Call Me Ismay Read Online Free Page B
Author: Sean McDevitt
definitely still underway. I do want to see what's down there, he determined, even if it is a coffin or a urn.
He lay on his stomach just above the newly formed hole, keeping his wounded hand elevated by bending his arm. With his other hand, he tugged at the rough edges of the hole until he was able to dislodge a small pebble. After rolling it through his fingers for a moment, attempting to even it out by letting some of its edges crumble a bit, he carefully and deliberately dropped the small stone into the void, attempting to determine how deep it was.
The reporting sound was immediate. “It can't be more than a few inches!” he declared to himself in surprise. Impulsively- perhaps even a bit foolishly- Langston thrust his hand into the darkened space, trying to determine what he had uncovered.
His knuckles made immediate and painful contact with what seemed to be a small wooden box. He ran his fingers over what felt like four separate edges, and then discovered that the box was resting on a solid level just inches under the crumbled floor. If this had been intended as a grave, it was a most shallow one. Langston quickly determined that while the box was of moderate weight, he could probably leverage his uninjured palm just enough to be able to grab it and pull it out. Grunting and straining, and noticing that his pulse had greatly quickened, he was able to lift the box out with a slow and steady hand.
He cradled the dark teak wooden box in his trembling hands as he slowly stood, then took a few steps back to the pew where he had been sitting a short while before. It occurred to him the box- in its general size and weight- resembled the Langston family Bible that had been passed down a few generations. The box, though it bore a few scratches on its corners, did not appear to be covered with an unusual amount of dust, nor did it seem in its design to be more than a few years old.
Langston's mind was racing. One major inaccuracy involving the year of Gidley's death, and yet this doesn't seem to belong here, he thought to himself. He noticed the box had a small latch in front that did not seem to require a key. Maybe I should take this back to the George and open it there.
Dazed, exhausted, agitated and not quite yet feeling vindicated, Langston decided that he would in fact open the box now, here in the gloomy front row of Winkleigh Church. Using his thumbnail, Langston popped the latch open, drew in his breath, and lifted the lid.
His eyes danced over its contents for several minutes. There were objects that he recognized immediately, while others left him momentarily puzzled. In reviewing the box's small inventory, Langston discovered that he was now in possession of the following:
A crucifix.
A pistol.
Four wooden stakes and a mallet.
Holy water.
A garlic clove.
A copy of the Book of Common Prayer from 1851.
A slightly yellowed handwritten note reiterated the exact same clue he'd been given so long ago: Bartholomew Gidley has risen from deep sleep in Winkleigh and sits at the right hand of Lyons. Seek his monument in the chapel if you believe me not, and bare your tools for the fight that comes after.
Bare your tools. Bare your tools! B-a-r-e. “It's not a misspelling!” Langston marveled. “For the fight that comes after...” his voice faltered. “The fight that comes after. This... this is a vampire slaying kit.” Tangible twinges of fear cut through Langston's face as he heard himself saying the words.
“And that means... Bartholomew Gidley... is...” Forgetting his injured and still slightly bleeding wrist, Langston slapped his hand over his mouth. “And Lyons...”
Langston closed his eyes tightly. My God, my God, my God... am I being ordered to attack or am I to defend? Langston's words tumbled through his head in free association. And if it's a fraud, it's a damned elaborate one... does this mean I should expect an
He lay on his stomach just above the newly formed hole, keeping his wounded hand elevated by bending his arm. With his other hand, he tugged at the rough edges of the hole until he was able to dislodge a small pebble. After rolling it through his fingers for a moment, attempting to even it out by letting some of its edges crumble a bit, he carefully and deliberately dropped the small stone into the void, attempting to determine how deep it was.
The reporting sound was immediate. “It can't be more than a few inches!” he declared to himself in surprise. Impulsively- perhaps even a bit foolishly- Langston thrust his hand into the darkened space, trying to determine what he had uncovered.
His knuckles made immediate and painful contact with what seemed to be a small wooden box. He ran his fingers over what felt like four separate edges, and then discovered that the box was resting on a solid level just inches under the crumbled floor. If this had been intended as a grave, it was a most shallow one. Langston quickly determined that while the box was of moderate weight, he could probably leverage his uninjured palm just enough to be able to grab it and pull it out. Grunting and straining, and noticing that his pulse had greatly quickened, he was able to lift the box out with a slow and steady hand.
He cradled the dark teak wooden box in his trembling hands as he slowly stood, then took a few steps back to the pew where he had been sitting a short while before. It occurred to him the box- in its general size and weight- resembled the Langston family Bible that had been passed down a few generations. The box, though it bore a few scratches on its corners, did not appear to be covered with an unusual amount of dust, nor did it seem in its design to be more than a few years old.
Langston's mind was racing. One major inaccuracy involving the year of Gidley's death, and yet this doesn't seem to belong here, he thought to himself. He noticed the box had a small latch in front that did not seem to require a key. Maybe I should take this back to the George and open it there.
Dazed, exhausted, agitated and not quite yet feeling vindicated, Langston decided that he would in fact open the box now, here in the gloomy front row of Winkleigh Church. Using his thumbnail, Langston popped the latch open, drew in his breath, and lifted the lid.
His eyes danced over its contents for several minutes. There were objects that he recognized immediately, while others left him momentarily puzzled. In reviewing the box's small inventory, Langston discovered that he was now in possession of the following:
A crucifix.
A pistol.
Four wooden stakes and a mallet.
Holy water.
A garlic clove.
A copy of the Book of Common Prayer from 1851.
A slightly yellowed handwritten note reiterated the exact same clue he'd been given so long ago: Bartholomew Gidley has risen from deep sleep in Winkleigh and sits at the right hand of Lyons. Seek his monument in the chapel if you believe me not, and bare your tools for the fight that comes after.
Bare your tools. Bare your tools! B-a-r-e. “It's not a misspelling!” Langston marveled. “For the fight that comes after...” his voice faltered. “The fight that comes after. This... this is a vampire slaying kit.” Tangible twinges of fear cut through Langston's face as he heard himself saying the words.
“And that means... Bartholomew Gidley... is...” Forgetting his injured and still slightly bleeding wrist, Langston slapped his hand over his mouth. “And Lyons...”
Langston closed his eyes tightly. My God, my God, my God... am I being ordered to attack or am I to defend? Langston's words tumbled through his head in free association. And if it's a fraud, it's a damned elaborate one... does this mean I should expect an
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