designed the place.
As drunk as Wycherly would like to be.
He thought of the remaining can of beer in his pocket He and the beast both knew he was going to drink it, but just to spite the beast he thought heâd see if he could hold off a little longer. What else was there down here to see? He took a few steps toward the center of the room.
That.
In the center of the room stood a vaguely loaf-shaped object. It stood about forty inches high and was the same color as the walls, and the camouflaging shadows and uncertain perspective had made it blend in with its surroundings so well that Wycherly had first taken it for part of the back wall of the cellar. At first he thought it was a coffin; it was roughly sarcophagus-shaped: eight feet long and nearly as wide as it was tall.
It was an altar.
He wasnât sure where the notion came to him fromâcertainly the Musgravesâ visits to the smug Episcopalian temple of their expensive faith had been rare enough that Wycherly was largely unfamiliar with religious things. But the conviction remained: This was an altar.
He went closer, curious. If it was an altar, then an altar to what? He crouched down beside it, studying it closely. The sides were covered with purposeful, delicate carvings that seemed halfway between letters and pictures. He traced over one with one finger. If they were letters, they did not look like any language he knewâbut he suspected he knew the sort of book that would contain them.
For most of his adult life Wycherly had moved through the shadow-world of pointless self-indulgence, where evasion of personal responsibility frequently crossed the line into all sorts of New Age manifestations: channeling, reincarnation, the worship of peculiar spirits ⦠. They didnât really believe in it any more than Kenneth Musgrave truly believed in the impressive God to whom he paid sketchy homage at Christmas and Easter. The pretence of belief, of fealty , was just a ⦠convenience.
Black Magick in West Virginia? It was unfortunately not unbelievable.
Stiff muscles quickly protested the crouch, and Wycherly got to his feet, clutching at the altar for support. The top was smooth and flat; he ran the palm of his hand over it and felt an odd sense of inadequacy hovering just below the surface of his mind.
As if someone had made him an offer heâd failed to understand.
As if heâd failed.
Wycherly wasnât sure why he was angry, only that he was. He flung himself away from the carved block of stone, but heâd gotten muddled and ended up moving away from the stairs, not toward them.
That was when he saw the doorway.
It was a carved gothic archway in the smooth stone wall of the basement. As Wycherly approached, he could see the
charred remains of a wooden door blocking it.
Leave it alone. It was the clear, quiet voice of self-preservation, and Wycherly brushed it aside easily. The wood came away in his hands, and in a few moments the doorway was clear. He put his hand on the frame. It was the same stone as the walls of the basement, and when he poked his head through it, he felt a cold, wet draft of air blowing toward him from the darkness. There were steps cut into the rock leading down. He could only see the first one or two; beyond that, the wide low steps disappeared into the darkness and he could not tell where they went. They were worn and shallow, the depression in the center of each tread suggesting that they had seen the passage of hundredsâthousandsâof feet.
Wycherly took a hesitant step backward, wishing for a flashlight. It was a little after noon on a hot July day; the sun was nearly overhead. But here in this black room it was cold and dim, and what light there was did not penetrate beyond the archway to whatever lay below.
Donât be an asshole, Wycherly sneered at himself. Afraid of a hole in the ground because of some carvings on an altar? There werenât any carvings. There probably
As drunk as Wycherly would like to be.
He thought of the remaining can of beer in his pocket He and the beast both knew he was going to drink it, but just to spite the beast he thought heâd see if he could hold off a little longer. What else was there down here to see? He took a few steps toward the center of the room.
That.
In the center of the room stood a vaguely loaf-shaped object. It stood about forty inches high and was the same color as the walls, and the camouflaging shadows and uncertain perspective had made it blend in with its surroundings so well that Wycherly had first taken it for part of the back wall of the cellar. At first he thought it was a coffin; it was roughly sarcophagus-shaped: eight feet long and nearly as wide as it was tall.
It was an altar.
He wasnât sure where the notion came to him fromâcertainly the Musgravesâ visits to the smug Episcopalian temple of their expensive faith had been rare enough that Wycherly was largely unfamiliar with religious things. But the conviction remained: This was an altar.
He went closer, curious. If it was an altar, then an altar to what? He crouched down beside it, studying it closely. The sides were covered with purposeful, delicate carvings that seemed halfway between letters and pictures. He traced over one with one finger. If they were letters, they did not look like any language he knewâbut he suspected he knew the sort of book that would contain them.
For most of his adult life Wycherly had moved through the shadow-world of pointless self-indulgence, where evasion of personal responsibility frequently crossed the line into all sorts of New Age manifestations: channeling, reincarnation, the worship of peculiar spirits ⦠. They didnât really believe in it any more than Kenneth Musgrave truly believed in the impressive God to whom he paid sketchy homage at Christmas and Easter. The pretence of belief, of fealty , was just a ⦠convenience.
Black Magick in West Virginia? It was unfortunately not unbelievable.
Stiff muscles quickly protested the crouch, and Wycherly got to his feet, clutching at the altar for support. The top was smooth and flat; he ran the palm of his hand over it and felt an odd sense of inadequacy hovering just below the surface of his mind.
As if someone had made him an offer heâd failed to understand.
As if heâd failed.
Wycherly wasnât sure why he was angry, only that he was. He flung himself away from the carved block of stone, but heâd gotten muddled and ended up moving away from the stairs, not toward them.
That was when he saw the doorway.
It was a carved gothic archway in the smooth stone wall of the basement. As Wycherly approached, he could see the
charred remains of a wooden door blocking it.
Leave it alone. It was the clear, quiet voice of self-preservation, and Wycherly brushed it aside easily. The wood came away in his hands, and in a few moments the doorway was clear. He put his hand on the frame. It was the same stone as the walls of the basement, and when he poked his head through it, he felt a cold, wet draft of air blowing toward him from the darkness. There were steps cut into the rock leading down. He could only see the first one or two; beyond that, the wide low steps disappeared into the darkness and he could not tell where they went. They were worn and shallow, the depression in the center of each tread suggesting that they had seen the passage of hundredsâthousandsâof feet.
Wycherly took a hesitant step backward, wishing for a flashlight. It was a little after noon on a hot July day; the sun was nearly overhead. But here in this black room it was cold and dim, and what light there was did not penetrate beyond the archway to whatever lay below.
Donât be an asshole, Wycherly sneered at himself. Afraid of a hole in the ground because of some carvings on an altar? There werenât any carvings. There probably
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