detective agency will find the girl. It will take a man with a special skill set, one with which a person is born, not taught. A person such as yourself.”

The two men stared at one another across the short gulf between them for a few moments before Ryan said, “With all due respect, I’m beginning to think you’re a little crazy.”

Hawthorne’s grin never wavered, though Ryan wondered if he saw a touch of frustration work into the corner of it. “The payment is guaranteed, Mr. Dixon. You need only make a good faith effort and I assure you, succeed or not, you will be paid.”

“But I still don’t get it. Why me?”

Hawthorne’s smile grew wider. “Sometimes it takes a hero to perform such a duty. Besides, can you really turn your back on a face like this?”

Hawthorne slipped a picture from inside a desk drawer and slid it in front of Ryan. Whether he expected Ryan to gasp or not, he didn’t show it. For his part, Ryan could not hide his reaction. He had seen the girl before, a child no older than thirteen or fourteen. One with flannel pajamas covered in shooting stars and moons and unicorns.

“Good,” Hawthorne said. “You leave for Boston in the morning.”

Ryan pulled his jacket tight around his chest, fastening the second to last button in a stubborn if futile effort against the cold. It was a late April evening, and he had expected warmer weather, but the notoriously fickle Massachusetts climate had been his undoing. So he stood there shivering on the corner of Dartmouth and Newbury Street, in the shadow of an ancient Episcopalian church, watching as the girls in their too small — and too cold — outfits walked past, clinging to each other’s arms, off to some night of excitement and excess in the depths of Boston’s more enticing neighborhoods. For a moment, he thought of joining them. Of leaving the job and his life behind, starting afresh in a new place where the sun rose bright and clear each day. He thought of it, but only for a moment.

Ryan didn’t notice the Mercedes until it pulled beneath a streetlight and stopped. Ryan stepped forward and stooped down as a window lowered and the face of a man appeared, framed by the upturned collar of an expensive coat.

“Mr. Dixson, I presume.”

“And you must be Mr. Bernard Samuelson,” Ryan said, reaching through the window to take the man’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m sure. Please, Mr. Dixson, get in.”

The man opened the door, and Ryan slid inside. Before he could put on his seatbelt, the driver had already jerked away from the curb, into Boston traffic and a sudden, gently falling rain. It seemed that Samuelson had arrived just in time to prevent Ryan from having a very uncomfortable night, indeed.

“Would you like a drink, Mr. Dixson?”

Ryan hesitated, glancing over at the bottle of scotch that rested in a panel obviously custom-made for the man who now sat looking him over. “Is that allowed?” he asked. Ryan had always been a straight arrow, no matter how much he tried to avoid it.

Samuelson smiled. “While you are with me, all things are permitted.”

The man removed a stopper from the bottle and poured liberally, handing it to Ryan and filling his own glass.

“So Mr. Dixson,” Samuelson said as the car maneuvered through Boston at speeds that could not be legal, “I understand you were a soldier in a past life.”

Ryan watched as the car pulled off the city streets and on to the interstate. “I was,” he answered, “what seems like a long time ago now.” Without thinking, Ryan’s hand went down to his side, rubbing across his stomach where the newly healed wound still ached.

“It’s fortunate. I’ve found that men such as yourself possess an uncommon bravery. You’ll need it if you are to find my niece and save her life.”

“So you do think Angela’s in danger then?”

Samuelson didn’t immediately answer, but rather stared straight ahead. He clenched his jaw before nodding. “She is. Of that there can be no doubt.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Samuelson, but I don’t think I understand.”

The man laughed mirthlessly.

“No, my friend, there’s no way you could. I am a very wealthy man, Mr. Dixson. And a man in my position learns things that others do not know. They see things that others do not see. Not all of those things are pleasant. I have been told you are a reliable man, and I believe that you are exactly what we need. But I must warn you now, once you commit to this road, you cannot leave it. You won’t find our Angela without walking down paths that are better left untrod. If you wish to abandon this mission, now is the time for you to decide. But one way or another, I need your answer.”

Ryan looked out the window of the Mercedes as it sped along through the rain. In the distance was the sea, and in the lightning that rippled through the clouds he could see the breakers as they pounded upon the shore. He couldn’t know what he was getting himself into, but for a very long time he had felt as though his life was without direction. At least now he had a compass.

“No, Mr. Samuelson, I intend to see this through to the end.”

Ryan wasn’t certain, but it seemed that the compartment grew darker then, and if he were asked, he would have sworn that a flicker of a smile passed over the old man’s face in that instant.

“Very good, Mr. Dixson. I expect you have some questions. Ask them now, please.”

“The police…” Samuelson waived him off before the words could leave his mouth.

“You must understand now, the police are worthless in this. They will provide you no assistance, no leads. My sister is a sweet girl, but she has always been a fool. And the foolish never learn. Pay them no mind. The men who took my niece, they do not seek money, and no ransom will win her release. That task falls to you.”

“You seem to know quite a bit about all this, sir. Is there something you want to tell me? Did you do something? Offend someone? Did they take her because of you?”

The old man sighed and drank deep from his glass of amber liquid. Ryan hoped it would loosen his tongue and clear up the riddles. But the riddles were only just beginning.

“Do you know, young man, where we are going tonight?”

Ryan glanced out the window, noticing for the first time that they had left the interstate and were speeding down what could best be described as a country road. Ryan had never been to the northeast, and everything about his background had told him not to expect this. In his mind, New England was simply one great city, stretching from somewhere in Maine down through New York and Philadelphia and in to Washington, D.C. But as he gazed out into the black darkness of a rainy Massachusetts night, he realized he had been wrong. If anything, there was something ancient about this place, old and decayed.

“No sir, I can’t say that I do.”

“I don’t suppose you would. We are headed to a place of legend, my friend. To one of the oldest townships in the Commonwealth, a place made famous for awful things that happened here long ago — Salem.”

Ryan chuckled. “Witches? I don’t understand.”

Samuelson removed a cigar from his inside pocket and held it up to Ryan. “Care for one?” he asked.

“No,” Ryan said, “but you go ahead.” He watched as the old man pulled a gold-plated cutter from his pocket, snipping off the end before lighting the other with a match. The rich, thick smoke filled the cabin, reminding Ryan of a trip his friends had made to a local strip joint the night before he deployed.

“People are given to superstition, Mr. Dixson. No matter how rational they may claim to be. It’s in our nature. And it has, at certain times, served us well. But so too has it cost us dearly. You speak of witches, and that is no surprise. Salem is famous for that incident and the lives that were lost because of it. But it is not purely without cause that something dark seems to stalk that village. No doubt you have heard speculation about what happened there. Superstition, mass hysteria, even poisoning. All or none of that may have substance. But what if I told you there was more to it than that?”

Ryan grinned, and though he wondered what all this had to do with the missing girl, he couldn’t help but play along. “Mr. Samuelson, I hope you’re not trying to tell me you believe in witches.”

The man rubbed his chin and pursed his lips. “No, not quite, though I have seen enough to discount nothing. You see, my friend, the land you come from is mysterious in its own right. And those who have not seen it would say that the southern parts of this country are the darkest, the most mysterious, the wildest, and the most filled with the unknown. But they would be wrong.” As Samuelson spoke, Ryan looked out the window of the car as it passed through dark forests of low hanging branches, across broken-down bridges and rock fences built with stones pulled from fields by the first men to ever break the land for farming. “This is an old place. Everyone knows, of course, that the first white settlers of this land did not find it abandoned. But what many do not know is that neither did the Indians who once roamed its vales and great, domed hills. There are ruined stone monuments, monoliths of an ancient culture far older than the Wampanoag or the Makitan. Who can say what purpose they served? Who can say what rites were howled upon them in the dark watches of some eldritch night?”

Samuelson shifted in his seat and took a long drag from his cigar, blowing a cloud of smoke that swirled and rippled through the air. “The settlers called these places the shunned lands, and, as the name implies, they avoided them. At least at first. Man’s spirit is weak and given to laziness and sloth. The great stone monoliths served well as foundations for houses and stores and even churches. The infamous trials of Salem were held in structures built upon the altar of some old religion’s stone of sacrifice. Ironic, don’t you think? Ah, I see you’ve gone dry.”

Again Samuelson uncorked the green bottle now half-filled with amber liquid, pouring another glass for Ryan, even as he tried to refuse. But his heart wasn’t in it. He had other, more pressing, interests.

“All that’s very interesting,” he said, “but I’m afraid none of it will help me find Angela.”

Bernard looked down toward his glass and sighed. In his frown, Ryan read disappointment. “Did you know,” he said, “that every year, hundreds of people simply vanish? Just disappear? That one day, they wake up and they go to work or to school or to church. They wave to their neighbors, they say good morning to their co-workers, perhaps they even say goodbye to them as they head home. But somewhere along the way, something happens. And in that moment of ultimate mystery, they simply are no more. No ransom letter. No sign of struggle. No overdue mortgage or embezzlement scandal to give rationality to an explanation, whatever it may be. A life with all its complexity, the story of a soul, comes to an end with nothing more than a fade to black. Tell me, Mr. Dixson, how do you feel about that?”

Ryan shrugged. “I guess I would disagree with the premise. No one just disappears, Mr. Samuelson. There’s an explanation, a story if you will, even if we don’t know it.”

“Ah yes,” the old man said, raising his glass, “you are right. There always is a story. And there is a story here, Mr. Dixson. But you must discover it. If you are to do that, you must see what I have to show you. You must understand the world better than you know it now.”

It was only a second later when the Mercedes pulled off the main thoroughfare onto another. Ryan had thought that the road through the forest was less than ideal, but it was nothing compared to the rocky path they now found themselves on, little more than a gash cut through a field. Ryan peered through the darkness, but although the trees had opened up to reveal a wide expanse of pasture, he could make out nothing in the cloud-obscured moonlight. But they hadn’t gone far when a stone edifice seemed to rise from the black sea of undulating grass. Ryan’s first thought was that it looked like a church.

“Long ago,” Samuelson said, “this was a place of worship. It has since lost any ecclesiastical association. This ground is no longer holy, though it is hallowed, in its own way.”

The Mercedes pulled in next to a long line of vehicles, many of which possessed luxury that put the German car to shame. As Ryan slammed the rear door, he looked up at the rotting steeple and wondered how many parishioners had spent countless Sundays called to worship by its bell. But that was long ago. The broken stained glass, the crumbling masonry. People had not come within those walls — at least to worship — for a very long time indeed.

“We enter through the back,” Samuelson said. “The main entrance collapsed years prior. It’s just as well. It would be unseemly, I think.”

The chill from earlier had turned to ice, the cold rain that had fallen stealing what little warmth the air had held. But the clouds had broken, and the sky was clear. In the light of the moon, Ryan had no trouble marking his way.

The two men — what had happened to the driver, Ryan couldn’t say — proceeded up the gentle sloping hill to a stone-walled fence that sat behind the church. The gate was open, rusted that way by Ryan’s estimation. Beyond was a graveyard of the oldest variety, a great ancient oak in its center. The stones were marked well with the heavy chisel of some undertaker from long ago, the winged death’s-head crowning most. Even in the wan moonlight, Ryan could make some of them out. The dead interred there went back to the Revolutionary War and beyond. Below their names were written their stories. Tales of men and women who travelled across the seas to settle the wilds and their sons and daughters who fought the battles to win them.

“These lands hold many tales. They were settled here long ago, during the first wave of immigrants from the old country. They found in this place something they did not expect, something that was far beyond the skills of the Wampanoag that made this their home. Something more akin to the old world than the new. A monolith of stone, one that went down into the earth. They could not destroy it, so instead upon it they built this church.”

They passed through the last of the graves and reached an alcove with a low overhang that Ryan had to bend down to avoid. A man stood in front of a sturdy wooden door — a door that, unlike the rest of the church, did not seem old or run down. He was sporting a suit that, to Ryan’s eye at least, was quite expensive. Either he knew Samuelson or information was conveyed to him through the plastic earpiece that he wore, because he nodded once before opening the door.

“The oldest and most honored tombs are within,” Samuelson said. “It is there that we go.”

“When was the church abandoned?”

“In the 1890s,” answered Samuelson. “The pastor was a rather excitable man by the name of William Hickman. He was an eccentric, even in an age of eccentricity. He preached to his flock of the end times, speaking to them of his apocalyptic vision of a coming collapse of all things. But for him it was more than just mere speculation. He believed it, and believed its coming was imminent. And he told them so.”

The chamber beyond was darkened, a black corridor. Samuelson removed two flashlights, handing Ryan one.

“There was an attempt once to light the church, but as you saw there is no electricity, and the noise of the generator was most unpleasant.”

The feeble beams pierced the darkness but slightly, and for a moment, Ryan felt as though he were an explorer of old, cast into the darkened tomb of the Pharaoh with nothing but the pale glow of a torch to lead the way.

“So what became of the Reverend?” Ryan asked.

“Ah yes, the Reverend. Well, it has been said by many that the great and abiding human frailty of the preachers of our day is that they do not live what they teach. That could not be said of the old Reverend. He lived it, to the ultimate fault.”

The passageway opened up, and Ryan realized that they were standing in what remained of the worship hall. The front had all but caved in, the pews moldered and rotted where they were left behind. An ancient baptistery sat at the front near where Ryan stood. It was bone dry, a scattering of dead leaves within, and Ryan thought it remarkable that such a thing ever contained water.

“When Sally Jenkins went missing,” Samuelson continued, “the last place the authorities thought to look was here. But one can only search the woods and fields for so long before the truth becomes evident. They found the Reverend, bathed in her blood, in the heart of the stone edifice that is the foundation of this church. Her body lay upon the ancient alter, her insides spilled across the floor. He had cut off her arms and legs, leaving one in each of the cardinal directions of the circular room, as if forming a bloody compass.

“It is said that the old man had gone crazy. Mad, as any man who does such a thing must be. When they found him, he would speak not a word in answer to their questions, muttering only to himself that he had made a mistake. That he had been wrong. That more was required than her blood. When they found him, he held a needle and thread in his hands. One of her eyes, he had already sewed open. He was in the midst of doing the same with the other. It was said that, in his madness, he thought that if only her eyes remained open, life would return to her body as well. A foolish thing, though I suppose no more foolish than some other such beliefs.”

“What happened to him?” whispered Ryan. “Was he tried for his crimes?”

Samuelson chuckled. “No, no, no trial. No, those were the days when justice for such incidents was often swift and devoid of mercy. When they found him, they did not waste their time with lawyers, judges, evidence, or courtrooms. The tree, the one that stands in the midst of the graveyard, the old oak with deep roots that burrow into the earth, the one that looks as though it has stood here since the beginning of time? It was there then as well, and its branches were strong enough to hold a man. It was from it that they hung him.

“He did not protest. Rather, he accepted his fate. Accepted it gladly even, some said. He thanked his captors, thanked his executioners. He told them that they were doing what must be done. It enraged them further, to hear him speak so. That he had killed the girl was bad enough. That he had butchered her as he had, sadistic. But the thought of this man welcoming the end? Praying for death? That was simply too much. Too much for any good man of Salem to bear. Thus they not only killed him, they left him there, hanging from that tree. Till the birds and the beasts and the insects of this land devoured the whole of him.”

Samuelson looked at Ryan and smiled. “As you can imagine, such a thing had a negative impact on church attendance. With its flock gone, this edifice fell into disrepair. That is, until my associates found it and restored it to its former glory and purpose.”

Ryan cast a glance around the empty worship hall, allowing his beam of light to guide his eyes. “No disrespect, Mr. Samuelson, but it doesn’t seem like much restoration has been done.”

Samuelson smiled. “Ah, let not your eyes deceive you, Mr. Dixson. All this is but an illusion. Follow me, and we shall see what goes on beneath.”

Ryan did as he was told, following behind Samuelson as the man climbed the steps behind the broken down altar and empty baptistery. There was a tomb in the rearmost room, a stone sarcophagus. Samuelson’s lamplight fell upon it. He looked to Ryan.

“You seem to be a perceptive young man, Mr. Dixson. This is the oldest of the sarcophagi in this church. Notice anything about it?”

Ryan looked, but he did not see. Before him was nothing but a great stone slab, the familiar winged death’s-head at its crest. But it was only a moment before it became obvious.

“There’s no name,” he said. “There’s no name on the tomb.”

“That is correct, Mr. Dixson. There is no name, but there are words. Do you know your Latin, sir?”

Ryan grinned in the darkness. Where he came from, Latin was not high on the list of required courses. “Two years of Spanish,” he said, “and I don’t remember much of that.”

“Well, then allow me to translate. It says, ‘sepulchrum omnes’ which means, ‘The Grave of All Men.’”

“I don’t understand.”

“Death, my friend, is everywhere. All men will die, whether they truly live or not. And when they do, they will return to the earth. But there are some places where death is more present than others.”

Samuelson placed his hand upon the skull and pressed. To Ryan’s amazement, the stone slab seemed to give away at the simplest of efforts, opening a great black maw, like the mouth of some unholy beast. But it was not so long before Ryan became aware of a preternatural glow emanating from the cavern beyond.

“Let us go, Mr. Dixson. What I want you to see is beyond here. What you need to see if you are to find our Angela.”

Samuelson stooped low, slipping beneath the marble overhang, sliding into the shadowy mist, passing into what was both an unnatural light and a frightful darkness.

Ryan rose to find that the cavern opened up after he passed beyond the mouth. It was tall enough, in fact, that he could stand upright with no trouble. There were stairs that led further down. Without speaking, Samuelson began to descend. And so, without speaking, Ryan followed.

Down they went on that spiraling stone staircase, curving around itself into the depths of the earth, until the air that had been frigid seemed warm by comparison, the cool constant of an underground cave. How long did they descend? Ryan couldn’t say. But when they reached the bottom, Samuelson turned and said, “Follow close. The corridors are many and winding. As in life, they are full of twists and turns. We must follow the right path, lest you find yourself lost.”

The old man had not exaggerated. While the descent had been long, the walk through the curving tunnels was interminable. It was only when Ryan wondered just how far they had gone that they turned the final corner.

They came to a great archway. Two men, suited and stoic, were standing on either side of the rounded opening. Beyond them, Ryan could see the flickering light of great candles or torches. And he could hear the murmur of the gathered crowd. When the men saw Samuelson, they nodded. One turned, and from somewhere beyond the archway he produced two goblets, handing both to Samuelson. He in turn gave one to Ryan.

“The drinking of wine,” Samuelson said, “is a holy rite in all the world’s great religions. It is, in some, the only truth they bear. For as man bleeds, and in bleeding dies, so too does the grape give up its life to produce that which in lies truth. And just as the blood maintains its vitality even when it leaves the body, so too does wine give life even when it has been pressed from the grape. Don’t you think?”

Ryan had questioned his presence here several times, but it wasn’t until then that he began to consider that perhaps Samuelson might truly be mad. It was an unfortunate time for such a revelation, here in the depths of this place, where he was at the man’s mercy. So he did all that he could to appear as if he believed fully in the person who stood before him. He nodded once, and took the cup that was offered him.

“Excellent,” Samuelson said. “To the gods!”

He raised his glass, and without waiting for Ryan to do the same, drank down the wine in one furious gulp. Ryan followed suit. But just as the liquid had barely touched his tongue before he swallowed it, it was but only an instant before he regretted the decision.

Samuelson smirked, and there was something sinister there. “Exquisite, isn’t it? The effects are almost immediate.”

Ryan barely heard him. It was as if he had swallowed fire. The flame coursed down his throat and into his stomach, and then it was flowing through his arteries and his veins. Every inch of him burned, and even the sweat that drenched his clothes could not smother the conflagration that engulfed him.

“Come,” he said, “I have much to show you.”

If his legs hadn’t begun to move of their own volition, Ryan would have sworn that he was unable to follow the old man’s command. And yet, move they did. It was a bizarre sensation, a passenger in his own body, watching as his feet carried him into the great, vaulted chamber. His movements were swift, if unsteady. He passed through the archway into what could almost be called an amphitheater. There were four different entrances to the circular hall, cut into the rock at diagonals. In the center was a massive, raised stone slab. And surrounding it were men standing in ascending rows five deep. In another circumstance, Ryan would have felt underdressed, for all of them wore their finest outfits. The noise of their chatter had been deafening, but when Ryan entered, their roar fell steadily down to silence. They turned their faces upon him, and in their eyes, Ryan saw recognition.

“Yes,” Samuelson said, “the guest of honor has arrived.”

The old man led him to an empty spot a few feet from the stone slab, positioning him so that he faced it. And then it wasn’t just Ryan’s physical body that was affected, but his mind as well. The world seemed to shutter and then crack. The flames that leapt from the torches that flickered around the hall seemed to dance before him, as if they had a mind of their own, as if some hand guided them. The faces of those who surrounded him melted and reformed, and in the shadows that played upon the walls of that accursed place danced creatures that no mortal man has ever gazed upon and lived.

“The wine is powerful, yes? Tis the blood of the gods, or so the Greeks would have told you. The Christians too, if the rites are said properly over the fruit of the vine. And I can assure you, the rouge to which you were privy is most sacred indeed.”

For a moment, the storm within Ryan’s mind seemed to ebb, and he thought the room grew dimmer. But this was not his mind playing tricks on him, but rather the image of the truth as the men who stood guard extinguished all but one of the torches that had lit the chamber before. It was as if the sun set in that place, and in the coming dark Ryan’s eyesight grew sharper, and although he should have been able to see little, his mind perceived all.

From the portal immediately across from him emerged a figure. He wore a cloak, long and black, and the hood obscured his face. The room grew still except for his movements — the exquisite, graceful flow of his body as it moved. And it was from those delicate sliding footfalls that Ryan realized — this was no man.

Her body flowed around the stone slab and came to rest in front of Ryan. His eyes grew wide as she removed the hood that had obscured her face. He had the same feeling of lightheadedness as he had experienced the first time he’d looked upon her. But the bright, crashing red of her hair had an unholy shimmer that night, and her eyes, those pale green flashes, glowed with a light of their own. But there was yet one more thing that was different from that first night in Hendricksville Community College. As the robe slipped off her shoulders into a black puddle around her feet, she was completely nude. And then she began to dance.

At first she moved to nothing, her hips swaying to the sound of silence. But then there was a change in the air, an almost imperceptible drumming sound, the beat growing louder with every second, but never so much that Ryan could say from where it came or that it was anywhere other than his own mind. And the piping, the demonic flutes that called from some swirling chaos.

“Why does she dance?” asked Samuelson. “She dances not for us, but for the gods to come. For dancing is like singing, don’t you think? An expression of pure, human emotion. This one through action, rather than sound. It is a beautiful thing.”

He removed a silver case from the pocket of his jacket, pulling a cigarette from inside. With a flick of his wrist he struck a match. The flame glowed brightly in the darkened chamber, and the smoke, more pungent than any Ryan remembered, stung his eyes.

“It’s the dance of the seven veils, you know?” the old man said, gesturing towards Katya with the lit end of his cigarette. “’Tis an ancient dance, the one that cost John the Baptist his head in the long ago. Of course, in this instance at least, the veils are left to the imagination.”

He took a deep drag from his cigarette, and as he flicked ash to the stone ground below, he blew the smoke in Katya’s direction. But it did not dissipate as Ryan would have expected. Rather, it seemed to surround her, to cloak her in a translucent shroud. She moved within that mantle, her hands traveling over her body, starting with her hair and moving down her neck, farther, to her breasts. And then farther still, while her lips parted in the ecstasy of her fingers.

“Yes,” Samuelson said, throwing the dying end of his cigarette down on the ground and crushing it beneath his heel, “she dances for they who are, for they who were, and for they who will be. For those who rumble in the darkness, who walk in endless night through the vast infinity of the cosmos. And for they who seek their return. She calls to them with her body, just as those nameless cults that built this temple — supplicants who never died and never will — shout and gibber their names into the howling winds in the lonely and forbidden places of the earth. And they hear them too, Ryan.

“They hear them, just as surely as you hear me. They seek a return, when the stars are right. As they shall be one night hence, when the Beltane moon rises above this place, and the night of Walpurgis begins. They who were can be again. But of course, their entrance into this world is no easy one. For there can be no birth without pain, no forgiveness of sin without the shedding of blood.”

Ryan’s eyes grew wide as it happened. As he saw. From behind where she stood, where she swayed to the deep drumming of the earth. And the piping, those insane, discordant melodies. The black figure rising, hooded and cloaked. Ryan sought to cry out, but he was only a mute witness, as much a prisoner as if chains bound him. On she danced, oblivious to her fate. As all are.

The hulking beast behind her — for Ryan could not be sure if it was a man or something else — produced a long, curved blade from somewhere within the folds of his cloak. He pressed the sharp metal edge to her throat. And yet still, she danced. Then, in one movement, he severed skin and tendons and arteries and veins. Her head hung in space, still attached to her body only by a thin flap of skin and the merest of pale, white bones.

As the bright, crimson fountain sprung from her throat, showering Ryan in her thick, sweet, viscous blood, she still danced. Until Ryan, the sound of distant laughter dying in his ears, collapsed into the black oblivion of throbbing drums and maniacal piping.

Ryan awoke to sunlight as it poured through his open window on to the bed on which he lay. His hand went immediately to his chest, and he fully expected it to come away covered in crimson ichor. But there was nothing, even if he could still taste the metallic tang of the unspeakable in his mouth. He threw the sheets away, and only then did he realize he was naked. He flung himself out of bed, nearly stumbling over his open suitcase. The clothes that he remembered wearing were draped over a chair, just as he had left them when he had showered the night previous. For a moment he paused, wondered if it had all been some sick dream. The darkest, most vivid nightmare he’d ever had. More real than even the visions of war-torn lands that had invaded his consciousness, memories of that awful day in the deserts of Afghanistan. Dreams of things that had been real.

“No,” he whispered, even to himself. “That was no dream.”

He picked up the phone, still standing naked in the dawning light of a Boston day. He rang the front desk first. “What day is it?” he asked.

“Saturday,” the girl answered.

“No! The date! The date!”

The girl on the other end of the line hesitated, and he realized he must sound mad.

“April 30^th,” she stuttered, her voice shaking.

He swallowed hard. “Thanks,” he mumbled as he re-cradled the phone. A whole day. He had lost a whole day.

Or maybe he had lived it.

He knew one thing though. Today was the day of which Samuelson had spoken in his dream or his vision or his memory. The 30^th of April, the May-Eve, Walpurgis. He knew little of the date. Only what he had heard, read in certain forbidden books that he had enjoyed as a child. But what he did know frightened him. It was on Walpurgis, or so they said, when the veils between the worlds were sundered; when the ancients believed that those dark beings from beyond the borders of our world, could, if so invited, pass into our own. For centuries, they had built bonfires on that eve, great flaming beacons of light meant to chase away the night.

He considered his options. He was sure now, certain, that whatever had befallen him the night before, there was one thing that was beyond doubting. Samuelson was no innocent. Whatever had come to the house of Angela Endicott was his doing. And if she was in danger, it was he who had put her there. What had happened to Katya was but a prelude, a glimpse of what was to come. For if it was blood that was required, it would be Angela’s that would be spilled, sacrificed to whatever dark gods, whatever fallen idols, that Samuelson and his associates worshiped.

Ryan picked up the phone again, intent, despite his previous instructions, on calling the police. That seemed to be the one course of action that made sense. But he had not pressed a single digit before he abandoned his plan. He remembered who Samuelson was and, more importantly, who were his compatriots that previous night. They had been of wealth and power and privilege. No, the police could not be trusted. It was as Recruiter Hawthorne had said. They would be of no help to him.

Hawthorne.

He fumbled for his wallet on the bedside table, removing the still pristine business card contained within its folds. The tiny specks of diamond on the dappled globe shimmered. He dialed the number. It rang once, twice, three times before a machine answered. Ryan almost hung up then. But something told him, if he did nothing else, he should at least leave a message. And so he waited. A voice came on the line, one he did not recognize and did not expect.

It said, in tones quiet and soft — yet steady — that were neither male nor female, “We are Limbus. We stand on the edge. We stare into the abyss. We do not discriminate. We do not forget. We employ. The job is the seeker’s. The duty his, and his alone. To fail or to succeed, lies only on his shoulders. That is the contract. That is the promise. That is the bargain. There is only one.”

Ryan waited for the beep, but it did not come. Instead a soft click announced the line was dead. He cursed under his breath and dialed the number again, but this time, something even more unexpected met his ear — the recorded voice of an operator telling him that the number had been disconnected. Ryan sat there, on his bed, still naked, cradling the dead phone to his ear, wondering what had happened, how he had come to this, how he had found himself here.

The light still streamed through his window, a blue shade dimmer. And then he realized — it was not the rising sun that he looked upon, but one that was setting. It was this realization that sprung him to action.

Thirty minutes later, he was speeding up Route 1 in a rented car. The night had fallen quickly over the Massachusetts countryside, faster than he expected, faster than seemed possible even. He wondered at it, though not for long. His mind was filled with other thoughts.

The night was not so black after all. A gibbous moon had risen, holding sway over the sky and the earth in its fullness. Yet somehow it was not comforting. No, it was hate-filled, angry. And in its glow, Ryan saw nothing but death. It was as if that great orb cast down darkness over the land, not light.

He drove by feel. He had only barely noticed the path they had taken the night before, and by all rights, he should have been unable to retrace it. And yet, his hands knew the way, and the car seemed to drive itself to his destination. The terrain grew darker and wilder, the road more worn, the path less trod. He wasn’t surprised when he found himself on the narrow, winding gravel trail that led to the ancient church, though he marveled at how quickly he arrived. Nor was he surprised when he found no parked cars around it, as they had been the night before. But they were there, waiting for him. Of that, he had no doubt.

He left his car behind, but not before removing the 9 mm he had put in the glove compartment, his sidearm from what now seemed a lifetime ago. When he slammed the door behind him, the echo thundered across the hillside, rebounding through the cemetery and off into the forest. It was the only sound he heard. The normal life of the wilds was silent, and even the wind did not stir.

Ryan moved through the gravestones, training his gun on the rear entrance to the church. But there were no guards, and the door sat open, as if it had been locked in that position for all time. Ryan made his way inside, fishing the flashlight he’d bought at a Route 1 gas station out of his pocket. Somehow, the beam seemed even feebler than the last time he had come within this long dead house of worship, as if the air had grown thicker over the course of the day.

When he reached the false tomb, it was open, beckoning him, just as the door had been. He stopped for a moment and listened. And yet the silence held sway, though the eerie glow still floated up from below. Into that ethereal light he went, ducking low as he descended the spiral stair. When he reached the caverns, he paused. For the first time, from somewhere deep within the earth, Ryan heard something. It was a drumming, a throbbing, a pulsating beat, as if deep bass drums were pounding in regular rhythm. Somehow he knew it was nothing of the sort.

He stood before the entrance to the caverns, to the corridors that endlessly intertwined, that ran, as far as he knew, until the ends of the world. He could be lost forever in their depths, were it not for the preternatural sense that he knew precisely how he should proceed. For only a moment, he paused to consider what he was doing. Where this was leading him. Something was horribly wrong, something even worse than the young girl that had gone missing. She was only the beginning. But he couldn’t stop now. He held the dimming beam of the flashlight before him and raised his gun. Then he ran.

He plunged forward, running hard through corridor after corridor. Turning here, going straight there, passing from one low hanging stone archway to another. He ran as hard as he could, letting his legs carry him wherever they might. To anyone watching, he would have seemed as a man mad, rushing mindlessly to an untimely end. But Ryan knew the way. And still, he was shocked when he turned a corner and stumbled headlong into a scene out of a nightmare.

The room was lit by great torches, smoke billowing up into the seemingly endless vaulted ceiling above. The room was filled with people, though because of their hooded cloaks Ryan could not say if they were male or female. But it wasn’t to them that his eyes were drawn; it was to the naked girl tied to the ancient stone altar and the man who stood at her head, curved blade raised above her heart.

The assembled masses chanted and swayed to the thunderous beating drum that Ryan could not see but felt deep in his bones. So in thrall were they to whatever dark god they served that no one even saw Ryan. Not until he raised his gun above his head and fired a shot.

The booming roar died away much quicker than Ryan would have expected, swallowed up in the vast nothingness above. But it was more than enough to do the job. As the sound of the shot went silent, so too did the maniacal chanting. The congregation turned as one to face Ryan, and as the robed leader lowered his knife and looked up at him, Ryan recognized the face of Samuelson.

“Ah,” he said, “we were expecting you.”

“I can’t say I’m all that surprised to see you either,” Ryan answered as he pulled off his jacket, careful never to take his gun off the grinning madman. He stepped forward gingerly, making a mental note that no one tried to stop him. Even Samuelson stood quietly as he approached the quivering girl on the altar. He gestured to the old man with his open hand. “The knife,” he said. “Come on.” Samuelson flipped the knife around, holding it blade to hilt in both hands. He bowed as he offered it to Ryan.

“And so it begins,” he said. Ryan ignored him. He was far more interested in freeing the girl. The blade sliced through her bonds without any significant resistance; it was sharp, and would have cut deep into her heart with ease. As the last rope fell away, the teenager jumped up, wrapping her arms around Ryan.

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” he repeated, though he wondered if it would ever be OK for her again. His hand tightened around the pistol, and for a good five second he considered ending Samuelson then and there. But he was no killer. Not up close, at least. He wrapped Angela up in his coat and slid the knife into his belt.

As he took her hand and backed towards the exit, Samuelson laughed.

“You can’t escape, Mr. Dixson. Of that, there can be no doubt. We will find you. You have chosen your fate, and now it is sealed.”

With that, Ryan and Angela started to run.

He heard the roar from behind him as the assembled mass followed, hot on their heels. But that was only part of his worry. His sixth sense, the one that had guided him so unfailingly through these caverns before, now failed him. He and Angela stumbled through the twisting corridors with nothing to guide them, lost and hunted.

As they spun into one of those endless hallways, Angela tripped and fell. Ryan stopped to help her, but the girl had already dissolved into tears. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, kneeling down. Even as he spoke, the sounds of their pursuers seemed to close in on them, though Ryan could not say from what direction they came.

“I don’t want to,” Angela sputtered. “I don’t want to do it. I want it to stop.”

“You have to, darling. You have to. It’s the only way.”

At that, the girl’s sobs suddenly halted. She looked up into Ryan’s eyes, and in that instant, he saw something click. Then there was a steely resolve that had been absent until that point. “You’re right,” she whispered. “Of course. You’re right.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Now come on.” He lifted her to her feet, but he also hesitated. He knew he should find some comfort in what he heard from her, that he should be pleased that she had seemed to regain her footing. But something was off. Something was wrong. He worried that if he couldn’t put his finger on it, that something could be fatal. But the booming sounds of chase were too close, and there was no time to consider alternatives.

In another instant, they were running again, dashing down corridor after corridor, and Ryan took comfort in the thought that the sounds of pursuit seemed to be dying away. But that comfort only lasted for a moment. As he and Angela rounded another corner, Ryan felt his heart sink — they had come full circle, returning to the vaulted chamber with its altar and its endless darkness.

“It’s OK,” Ryan said, but the words had barely left his lips when he knew that was wrong. From every entrance, robed figures appeared. Ryan spun on his heel, only to find Samuelson standing behind him. Ryan pushed Angela back towards the raised, stone slab, leveling his gun at Samuelson as he did.

“You cannot escape, Mr. Dixson. It’s time you accepted that.”

Ryan looked down at the girl beside him, and then back to Samuelson. He knelt low next to her, keeping his gun pointed at the deranged man’s heart. “Listen,” he said. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, OK? Whatever happens, trust that. If they get to me, you run as fast as you can and don’t stop running till you find the staircase out of here. You got that?”

She nodded, and Ryan saw the same resolve as before. If she was scared, she wasn’t showing it.

From all sides, the robed figures started closing in.

“Climb up there,” Ryan said to the girl, gesturing to the altar. “We need to get to high ground.” He pulled the curved blade from his belt, handing it to her. She took it, and he didn’t need to tell her what to do with it. As the others surrounded them, they climbed onto the stone slab, and Ryan once again pointed his pistol at Samuelson.

“What are you going to do, Mr. Dixson? Shoot me? Do you think that will work? Do you think you can kill us all? Are you so delusional to believe you can play the hero?”

“I don’t have to kill you all,” Ryan roared. “But by God, I’ll kill you. I may not make it out of here tonight, but you damn sure won’t either.”

Samuelson paused, as if thinking on Ryan’s words.

“So you would die for the girl, then? You would lay down your life to save hers?”

Ryan didn’t answer, not with words, but the truth was written in his eyes. Samuelson nodded.

“I knew it was so. I knew it from the moment I met you.”

If what followed had not come to pass, Ryan might have pondered those words. He might have wondered what exactly Samuelson meant. But then he felt the fire, the explosion of pain in his back, starting between his shoulder blades, and then streaking like lightening down his spine. As the hot blood splattered on the altar, Ryan’s legs gave way and he collapsed to the stone slab below. His head hit hard on solid rock, but not so hard that he couldn’t see the girl standing above him, her hands covered in his blood, the knife slipping from them and clattering on the ground. In her eyes, there was inestimable pity, and Ryan, even through the pain, felt confusion.

There was a rush and rustling of cloth, and two figures came up to the girl and grabbed her shoulders. As they did, one of their hoods fell away, and in that moment, even though he had never seen her, Ryan knew that he was looking at Angela’s mother. And as they pulled her back, something else dawned upon him.

It was never Angela that was the sacrifice.

A terrible thought occurred to him then, as his life left him, that he had done more than fail himself this night. His death was meant to bring about something horrible, and even now, the world might be ending, and all of it would be his fault.

“No, Mr. Dixson,” Samuelson said as if reading his mind, all the malice and hate having melted away, replaced with what could only be called sadness, “it’s not that at all. Not at all.”

There was more movement, and then another face appeared above him, one he had never thought he would see again. But this time, the pale green eyes lacked their stormy fury. Tears had dimmed them.

“Oh Ryan,” Katya said, taking his hand, “you wonderful, beautiful man. I’m so sorry.”

As she spoke, the robed figures began to pull down their hoods, and in all their faces, Ryan saw the deepest sorrow. But as they closed in around him, none seemed more saddened than Samuelson.

“We live in a hard world, my friend,” Samuelson said as he knelt low so that he could look into Ryan’s eyes. Katya sobbed beside him, holding Ryan’s hand and stroking his forehead. “A world that calls for the worst kinds of sacrifice. Even now, in places far darker than this, evil men are gathered. They call to worlds unknown and unseen, and through endless darkness float their words. They gibber the names of black gods, and they sacrifice the innocent in an effort to bring them back to rule over all. The stars are right tonight, as they are only once in a century, if that. And if we were to stop them, we knew it would take the most powerful magic, the kind only blood can call forward. The blood not of innocents,” he said, looking up at Angela as she hugged her mother tight, soaking her robe with tears, “but blood shed by innocents instead. The blood of a hero. Only that can hold back the darkness. Many will never know your name, Ryan Dixson, but we shall never forget it. And the world will sleep safe tonight because of your sacrifice.”

Ryan couldn’t speak, but tears now flowed down his cheeks. He felt at peace, somehow. He looked up and into Katya’s eyes, and he even managed to smile. But he also knew that there was no coming back from this. Even if it wasn’t his place to die, he’d lost too much blood, and he felt himself slipping away.

Samuelson put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and stood. He called out in a tongue that Ryan did not know, and yet understood. The congregation answered in one voice. Ryan stared up into the swirling blackness above, and as his life left him, suddenly, it was not so dark.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon when Matthew closed the book, and the thin fingers of light that had flooded through his windows had receded into shadow. He’d meant only to browse its pages, but he’d found himself consumed by the words, compelled to continue. He’d read two of the bizarre stories, and he’d found himself transported to a world of shadowy organizations with power and scope beyond his imagination.

He considered reading more, but the hour was late, and he’d promised to meet a friend at a bar on Hanover. At the entrance to his shop, he stopped to pull on a coat, casting one last glance back at the leather-bound tome that seemed to glow softly in the evening moonlight.

The door closed behind him, the jingle from the bell he’d placed above it tinkling into the darkness. He stepped out into a mist-filled night. The rain did not so much fall as it swirled about, dancing like snowflakes in the street light. But whereas snow might be comforting or romantic even, the tiny pinpricks of water in his face were only annoying. He pulled the jacket tight, zipping it to his throat.

Benefit Street was abandoned, and his footfalls seemed to echo like thunder down the slopping pavement. But with Hanover the silence was broken by evening revelers who made their way up and down the streets.

He met Jacob at a bar, the Florentine. It was a restaurant by day, but at night when the lights turned down and the music turned up, it was the kind of place the young Brahmins of Boston might be found, even if the bar had seen better days.

Jacob ordered two beers and paid the waitress before Matthew could even reach for his wallet. “I’ve been to the bookstore, Matt. I know things aren’t going great. This one’s on me.” It was true, even if it made Matthew feel like he should have just stayed at work. The two men sat in silence, both contemplating the bottom of their glasses, before Jacob finally spoke again.

“So what are you going to do about it? The store?”

Matthew didn’t have any siblings, and so Jacob had served as a sort of fill-in — the best friend who became more like an older brother.

“No idea.”

“Fucking internet.”

“Cheers to that.”

The two men laughed, and for a moment Matthew forgot about the store, and he even forgot about the book. But then something happened that made everything much, much worse.

“It’s funny, I was thinking about you yesterday and how you needed some extra cash. And I came upon this business card for an employment agency. Let me see if I can find it.”

Matthew felt the blood rush from his face. The world started to spin, and Jacob, who was now cursing and fumbling with his wallet seemed to fade into the background.

“I can’t remember what it’s called. Had a funny name,” he said, finally giving up the search with a “well shit.” Matthew wanted to just run away. “Nimble, Nimbus, something like that. I’ll let you know if I find it. Oh, and by the way. I saw the strangest thing today. I was walking through the park and I saw this little black girl, maybe ten or eleven, dressed in a business pantsuit, and she stared at me with eyes that were so bright green they could have been emeralds… hey, hey where are you going?”

Matthew stumbled out of the bar and into the street, nearly colliding with a man in what looked like a white butcher’s apron. Or it had been white, before red stains covered it. “Hey, watch where you’re going!” the butcher yelled, pushing him away.

Matthew couldn’t think. All he could do was get back to the store. He had to read. He had to read more.

When he reached his door, he had the sudden sinking feeling that the book would be gone, spirited away or simply vanished into thin air. But there it sat on his desk, a mangled mess of arcane writings. He pulled out his chair and sat down. Then he opened the book, and once again began to read.