The Impaler

alive for days. He will undress you to write on you—will most likely untie you, too. The window will be short, but you can surprise him if you—

Out of nowhere came a loud buzzing noise, like an old alarm clock, echoing throughout the cellar. Markham flinched, but at the exact same time the Impaler flinched, too. That’s what saved him, he realized, and the two of them froze together.

Nothing—only the Impaler listening, breathing—and then Markham felt himself being lowered back down onto the workbench.

Movement again, behind him, and after a brief silence Markham thought he heard talking coming from another part of the cellar. He cracked open his eyes and cocked his ear, straining to hear.

Another loud buzz, this one longer, and Markham flinched again.

“No!” a voice cried. “The nine is not complete!” A brief pause, then, “No, please, the doorway is not healed! You must not come through!”

Something else, inaudible, and Markham’s mind began to race with what to do next. He’s hearing voices, he said to himself. Paranoid delusions, borderline schizophrenic—the god Nergal behind the doorway on his chest! The temple at Kutha, the doorway to Hell!

Then came the sound of an animal growling, passing close, and quickly trailing off into footsteps—distant, hollow, bounding up a flight of stairs. The slam of a heavy door, then silence.

Markham didn’t waste any time. He sat up, wincing at the pain in the back of his head, and glanced around the room. As he suspected, he’d been lying on a large workbench; saw racks upon racks of more tools on the wall behind him—saws, chisels, all kinds of cutting instruments—but using them would be slow work with his hands tied together. Across the room, he spied another workbench covered with bottles and jugs and twisted tubes—distillery equipment, it looked like—as well as piles of books and an old phonograph with a stack of old records on top of it.

Then Markham spotted something on the other end of the workbench: a large mechanical grinding wheel caked with blood. Impulsively, he made toward it—didn’t pause to ponder where the blood came from—and jumped off the workbench. His feet were all pins and needles—he felt as if his ankles would buckle at any moment—but he steadied himself and reached the front of machine. He found the switch, but couldn’t feel it with his fingers—numb and unrespon- sive, wouldn’t have been able to grasp any of the smaller tools even if he had time. Markham had a fleeting premonition that the grinder was not going to work, followed by another that it would make too much noise if it did.

“Fuck it,” he whispered, and flicked the switch with the back of his hand.

The lights dimmed in the power drain, but the soft whirring was music to Sam Markham’s ears. He carefully laid his wrists across the spinning bristles and the rope began to shred. He hoped he’d be able to feel the wheel against his skin when it broke through. He was certain he could get his hands free, but what good would they be if he couldn’t use them when the Impaler returned?

Chapter 85

Cindy waited—stood listening on the porch for an entire minute—then rang the doorbell again. Her trip had taken her a half hour longer than she expected; she’d missed the driveway in the dark and drove fifteen minutes out of her way before turning around. Her fault—stupid mistake—but now she was sure she had the right house. She recognized Edmund’s old pickup and saw a light in the upstairs window when she pulled up the driveway.

He has to be home, she thought. The inside door was open a crack, and Cindy pressed her nose against the screen. Maybe he didn’t hear the doorbell.

How could he not hear it? asked the voice in her head. Such a strange sound, too. Like a buzzer on a game show or something.

Then she heard what sounded like a door slamming somewhere inside, and Cindy waited a moment longer.

“Edmund?” she called out, knocking. “It’s Cindy.”

Nothing. She took a deep breath, opened the screen door, and entered.

“Edmund?” she called again, her voice coming back to her in echoes as she closed the inside door behind her. The house was dark—the top of the stairs ahead of her, the rooms to her right and left, pitch black. But Cindy could see a dim light emanating from a room farther down the hall—at the rear of the house, just beyond the large staircase. Must be the kitchen, she thought.

“Edmund?” she said, heading toward the light. She got about halfway down the hall when suddenly a figure stepped out of the lighted doorway and into the shadows.

Cindy gasped, startled. “Edmund, is that you?”

A heavy silence—the figure just standing there, head jutting forward, shoulders hunched. Cindy could barely see him, but could tell it was a man. He stood looking at her sideways, his face completely obscured beneath the silhouette of his massive frame.

“Edmund isn’t here,” the man said finally, his voice deep and guttural. “And neither is the General.”

“I’m sorry,” Cindy said, confused. “I’m a friend of his—Edmund’s, I mean—from school. Do you know when he’ll be back?’

A burst of laughter—harsh and terrifying in its sudden-ness—and instinctively Cindy began to back away, her hand feeling along the wall.

“C’est mieux d’oublier,” the man said, and Cindy’s fingers found the light switch. Impulsively she flicked it, and the hallway sprang to life.

She took in everything in less than a second: the yellowed wallpaper, peeling in spots; the handful of bright cream squares along the stairs where pictures once hung; the thick trail of what looked like red paint stretching out from the man’s feet and running up the staircase. And then there was the man himself. He looked like Edmund Lambert—his build, his jeans, his blue button-down shirt—but at the same time he looked like a completely different person. Edmund’s brother? Cindy thought for a split second. His hair was wet, matted and messy; and his face was twisted in a maniacal expression that had to be—

A joke. Yes, a voice in the back of Cindy’s head told her this had to be some kind of joke. Of course it was Edmund she was looking at, and in one moment she felt relief, in the next, terror when she saw the pistol in his right hand.

“What have you done?” she whispered absently—but her legs were moving again, backing her away toward the door.

“Ereshkigal,” Edmund said, stepping forward and baring his teeth.

Cindy’s eyes darted from the pistol to the trail of blood on the stairway then back to Edmund’s face. His eyes, she thought—those eyes that had once licked her own— No, she realized with horror, those eyes aren’t the same!

Edmund laughed again—a laugh that sounded to Cindy more like a growl.

“Ereshkigal will help us,” he said, tucking the pistol into the small of his back. He was coming toward her now, and Cindy could feel her heart pounding in her chest; could feel the fear there welling up from her stomach.

“But where is the boy’s mama now?” he asked, taking off his shirt to reveal a bloody white bandage on his chest. “Where is she?”

Edmund tore off the bandage and tossed it on the floor. Cindy froze when she saw the tattoo and the fresh blood running from his wounds to his stomach.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“That’s right,” Edmund said. “Your god has returned.”

And then he flew at her.

Cindy screamed and made a dash for the door—her legs weak, heavy like cement as her fingers closed around the knob. She got the inside door open a crack, but Edmund was close behind and slammed the door shut. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her down—backwards across the floor, sliding, until she came to a stop in the sticky trail of blood.

Cindy screamed again and scrambled to her feet—tried to run toward the back of the house—but Edmund