The Three Cobras Confessional

Michael Sorensen yawned and looked out the window as the sun set over the city skyline. An idyllic, inspiring view if it hadn’t been through the filthy windowpane of the 52 bus scratched with illegible graffiti and profanity. The bus crested the hill and began its slow descent back into the seedy underbelly of the east side. Michael glanced at his wristwatch and sighed. It would be a long walk no matter which stop he chose. Homes on the upper east side weren’t the sort of places where busses were welcome. Nor were people of his income bracket, but he had an assignment.
Michael stretched and pulled the cord to request the next stop. Maybe he would dip into his discretionary funds and take a cab back. The only thing he knew was he wanted to be alone with a beer and the second half of the baseball game when this was all done, but couldn’t decide if he wanted to be at home or out somewhere. Sometimes solitude is better with people around.
Michael stepped off the bus and began walking up out of the miasma of exhaust, grime and despondency. The yellow-orange sodium vapor streetlights had just flicked on in a sardonic imitation of the sunset in the distance.
As he walked, Michael flipped open his notepad to review his notes and rehearse his interview questions. He flipped through the pages absently and shrugged his canvas jacket more into place. He had a funny feeling about this assignment. His editor had received a phone call earlier in the day and told Michael it was a pressing matter, sending him out after hours to get the story. “If it was such a big deal, why is he sending me?” Michael wondered to himself. He scratched at the day’s stubble on his chin. Well, anything was better than the usual crackpots he normally interviewed. Michael’s section of the newspaper was called The Pulse, originally intended to be up to date with upcoming events, celebrity news and entertainment but all that had been taken over by the TimeOut section. The Pulse was pushed to page 10 where nobody read it or cared and it consisted of editorials, rumors and barely reputable sources. Still, it hadn’t been cancelled and this was the first time his editor had cared to actually send him on a scoop. Maybe this was a test. Maybe this was finally his ticket out of the back pages. Michael wanted to be a sports reporter, getting paid to watch baseball and write about his favorite players like Ozzie Smith and Steve Sax, but with only an Associates degree in journalism under his belt, he was going to have to pay his dues first.
Tonight’s meeting was with Professor Sef Akele, an Archaeologist who was apparently good friends with Michael’s editor from long ago. He had just returned from a dig of “utmost importance” from the Atacama desert but could say no more over the phone. Michael wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. Archaeologists spent their time digging up things thousands of years old, if it was important the front page would carry the story and if it was a mild scientific curiosity, the Science and World column would run it in the Sunday edition. How would an archaeology find fit in with his usual fare of spurious and dubious content Michael wondered.
The shadows grew long as Michael approached the address listed. The tall, thin red brick buildings with their brown trim crowded together up and down either side of the street. The front steps of each house were lined with precisely manicured hedges and shaded by rows of elm trees gave the neighborhood a quiet, classic charm.
Michael walked up the steps and rang the buzzer while exhaling noisily to mentally prepare himself for the meeting. The intercom crackled to life.
“Yes?” a man’s voice queried.
Michael held down the button to respond “Professor Akele? My name is Michael Sorensen, I’m from the Times?”
“Ah yes, come in.”
The door buzzed and Michael pushed it open and stepped inside. There were stairs immediately in front of him and a shoe rack with a dozen shoes and a plain wooden door to his right but no one in sight.
“Uhh, should I take my shoes off?” Michael called, nudging the rack with his foot. He didn’t know much about Italian leather or suede, but surmised that each pair on the rack was worth about a month of his salary.
“Shoes off, if you please” came a voice from upstairs. It was warm and smooth, with a slight clipped coptic accent like a warm hazelnut espresso in a paper cup on a cold night. No, a cappuccino, with cinnamon sprinkled on the foam. Michael could smell something brewing upstairs with a hint of foreign, exotic spices. He hoped the professor offered him a cup of whatever it was.
Michael kicked off his shoes and climbed the wooden stairs to the expansive loft above. The walls were a calming shade of beige which set off the bright cherry floors. Large plush rugs of burgundy, cream and gold paisley patterns matched tapestries on the walls. Display cases of Asian and African artifacts were scattered around the living area behind large, chocolate brown leather couches and chairs.
The professor was busying himself in the modern looking kitchen, all stainless steel with dark granite countertops and red cabinets providing a stark contrast to the clean white walls.
The professor stood up and turned to Michael. He looked to be in his early 50’s with a touch of grey peppering his combed black hair and precisely trimmed goatee. Slight crinkles lined the corners of his eyes; a weathered texture of someone who spent long days digging in the sun betrayed an otherwise smooth, olive face.
“Come in! Come in, make yourself comfortable, I will join you in a moment. Goodness your face is red, I hope it wasn’t too cold outside? Ah, yes at any rate, would you like a cup of coffee? Sit, sit, let me pour for you. Mr Sorensen, was it?”
Michael took a seat on one of the couches and sank into the soft, supple leather and set a tape recorder on the end table. Whatever this interview was going to be, it was already much, much better than any other assignment he’d been sent on.
“Michael is fine” he answered.
The professor came in holding a tray with steaming cups of coffee as well as a plate of cheeses, olives crackers and two large bowls of steaming hot soup.
“Come, try some of the olives. I love Kalamata, I could eat them for every meal.”
As the professor drew closer with the tray, Michael noticed that his cheeks were drawn and gaunt, his complexion more pale in the softer lighting, like he hadn’t been outside in a while. Maybe he had been eating olives for every meal.
As Michael took a sip from the coffee, he realized he hadn’t been asked for cream or sugar, but hints of clove, nutmeg and cinnamon teased his olfactory senses and he realized he didn’t care, it was so much better than the burnt swill of indeterminate age he was used to drinking in the break room at the paper. A man could definitely get used to these assignments.
“So, Sam tells me you’re one of his most promising new reporters?”
That was news to Michael. Sam, the editor had never been more than indifferent to his efforts, he assumed his work on The Pulse was largely ignored by the more respectable journalists.
“Well, I don’t know about that, but if the story is there, I want to make sure it gets told”
Michael trailed off, unsure of what to say, but the professor didn’t seem to be completely paying attention either, his gaze wandered off to the windows against the far wall. Michael continued uncomfortably
“If you don’t mind professor” Michael said as he reached for his tape recorder, “We can get started. Did you want to start with the dig itself?”
“I believe we should start with the soup” the professor said as he crumbled a cracker in his own bowl.
“Please, before it gets cold!”
Michael masked his impatience behind a politely neutral face. Not that he minded a hot meal in a lavish studio, but all the pomp and eccentricity was beginning to make him itch.
Michael reached for his bowl, a thick, lumpy brownish sludge with a swirl of white and a little garnish of thinly sliced red pepper and leek. A hint of cumin brushed past his nose, but was gone in an instant. He nodded appreciatively to his host as he tucked his napkin into his lap.
Michael took a spoonful of the soup, tasting potato, onion, leek and carrot suspended in the butternut squash matrix. It was warm and filling, chasing away the last of the crisp autumn air that had sunk deep into his bones during his walk. It was missing something though. He looked at the platter and saw two unassuming salt and pepper holders with grinders attached at the top. As he reached for the pepper grinder, he saw the professor smiling at him almost expectantly but with a burning passion behind his twinkling eyes. Slowly, Michael brought the pepper grinder back to his bowl and ground a few quarter turns into his soup. He put the grinder back on the table and took a second spoonful. Much better.
“Excellent!” The professor exclaimed, almost causing Michael to tip his bowl.
“I have talked with few other reporters before tonight, some your own colleagues. We have a splendid meal, we talk about minor discoveries or intrigues or perhaps I regale them with a tale of expedition, but not one of them has been right for the task at hand. Do you know why this is?”
Michael shook the astonished look from his face and immediately set his mind to unraveling the puzzle the professor had placed before him. No one else was right for the task? Okay, so he had done something that no one else had done, but they hadn’t even started yet. Something with the meal then. Grinding the pepper was the only thing that stood out, but the whole evening had started on an odd foot, it could be anything. The professor was staring at him, expecting an answer presumably. Best to go with his hunch then.
“The pepper?”
“Hmm, too vague for top marks, but often self reflection is a difficult subject. You’re on the right track though. Yes, the pepper, but it was also the How and Why of the pepper.”
Michael nodded, trying to follow along. “I see” he muttered half-heartedly.
“Do you?” the professor grinned while raising an eyebrow at him. “You may see the puzzle before and after, but not how the pieces fit together. That is alright! We are all in the business of learning, are we not? If not for learning, what else is in our lives?”
The professor trailed off for a moment, focusing on nothing in particular. His grin lost its humor at the corners of his mouth, but just as quickly his attention was back on his guest.
“You see, though many reporters have been entertained in my home, you have been just as polite and gracious as any of them. This is to be expected, you know your trade and it is best to ease yourself into a situation. It is much like cooking, you cannot bend flavor to your will, but rather it must be coaxed out, eased into a perfect harmony with the other ingredients. I ask you, can man achieve such harmony?”
Michael was rooted to his seat, unwilling to risk the manic eye of the professor while he was in fervent lecture mode. The professor continued on without missing a beat.
“You, my most gracious guest, treated with me and ate of my soup. Yet even after observing me crumbling a cracker, even after smelling the soup for yourself, you tasted it. Then, of your own free will, you added pepper, did you not?”
Michael simply nodded, his defenses beginning to pale under the looming shadow of his curiosity.
“This tells me many things. First, you are an observer. This is to be expected in your line of work. You reporters won’t get far without a healthy curiosity. Second, you are unbiased. Even after observing, you took what was before you as it was. Every other reporter sent here has crumbled a cracker, asked for pepper and salt or, heaven forbid, that sluggard from the Post added Tobasco. To my soup!”
The professor was on his feet now, pacing like a caged animal. Michael took another sip of his coffee, fascinated by the antics of the professor so far. He’d never believed someone could get so worked up over soup, but in that minute he believed the professor would have attacked the poor, hapless reporter from the Post who simply wanted a little spice in his dish.
“The impertinence. The arrogance! The fake smiles and the banal conversation, when matters of utmost-” The professor trembled with barely contained fury at his own memory. At once, he became rigid and took a deep breath. He turned and smiled at Michael, all that anger completely erased.
“But it matters not. Third,” he said slowly, putting great weight into his words, “You did not ask for seasoning. You did not ask me to grind the pepper. You simply decided the soup was lacking, which it was, mind you, and you adjusted the flavor accordingly. So is true with dinner, as is true with stories.”
The professor suddenly seemed exhausted, withered. He sunk into his chair, every action heavy and deliberate as if the very act of staying upright were an ordeal.
“You see, what I am about to tell you must not be taken with a grain of salt. A biased mind will not serve in this regard. But once you have my story, it must be made flavorful. It must be coaxed, eased, each ingredient must be in perfect, delicate harmony. One sour note, one dash of spice too many, the public will spit it out. The flavor of this story will not be palatable to most. You must find a way to make it digestible.”
The professor clapped his teeth shut, biting off the end of his sentence and squinting his eyes slightly as if tasting something unpleasant. They sat in silence for a moment, letting the tension settle in the air. Michael ate spoonfuls of soup, careful not to let the spoon scrape the bottom of the bowl and disturb the professor’s reverie.
When he was finished, he dabbed his mouth with the napkin “Well professor, I will do my best” Michael said as he grabbed his tape recorder and flicked it on. “Should we start with the dig?”
“Hmm? Oh right, yes, yes. The dig, ahh the dig. Have you ever dug in the sand Michael?”
Michael stopped, expecting another hypothetical question, but the professor patiently waited for his answer.
“Umm, not really. Not seriously. As a kid I suppose I dug for rocks and roots in the backyard.”
The professor nodded to this seemingly satisfactory answer.
“Ahh yes, the simple pasttimes of youth, believing there is treasure all around us, at the top of every tree or under every fine layer of soil, just ours for the taking. But there is treasure to be found, is there not? Ants and grubs and worms, larvae and roots, there’s life teeming all around us.”
Michael nodded. Most scientists and academics you just had to get them talking and the interview would run itself, but he still wasn’t sure what the interview was about to begin with.
“But in the sands of the great Sahara, Gobi or the deserts of North America, you would expect there’s no life to be found, yes? Oh, there are the nomadic tribes that call those inhospitable stretches home, but even they know the hidden paths to the desert springs and oaises. But life, Michael, life finds a way to survive in those lands. When it rains, you can find all forms of bacteria, microflora and some of the deeper puddles in the Arizona desert contain shrimp. Shrimp! In the desert! Can you believe? Just waiting for the opportunity for a bit of rain so they can live again. Do shrimp pray, do you wonder? Does the sky care for the wants and desires of the shrimp? Do the shrimp hope for rain? Or as droughts and dry spells linger on, do they give up hope?”
Again, the professor turned to Michael, expecting an answer to his question. Michael was beginning to get the sense he knew why this story was being given to his column.
“I suppose they stay buried, so they’re not really aware of the days going by.”
The professors eyes lit up at that.
“Exactly! Buried in the sand, they live on with a hope that there is still hope. It doesn’t matter if they can fathom the intricacies of weather patterns, the rains come and the shrimp reproduce. For one glorious storm, they are alive again.”
The professor settled back into his chair and reached for some olives, popping them into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. Michael took the opportunity to sip from his coffee. It really was quite delicious.
After a lengthy pause seemed to settle the professor’s fervor, he continued.
“The Atacama desert has no life. Nitrate falls freely from the sky but there is no bacteria to consume it. A land where even bacteria fear to tread. Can you imagine? Bacteria have been found in the coldest, most remote corners of Antarctica. But not in the Atacama. There’s no record of humans ever having lived there. It’s too dry, and there’s far more appealing climates a short distance away. Who would bother?”
“Sounds like the perfect place to hide something you didn’t want anyone to find” Michael mused aloud.
“Exactly!” The professor said excitedly, jumping to his feet and disturbing the table. Michael caught a few olives that threatened to roll off onto the floor and decided they would be more secure wrapped in some cheese. Maybe a cracker too. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. The professor continued on.
“That was the same rationale as our benefactor, a Mr. Fairmont. He seemed most interested in the region, gravely so. It was as if he expected to find something of terrible importance in that dusty expanse.” The professor drifted off, allowing his gaze to wander over his collection of artifacts, staring past them as if they weren’t even there. All of a sudden he seemed tired, stretched too thin over too many memories.
Michael let the silence draw out between them. Outside the wind was picking up again, causing dry, dead leaves to chatter and scrape along the ground. He shivered at the thought of walking back out into the cold. He wished for a cozy loft like the professor. He thought glumly about going home to his apartment with walls that were too thin, windowpanes that offered little heat retention and a dirty view out into a dirty world. Michael longed for just one adventure like the professor. However, the man had lived a lifetime of adventure and travel and seemed more hollow than a struggling journalist on a crackpot beat. His mouth twisted wryly as he considered how he still had to somehow write out this interview before the night was through.
“It’s so funny, isn’t it?” The professor said, breaking from his momentary reverie, “We fill our lives with so many icons, shrines to our own self importance. Man looks to the skies and we scream our names into the void but all we hear back are echoes of history and dead stars. We’ve sent probes deep into space with details about us. Who we are, where we from. As a species, we needed to send our message. We need everyone to know ‘we were here. We existed’. But who do we think will answer? Our great SETI arrays find more and more evidence we are alone. Do you think this is the case, Mr. Sorensen?”
Michael furrowed his brow and clasped his fingers under his chin, really considering the professor’s question, or really looking like he was considering it. This was all past him and if he was quite honest with himself, he didn’t like thinking about it. If there was life out there, unless it helped him pay the bills, it could stay out there for all he cared.
The professor’s gaze pierced into him, seeking to skim the answer from his soul like fishing leaves from a pool. Suddenly the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile, but one that held no warmth.
“We found something in that desert. Mr. Fairmont’s instructions on where to look and what to look for were surprisingly precise.”
“Who is this Mr. Fairmont exactly? What was his interest in this whole expedition?” Michael broke in, picking up his pen and paper again.
The professor’s smile cracked a bit. “He was a most enigmatic character. He seemed haunted by something, jumping at shadows and a tinge of paranoia in his voice whenever we spoke. He demanded the stones be delivered to him as soon as we returned. Frankly I’m a little glad to be rid of them.”
“Stones?” Michael stopped writing, looking up at the professor questioningly.
The professor let out a long sigh and pushed himself out of his chair. He moved to one of the ornately carved cherry end tables and picked up what looked like old parchment and handed them to Michael.
“These are rubbings we took of the stones we found in the cavern hidden just where Mr. Fairmont directed us to look.” he said as he picked up his coffee and sipped thoughtfully as he stared at a painting on his wall as if really seeing it for the first time. It depicted Christ struggling to carry his cross on the path to Calgary, something one might see in a stuffy museum or in the exact type of loft Michael now sat in.
Michael took the rubbings and examined them closely. The first one showed bizarre hieroglyphics of some sort that Michael had no hope of translating. The second contained a map of what looked like stars and their trajectories, but he couldn’t make much sense of it either. It had photographs attached that showed a cavern with extensive charts beyond the scale of the rubbing in his hand. The last one depicted a large symbol of some sort, a series of concentric circles with little triangles arrayed within it. As soon as he laid eyes upon it, he wanted to crumple it up and throw it away, but the pattern took hold of him, spiraling and burning into his very being.
“These look like something the Mayans would have made, but I’ve never seen anything that felt so…evil.” Michael gasped.
At the last word, the professor’s eyes grew wide and he looked around in fear, hurrying to the windows and drawing the drapes. He set down his coffee and sat on the edge of his chair, leaning in closer to Michael and speaking in hushed tones. Michael recoiled slightly at the sudden shift in mood. The room felt heavier, like a noxious cloud of tension had descended and was filling the room with pressure, threatening to break apart the windows, shatter the walls. He felt it seep into his head and begin to expand from within. He rubbed his eyes to help alleviate the sensation.
“This information isn’t safe to handle. I am sorry to burden you with it. But you had the same reaction I did upon descending into that cavern”
Michael focused on writing, to avoid the professor’s eyes. There was a smoldering fire lit behind them, the burning intensity of a hunted man. Michael subconsciously edged farther away, the question of the professor’s sanity niggling at the back of his mind.
“Please, before we go any further tell me about the cavern professor. You’ve been dancing around the subject all evening.”
The professor popped a few olives in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully and took a deep breath as if bracing himself. A slight chill drifted through the room, though the building seemed far too insulated to let in stray drafts.
“We traveled for only a few days following Mr. Fairmont’s instructions. His missives detailed a rock formation with nothing else around. At the time we joked about drawing a big red X on our map as if this was some child’s treasure hunt. But we found the rocks and began digging. After two days of digging up nothing but harder and harder earth, we broke through the ceiling of the cavern. Oh, how I wish we had never descended into those black depths. It was as if we were being swallowed, our torches and lights only extended a few feet from ourselves. It was as if the darkness was closing in around us, like it was a living being. We had to place lights every few feet to keep our bearings because even the light from the hole in the ceiling wouldn’t reach the floor despite it only being a few meters. The room was, quite frankly a sinister place Mr. Sorensen.”
The professor shivered and closed his eyes, squeezing them shut against his own memories. He snapped them open and continued in the same hushed tones.
“We found the stones at the center of the chamber inside stone chests with old rotted cord wrapped around them as if a last-ditch effort to keep them shut, a final warning to future generations. Of course, we had gone that far already, what was to stop us but a growing sense of dread that nearly overshadowed our curiosity?”
Michael shook his hand to alleviate the oncoming cramp from writing so much and so fast. He picked up his coffee and took a sip before he went back to writing, barely registering that it had become tepid and lukewarm and much of the flavor had seeped out of it.
“Do you have any idea what the writings mean?” he asked.
The professor grimaced at the rubbings before tearing his gaze away.
“We hauled out the stones and carried them with us back to the coast, back home. I contacted several of my colleagues well versed in such matters but their efforts have, as of yet, been fruitless. Of course, Mr. Fairmont’s instructions were to bring whatever we found to his office promptly upon our return.”
“Why did he want them? What is his role in all this?” Michael asked.
“We carted them up to his penthouse and he quickly thanked us as he ushered us out the door. The last thing I remember from our visit was hearing a low groan that no earthly voice could imitate, but at the time I dismissed it as the elevator arriving at our floor. “
Michael nodded as he wrote, flipping to the next page to continue his notes. He made a mental note that he was running out of pages in his notebook as well, he’d have to pick up a new one, but that thought was squashed beneath the weight of the story developing before him.
“Who else was with you? I would like to call some of your companions to corroborate-
“No!”
Michael jumped in his seat and dropped his notes. The professor had left his chair and was looming ominously above him.
“I was told not to share this information with anyone upon my return. I went against those wishes because I believe this can’t be buried in another desert for another several thousand years. But everyone I’ve reached out to since then has stopped responding to my requests. One by one, my contacts grow silent until I’m just reaching out to no one. I fear they are coming for me soon as well.”
“Who? Who is coming for you?”
The professors eyes darted around the room once more and his breath quickened for a moment. Upon seeing nothing immediately amiss, he relaxed visibly but his voice betrayed the tension he fought desperately to suppress.
“There are many secrets in this world. Some are hidden away where only the worthy may find them, some are buried deep where no one should ever find them. Some are so dangerous, they are buried and guarded by forces who have forgotten even what they are watching over. I can’t guess as to the nature of the group intent on suppressing this knowledge or if Mr. Fairmont is an ally to us or to them. But I fear time grows short. All I can surmise is that when we entered that chamber, forces were set in motion to stop us from disseminating.”
Michael stopped writing and looked up at the professor with concern. He rubbed his eyes. The room did seem to be getting darker.
“What is so dangerous about a language nobody can speak and some star charts?”
The professor paused and considered his words carefully. “You are quite right, these are star charts, but not Mayan. Similar, but much, much older and with one crucial difference. None of these stars appear on any chart, Mayan or current. Partial matches occur in some cases, but in others it’s as if entire constellations have been wiped from existence.”
The professor got to his feet and motioned for Michael to follow him. He moved back to the painting of Christ at Calgary and carefully slid it to the side revealing a safe. His hands trembled as he twisted the combination and with a portentous click, the door swung open.
“Come, take my notes, take everything.” The professor grabbed bundles and notebooks and stuffed them into Michael’s arms.
Shadows flickered at the corners of Michael’s vision. He glanced about but there was no signs of an intruder, no silent observer waiting to strike them down. He began to feel a sense of creeping dread wash over him nonetheless.
“In all our research, all our notes and translations, we kept coming across the same two character word. We determined it was a name most foul for the symbol repeated across the chamber, across time. The darkness that draws us in and consumes us.” The professor’s voice was tinged with a manic edge, his eyes wildly scanned the room. He produced a matchbook from his pocket and moved around the room frantically lighting candles to fight back the oppressive gloom that seemed to have permeated through the walls.
Michael began to feel a growing sense of urgency as well, he wanted nothing more than to just drop the notes, drop the whole story and run home. He’d tell his boss nobody was home, he’d try again some other time. Outside the wind was whipping up a frenzy of leaves and the occasional branch rapped against the window.
“What’s going on, professor? What is happening?” Michael asked, swallowing a hard lump in his throat that made his voice quiver.
The professor spun about quickly to face him, his hair disheveled and his eyes inky black pools fighting desperately to drink in as much light as possible. A low whine emanated from all around them, the wind howled outside but it felt as if the storm were in the room between them. Michael blinked and shook his head to clear the sensation. The coffee still sat half drunk where he’d left it, the tray of snacks and delicacies was still laid out in a cheerful and inviting fashion. Nothing moved in the room, but the howling wind seemed to whirl around them. The candles flickered but their light no longer illuminated beyond a few feet around them. It was as if the darkness was closing in around them. Michael strained to peer into the unnatural gloom, his eyes tracking up the wall and he recoiled in horror when he realized he could no longer see the ceiling. The warm, homey track lighting was barely visible, the lights mere pinpricks in a midnight sky. One by one they began to fade and wink out.
The professor grabbed Michael by the shoulders, startling him. He hadn’t heard him move across the room toward him. The professor grabbed Michael’s head and spoke directly into his ear.
“This name, this symbol, this force, this being is not of this world. Even to speak its name is to invite its attention but I fear it is already here. The stars, the constellations, they were how the skies once looked. This…this thing is a consumer of light, an eater of stars.”
The professor began ushering Michael towards the door, looking over his shoulder for an unseen pursuer.
“Are you saying it’s come for us?” Michael asked as they reached the door. The howling wind had reached a pitched roar, the building creaked and protested at the building pressure from within.
The professor shook his head and shouted over the din as Michael pulled on his shoes. His hands were shaking so much he couldn’t tie the laces.
“What I’m saying, Mr. Sorensen is that it may already have us in its sights. The stars we see are the dead remnants of the heavens, circling and spiraling into an unfathomable maw. We are already being eaten! The servants of Sul’gath are here!”
At those words the door flew open and a powerful blast knocked them back. Michael put up an arm to shield himself from the raging fury.
“Go! Before it is too late!” The professor shoved him out the door. Michael turned around and yelled into the screaming gale.
“What’s the point? It sounds like we’re already too late. We’re doomed professor! What do you expect me to do?”
The professor stepped out and embraced Michael. As he did, sinewy black tendrils made from living smoke drifted from the door and wrapped around him. The professor squirmed against their snare and pressed a note into Michael’s hand.
“The chamber has been opened, the beacon of black has been lit, calling to its master. The harbingers of despair have arrived, but He has not. We may still have some hope. Good luck, dear boy. Search for-“
The tendrils snapped taut, yanking the professor back in to the loft. He screamed as he disappeared into the impossible darkness at the door. The streetlights guttered and struggled against the invisible onslaught. Michael stood, jaw agape as the building slowly became shrouded in black, shadows dripped and oozed down the sides from the roof like a viscous, corrupted jelly. Michael tore his eyes away and ran down the street as fast as his legs could carry him.
A few minutes later, Michael doubled over to catch his breath at the bus stop. He wanted to be around people, in warm, well lit areas. His nerves were shot, he was torn between wanting to drown himself in rum at his favorite bar and going home to hide in bed. As his breath returned to him, he sucked in a deep lungful of air to steady himself. He was alright. His mind cleared and he felt bolstered with new confidence. No, not quite. He realized with a start he felt exactly the same as he had when he first arrived, but it was such a stark contrast from his terror mere minutes ago, he felt like a new man. He rubbed his hands together to warm them and noticed his shoes were still untied. It seemed a miracle he hadn’t tripped.
Suddenly a cold realization washed over him. Tripped. Had the food been laced? The coffee maybe? Had any of the evening truly happened as he thought, or had he been drugged by an eccentric nutcase. He opened one of the professor’s notebooks and thumbed through it, searching for any sign of the evil he had described but it was filled with the dry, precise script of an academic describing dig sites, crew progress and daily updates.
“I always get the crackpot assignments” Michael grumbled to himself as he wiped his brow on his sleeve. For some reason his face felt as grimy as the bus that squealed to a stop in front of him. Michael climbed on board and paid his fare, collapsing into the hard plastic seat and resting his head against the window. Maybe he would stop by the bar, just for a beer and a burger. His stomach growled in appreciation, seemingly forgetting the repast not long since eaten.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and remembered the professor’s note. He drew it out and unfolded it. A name and address were scrawled into the paper by a hurried hand.
Fairmont. 1488 Post Ave.
At the bottom, two characters in a long dead language stared up at him and he instantly knew their hateful meaning. Sul’gath.
As he thought the name, a sudden chill seeped into him. He shivered and refolded the note, jamming it back into his pockets. It wasn’t really his problem, was it? It might not have even been real.
He slumped in his chair and blew out his cheeks, letting a long sigh escape from deep inside. Gosh he felt tired. He rested his head against the window and watched the world go by. People hustled on their nightly errands bathed orange and neon blue, the colors of the night. He looked up at the sky and could barely make out only the brightest of stars. The sky really did seem so empty, so devoid of life. He blinked and banished the thought from his mind.
“Maybe two beers” he muttered to himself as he stretched the cold from his joints. As the bus shuttled him away from his encounter, descending back into the chaos of an uncaring city Michael watched leaves catch zephyrs and lazily waft through the chilly night air. He couldn’t help but notice however, as the bus rumbled down the street the leaves seemed to be caught in a spiral, a miniscule cyclone that he could almost swear was following him.