tome that foretold the deaths of everyone on the island. And before he even knew what was happening, the terrible events described in the book began to come true, until nearly no one was left but Andrew—and a crazed maniacal killer who would stop at nothing to use the forces of Hargity Island for itself! Will Andrew be able to save himself before his own predicted murder takes place?
Ernie felt a momentary chill. Talk about coincidences. A book about an island that sounded very much like this one, even a main character who had a vague resemblance to himself—although he was a magazine writer, not a book author. He flipped to the first page inside the cover. It was an explicit description of someone being murdered, taken from the body of the novel itself. This stuff gets more gruesome every day. Well, he was hooked. Wild horses couldn’t have made him put this one back. Someone from the group must have brought it along, though he couldn’t imagine why they would have put it there and not in their room. Maybe it was Lynn’s or John’s. He couldn’t picture old Gladys Horn-bee reading this sort of material.
He went back to the storage room, took off all of his clothes except his underwear, and nestled under the covers of the cot. Opening the book, he settled in and started happily reading Max Schumann’s Late at Night.
Chapter 17
It is here! Someone has found it! It is in this very house!
The necromancer, as it liked to refer to itself, looked just like an ordinary human being, and for most of its life that’s exactly what it had been. But when it had mastered the black arts, the science that was sorcery, it knew that it was far, far more than an ordinary person. When the necromancer practiced its magic, when it conjured spirits, spoke to the dead, or just lay back and let the thoughts and feelings flow into its mind, that’s when it was truly inhuman; it no longer referred to itself in such human terms as “he” or “she.” It was now a thing, an arcane, mysterious creature that was well above petty human laws and attitudes. The necromancer was almost a god.
Something had happened just a few minutes ago. As it lay in its bed, a sharp tingle had made itself known, a warning jab that pulled the necromancer out of weary-pre-sleep and into the realm of full consciousness again. The object! The object the necromancer had become aware of earlier, the object it was determined to find; someone else had found the object, had touched it, held it, taken it someplace. Now it was the necromancer’s duty to get that object from this other person. Even if it meant killing him or her. What was the death of a mere mortal compared to the glorious realization of the necromancer’s dreams? This island alone could instill great power. The object, because of some odd mystical properties the nature of which the necromancer had yet to ascertain, could focus, channel the island’s power into an irresistible and unstoppable force. Truth be known, the necromancer could not yet quite imagine how it would use that power; only that anybody who had ever wronged the necromancer would pay, and pay dearly.
These stupid unwitting idiots all around it. The necromancer had come onto the island with them —right out in the open—and they hadn’t even known. The necromancer had stood there and talked to them, chatted with them, eaten with them, and they hadn’t had the slightest idea of what it really was. They thought the necromancer was just like all the rest, the fools, but the necromancer knew it was much, much more.
On this island the necromancer’s powers were intensified. The necromancer did not know-would probably never know—why it had been chosen to have such undreamed-of abilities. Some were the product of years of study, night after night of trial and error. Others just seemed to be there, waiting for something to bring them out. Whatever the case, they belonged to the necromancer alone, and the necromancer knew how to
Ernie felt a momentary chill. Talk about coincidences. A book about an island that sounded very much like this one, even a main character who had a vague resemblance to himself—although he was a magazine writer, not a book author. He flipped to the first page inside the cover. It was an explicit description of someone being murdered, taken from the body of the novel itself. This stuff gets more gruesome every day. Well, he was hooked. Wild horses couldn’t have made him put this one back. Someone from the group must have brought it along, though he couldn’t imagine why they would have put it there and not in their room. Maybe it was Lynn’s or John’s. He couldn’t picture old Gladys Horn-bee reading this sort of material.
He went back to the storage room, took off all of his clothes except his underwear, and nestled under the covers of the cot. Opening the book, he settled in and started happily reading Max Schumann’s Late at Night.
Chapter 17
It is here! Someone has found it! It is in this very house!
The necromancer, as it liked to refer to itself, looked just like an ordinary human being, and for most of its life that’s exactly what it had been. But when it had mastered the black arts, the science that was sorcery, it knew that it was far, far more than an ordinary person. When the necromancer practiced its magic, when it conjured spirits, spoke to the dead, or just lay back and let the thoughts and feelings flow into its mind, that’s when it was truly inhuman; it no longer referred to itself in such human terms as “he” or “she.” It was now a thing, an arcane, mysterious creature that was well above petty human laws and attitudes. The necromancer was almost a god.
Something had happened just a few minutes ago. As it lay in its bed, a sharp tingle had made itself known, a warning jab that pulled the necromancer out of weary-pre-sleep and into the realm of full consciousness again. The object! The object the necromancer had become aware of earlier, the object it was determined to find; someone else had found the object, had touched it, held it, taken it someplace. Now it was the necromancer’s duty to get that object from this other person. Even if it meant killing him or her. What was the death of a mere mortal compared to the glorious realization of the necromancer’s dreams? This island alone could instill great power. The object, because of some odd mystical properties the nature of which the necromancer had yet to ascertain, could focus, channel the island’s power into an irresistible and unstoppable force. Truth be known, the necromancer could not yet quite imagine how it would use that power; only that anybody who had ever wronged the necromancer would pay, and pay dearly.
These stupid unwitting idiots all around it. The necromancer had come onto the island with them —right out in the open—and they hadn’t even known. The necromancer had stood there and talked to them, chatted with them, eaten with them, and they hadn’t had the slightest idea of what it really was. They thought the necromancer was just like all the rest, the fools, but the necromancer knew it was much, much more.
On this island the necromancer’s powers were intensified. The necromancer did not know-would probably never know—why it had been chosen to have such undreamed-of abilities. Some were the product of years of study, night after night of trial and error. Others just seemed to be there, waiting for something to bring them out. Whatever the case, they belonged to the necromancer alone, and the necromancer knew how to
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