The Merchant of Death Read Online Free
Author: D.J. MacHale
third floor.
He ran to the center of the room and held his hand out as if it didnât belong to him. The ring was still moving, squeezing and releasing like a heartbeat. Then the gray stone started to sparkle. An instant before it had been a solid gray mass; now it sprang to life like a brilliant diamond. Beams of light shot from the ring and filled the room.
Mark couldnât take it anymore. He yanked off the strange ring and threw it. It hit the tiled wall and bounced to a stop in the center of the bathroom. The beams of light continued to shoot from the stone and dance across the ceiling and the walls, making the room look as if it were alive with beautiful, dazzling stars.
Then Mark watched in awe as the circular band started to grow larger. It slowly got bigger and bigger until it was about the size of a Frisbee, and in the center of the now impossibly large band was a black hole where the floor should have been. The ring had opened up a dark portal to . . . somewhere. From deep within this portal, Mark could hear the faint sound of musical notes. It wasnât a melody; it was a jumble of sweet sounding tones that grew louder and louder.
Mark backed away from the strange ring, not sure if he should turn and run or stay and watch the show. He was fascinated and terrified at the same time. The musical notes coming from the portal got so loud that Mark had to cover his ears. Whatever was happening, he didnât want any part of it anymore. So he turned and ran for the door. He was just about to throw it open when . . .
Everything stopped. The musical notes ended so abruptly it was like somebody threw a switch to cut the power. The dazzling light show ended also. The only thing that didnât stop was Markâs pounding heart. Whatever had just happened, it was over now and Mark tried to calm down. He took his hand away from the door and looked back into the bathroom. What he saw was the ring on the floor, right where he had thrown it. It was back to its normal size and the stone had returned to its original solid gray color.
But something else was there too. Lying on the floor next to the ring was a scroll of paper. It was yellow parchment that had been tightly rolled and tied with a thin leather strap. Whatever the event had been with the ring, the result was that it had deposited this scroll here on the bathroom floor.
Mark approached the scroll cautiously, bent down, and picked it up with a sweaty hand. It was indeed rolled paper. Nothing scary about it. Just odd. Mark tugged on the leather cord that kept it together and gently unrolled the paper. There were four sheets, all filled with writing. Mark looked at the first line of the first page, and what he read hit him like an electric charge. He couldnât breathe. He couldnât think. This strange parchment was a letter. . . to him.
It began: I hope youâre reading this, Mark.
JOURNAL #1
(CONTINUED)
DENDURON
T here wasnât much I could ask Uncle Press from the back of a speeding motorcycle. Between the whine of the engine, the blast of wind rushing by and the fact that both of us were wearing these high-tech helmets, conversation was impossible. So I was left with my own imagination to try and figure out where we were going and why.
One thing was clear though. We were leaving town. I lived in a quiet, peaceful, okay dull suburb of New York City. Iâd been into the city a few times with my parents, mostly to go to events like the holiday spectacular at Radio City or the Macyâs Thanksgiving Day Parade. Then there was that one time you and I, Mark, hopped the commuter train to catch that James Bond flick. Remember? Other than that, the city was pretty much a mystery to me.
On the other hand, it didnât take a New York cabbie to realize Uncle Press was steering us into a section of the city that by anybodyâs standards would be defined as . . . bad. This was not the New York Iâd ever seen, except maybe on a TV news
He ran to the center of the room and held his hand out as if it didnât belong to him. The ring was still moving, squeezing and releasing like a heartbeat. Then the gray stone started to sparkle. An instant before it had been a solid gray mass; now it sprang to life like a brilliant diamond. Beams of light shot from the ring and filled the room.
Mark couldnât take it anymore. He yanked off the strange ring and threw it. It hit the tiled wall and bounced to a stop in the center of the bathroom. The beams of light continued to shoot from the stone and dance across the ceiling and the walls, making the room look as if it were alive with beautiful, dazzling stars.
Then Mark watched in awe as the circular band started to grow larger. It slowly got bigger and bigger until it was about the size of a Frisbee, and in the center of the now impossibly large band was a black hole where the floor should have been. The ring had opened up a dark portal to . . . somewhere. From deep within this portal, Mark could hear the faint sound of musical notes. It wasnât a melody; it was a jumble of sweet sounding tones that grew louder and louder.
Mark backed away from the strange ring, not sure if he should turn and run or stay and watch the show. He was fascinated and terrified at the same time. The musical notes coming from the portal got so loud that Mark had to cover his ears. Whatever was happening, he didnât want any part of it anymore. So he turned and ran for the door. He was just about to throw it open when . . .
Everything stopped. The musical notes ended so abruptly it was like somebody threw a switch to cut the power. The dazzling light show ended also. The only thing that didnât stop was Markâs pounding heart. Whatever had just happened, it was over now and Mark tried to calm down. He took his hand away from the door and looked back into the bathroom. What he saw was the ring on the floor, right where he had thrown it. It was back to its normal size and the stone had returned to its original solid gray color.
But something else was there too. Lying on the floor next to the ring was a scroll of paper. It was yellow parchment that had been tightly rolled and tied with a thin leather strap. Whatever the event had been with the ring, the result was that it had deposited this scroll here on the bathroom floor.
Mark approached the scroll cautiously, bent down, and picked it up with a sweaty hand. It was indeed rolled paper. Nothing scary about it. Just odd. Mark tugged on the leather cord that kept it together and gently unrolled the paper. There were four sheets, all filled with writing. Mark looked at the first line of the first page, and what he read hit him like an electric charge. He couldnât breathe. He couldnât think. This strange parchment was a letter. . . to him.
It began: I hope youâre reading this, Mark.
JOURNAL #1
(CONTINUED)
DENDURON
T here wasnât much I could ask Uncle Press from the back of a speeding motorcycle. Between the whine of the engine, the blast of wind rushing by and the fact that both of us were wearing these high-tech helmets, conversation was impossible. So I was left with my own imagination to try and figure out where we were going and why.
One thing was clear though. We were leaving town. I lived in a quiet, peaceful, okay dull suburb of New York City. Iâd been into the city a few times with my parents, mostly to go to events like the holiday spectacular at Radio City or the Macyâs Thanksgiving Day Parade. Then there was that one time you and I, Mark, hopped the commuter train to catch that James Bond flick. Remember? Other than that, the city was pretty much a mystery to me.
On the other hand, it didnât take a New York cabbie to realize Uncle Press was steering us into a section of the city that by anybodyâs standards would be defined as . . . bad. This was not the New York Iâd ever seen, except maybe on a TV news
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