The Dark Rift: The Last Artifact Trilogy, #1

PROLOGUE

The Cantabrian Mountains – 2243 BCE.

A heavy mantle of fog clung to the surface of the small mountain lake, its dark waters emitting a profound stillness. Amid the gurgle of a slow-moving paddle a primitive dugout made its way out into the gloom, its two occupants dwarfed by the looming peaks that encased it on all sides. There was not a soul in sight.

The boy with the paddle completed another stroke, the boat sliding effortlessly forward. Their destination lay just ahead; a tiny island enshrouded in mist.

It’s certainly strange here, said the girl in the boat, chewing her lip, but it doesn’t seem as dangerous as they say.

There was something otherworldly about the place. It was sending waves of excitement through her. Like the boy, she too had turned twelve that day, and to celebrate their birthdays they had decided to investigate the mysterious island, knowing full well that they were forbidden to do so. She studied its dense tangle of trees.

I want to go ashore.

The boy frowned.

That wasn’t the plan, he said. We only came to look.

We don’t have to go into the shrine. We can just find it and see what it looks like.

The boy shot a suspicious glance at the island and then made up his mind.

All right, he said, passing a hand through his shaggy hair. Let’s go.

They circled the island until they found a place to land. Above them a veiled sun was already beginning to dip behind the mountains and the girl felt a sudden twinge of fear. The shadowy trees were dense and ominous.

It’s getting dark too fast, she said. Maybe we should go back.

We’re here already, said the boy. Let’s have a quick look.

He jumped from the dugout and dragged it up onto the rocks, holding out his hand for the girl to take.

Very well, she said. But only for a moment.

The island was unkempt, and the vegetation quite dense. Lush ferns covered most of the ground, and many of the rocks were rounded over with moss. From where they stood, a path could be seen climbing into the foliage. It picked its way through the rocky terrain in a series of natural steps and landings and the two were soon finding it quite easy to navigate their way up.

This was a mistake, said the girl, following behind.

Why?

She peered into the woods. She thought she had seen a shadow moving through the trees.

What if the Druid Fathers are right?

The Druid Fathers are old fools, said the boy. Nobody believes their stories anymore.

It was not long before they arrived at a small, circular clearing, not twenty feet in diameter. There was a large, flattened boulder directly at its centre, and as they made their way forward, they could see the ancient image of a maze carved into its surface. There was a crude figure of a man standing at its entrance. It was unsettling, but more disturbing still was what lay at the outer extremities of the clearing: A grouping of fourteen standing stones, each as tall as a man, and forming a perfect circle around them.

What is this place? asked the girl.

The boy shook his head and frowned.

I don’t know...

The sound of a large bird taking flight startled them, and as the girl’s eyes followed it up through the tangled boughs, she saw how dim the sky had become. There was a darkness growing in the woods.

I’m scared, she said, clutching the boy. Let’s go. I don’t like the way this island makes me feel.

Just a little while longer, he said, taking her hand. Come on. We’ve got to be close to the shrine by now.

She followed him reluctantly, deeper and deeper into the thick. It seemed to her that the island was swallowing them alive. After a five-minute hike the boy stopped suddenly, his heart pounding with excitement as he pulled her into another clearing.

This must be the place, he said, refusing to acknowledge the fear he felt.

Wait, he muttered, his eyes straining. What is this?

He could see the standing stones looming in a circle around them again. They had somehow returned to the same place, and something felt terribly wrong. It was too dark. At some point the overcast sky had transformed into a starless void, and only the muted light of a crescent moon leaked through the twisted branches above.

We’ve been walking in circles... he stammered.

A shrill pitch of the purest fear was ringing through his body now. He could not understand. The air had become frigidly cold.

The Druid Fathers were right... he whispered, shaking his head in horror. By the gods, what have we done?

A deep and inky void had appeared where the central monolith had been, and just then, something even more unsettling came into view.

Shadowy figures were materializing behind the standing stones. They were stumbling forward, their arms hanging limply at their sides, and their gazes vacant and cold. The boy’s eyes opened wide. These people were dead. Their flesh was crawling with worms, yet somehow, they still lived.

No! he grunted, unable to move. This is impossible...

It was only then that it came. An invisible force of unimaginable potency. It moved over them with the momentum of an ocean tide, forcing them to the ground and driving the sight from their eyes.

CHAPTER 1

Istanbul - Turkey

Professor Agardi Metrovich staggered out of the examination room and into the hall of the private Istanbul hospital. He was a large, bearded man in his late seventies, dressed in an old tweed sports jacket with frayed cuffs. The door closed behind him as he exited, shutting out the chanting priests as they continued with their archaic ritual.

Through the walls, the weary professor could still hear the spitting curses coming from his patient, a sensation of pure evil crawling over his skin. As he had expected, he was instantly approached by his patient’s father. Isaac Rodchenko was an inpatient at the institution as well, and stricken with paranoid schizophrenia. Over the course of the evening, the unearthly cries of his son had driven the poor man into a state of despair.

Professor Metrovich! he whispered, his eyes straining with worry. You must tell me what is happening to my son!

Metrovich could only stare back at him, his own face pale and drawn with fear. After decades of medically overseeing exorcisms, the seasoned professor had yet to overcome the horror the rituals consistently provoked in him. He struggled with his emotions, finding comfort in the words of an ancient text he had long ago unearthed in his research.

Fear is an illusion, a ghost without substance. It is easily dispelled.

In many cases, suspected victims were merely suffering from severe psychotic dementia, but on rare occasions such as this, events could not be explained so readily. Demonic possession was an anomaly that defied all rational thought. It was something not of this earth.

Please, sit down, Mr. Rodchenko, the professor managed to say, and following his own advice, he collapsed heavily into one of the waiting armchairs. You must give me a moment to regain my strength.

Isaac Rodchenko sat down at once. He had a healthy complexion for his sixty odd years, along with thick salt and pepper hair and black eyebrows. He wore an elegant charcoal grey suit and had an air of humble confidence about him, despite his distress. For a long moment Isaac waited obediently but could contain himself no longer.

My son has spent thirty-three years in a vegetative state, he said, rubbing his hands together nervously. How is it possible that he should have awakened from it now, and in this condition? I know you are keeping something from me, Professor. Have pity on a suffering father. Tell me, please!

Metrovich held Isaac’s gaze for a moment, but then let his eyes fall.

How could I possibly tell this man what I suspect to be true?

Sir! insisted Isaac. You must tell me at once!

The old professor looked up, his tired eyes scanning the distressed face before him. He opened his mouth to speak but an unearthly scream split the silence. It was followed immediately by a call from one of the priests inside.

Professor! Come quickly!

In one clumsy motion Metrovich rose from his chair and passed into the examination room, a stench of rot and suffering engulfing him as he entered. There in the half light, he could see two priests hunched over the possessed patient, his obese body contorting in a series of slow and twisting seizures.

Having already been severely deformed since birth, the effects of the possession had transformed the victim into something utterly horrific. Metrovich looked to the priests. They stood there in quiet resignation, praying silently over the poor beast.

We are losing him, Professor, whispered the ancient Father Franco.

The professor’s eyes found the electrocardiogram and saw that the old priest was not mistaken. The patient had entered into cardiac arrest. In his weakened state, there would be no way of saving him.

His joints creaked woodenly as he lurched and twisted, his enormous body becoming still before moving into a violent death rattle. When it was over, the heart monitor gave off a flat, uninterrupted tone, and crossing himself, Father Franco muted the alarm.

With the death of the patient, a deep silence had fallen over the room, a residual feeling of the supernatural hanging in the air like a pall. In all his years of overseeing exorcisms, Metrovich had never witnessed a ghastlier case than this, and judging by the expressions on the two priests, he could see that they had not done so either.

Metrovich moved towards the corpse. He had been plagued with a gut feeling since early that evening. It warned of something so unlikely that it seemed ludicrous that he should even be considering it, but it could no longer be ignored.

He reached down to take hold of the urine-soaked gown that covered the patient’s lower torso but froze instantly in the act. He thought he had felt a slight tremor running through the corpse, and in that instant a fresh wave of fear rippled through him again. He looked more closely. The cadaver was visibly trembling. His eyes darted to the ECG. It was still showing a flatline.

This is impossible. The body is dead...

Metrovich looked back in time to see the ghastly corpse jerk to life.

Ahreimanius! it hissed menacingly, its upper body lurching violently towards him.

All watched in horror as the restraining straps gave way, the thrashing corpse coming dangerously close to the professor before collapsing back onto the bed. A final quake ran through the body.

Struggling to keep himself composed, Metrovich reached forward to resume his task, drawing slowly aside the gown that covered the lower half of its torso. What he saw filled him with horror and disgust. Father Franco gagged and coughed.

Plainly visible before them, grotesque and utterly malformed, were a pair of lacerated genitals, disproportionately large and belonging to both the male and female sexes. It was at that moment that a shaft of light split the darkness and Isaac’s swaying form appeared in the doorway. He stared blankly at the scene before him. The professor’s eyes remained glued to the patient.

You did not tell us that your son was a hermaphrodite, Mr. Rodchenko...

Isaac seemed to wince at the statement.

Is he dead?

Professor Metrovich turned to face the grieving father but said nothing, his expression containing a mixture of compassion and confusion. With this latest development, twenty years of skepticism had been suddenly stripped from his mind. The evidence was now irrefutable, the coincidences far too numerous to discount.

Through the death of this unfortunate victim, an ancient and obscure prophecy had somehow been made manifest. The impossible had somehow transpired.

I know this is difficult for you, Mr. Rodchenko, said Metrovich slowly. Can you remember where your son was conceived?

The professor’s words struck Isaac like a dull blow. He was too drugged to sense any pain, but the question probed one of the primary causes of his mental illness. The mother of his child had died giving birth to their misshapen son, and he had never recovered from the loss of her. Over the years he had progressively lost his mind. He slumped to his knees, rocking himself to and fro.

My wife and I were on a religious pilgrimage in the mountains of Northern Spain, he muttered, his eyes squinting ever so slightly as he remembered. We were on a small lake. We had found a little island...

Metrovich tore his gaze from Isaac and turned to face Father Franco. The old priest looked back at him, his eyes alight with foreboding.

God help us all, he said solemnly.

Outside a rumbling chorus of thunder sounded. The storm that had long been approaching had finally arrived.

CHAPTER 2

Florence - Italy

The thirty-two-year-old Dr. Natasha Rossi sat amid the clutter of her small restoration shop. Before her on a battered workbench lay the ninth century tabernacle she was working on. It was almost finished, and behind it a large monitor displayed a three-dimensional infrared scan of the piece. She was using it to spot tiny deposits that had been missed during the restoration process.

Playing in the background was one of her many self-help audiobooks.

...for this reason, traumas in our past relationships can be part of the reason why we keep attracting selfish men into our lives. We feel compelled to fix what went wrong the last time, and this can happen over and over again until we finally become aware of the cycle...

Natasha applied solvent to a tiny deposit of paraffin lodged in the tabernacle’s base, nodding in agreement the whole while. She pondered the seven months she had just wasted on her ex-boyfriend, amazed by her ability to find the tiniest flaws in artifacts, yet be utterly blind to the most blatant flaws in men. Or maybe she was aware of their flaws, and simply thought their imperfections were something that could be removed if she was meticulous enough, like stripping dirt from an old artifact.

He really was a jerk... she whispered, blowing a lock of hair out of her eyes.

It was a dark chestnut colour and it fell thick and curly around her shoulders. Natasha’s accent was Italian, but three years at Harvard had tempered it nicely. She ran through her positive affirmations, feeling another wave of depression coming on.

I’m strong and powerful. My thoughts and actions create my destiny.

Christmas was approaching and Natasha was dreading it. There would parties and church functions to attend, and she would be alone the entire time. It seemed to her that she was always alone, even if she happened to be dating someone.

She only ever felt happy when she was dancing, but even her love of the ballet had brought her disappointment of late. Her role in this years’ production of The Nutcracker Suite had disappeared when poor ticket sales had forced the show’s cancellation. Months of grueling practice had been lost in the blink of an eye.

Natasha gazed out her shopfront windows to see the little piazza outside. Its stalls were uncharacteristically quiet for a December’s night, and she found herself thinking how magical Christmas in Florence normally was. The reason for the sad state of things was quite understandable.

Following a horrendous terrorist attack in Los Angeles, the United States economy had collapsed like a house of cards, leading the rest of the planet into a severe economic depression. In addition to the sweeping devastation it caused, the heinous attack had left the streets of Florence bereft of tourists and holiday shoppers alike.

Natasha chewed her lip as she returned her attention to the artifact, reminding herself how fortunate she was. Despite the global crisis, the Vatican had continued with its museum renovations, providing her little restoration shop with dozens of artifacts needing to be cataloged and cleaned. It was a tedious job, but one that was constantly reenergized by the small chance that something new might be revealed as the layers of dirt were stripped away.

It was this act of revealing, and her strong passion for it, that had inspired Natasha to work in artifact restoration to begin with. Having grown up surrounded by religious relics, it seemed a natural extension to the doctorate she held in theology.

Natasha laid down her tools and rose wearily from her chair, stretching as she did so. Across from her a sixteenth century mirror reminded her of how many hours she had been working.

I look horrible, she whispered.

As always, she absently arranged her hair to cover a pale, dime-sized scar at the centre of her forehead. It had been there for as long as she could remember; the remnant of abuses she had suffered in an orphanage as an infant.

There were other burn marks on her body as well. Plastic surgery had made them almost imperceptible, but they still haunted her. They were ghosts of an evil that had touched her before her earliest memories. They made her feel malformed and inadequate, even though they were practically invisible.

Continuing with her stretching, Natasha approached the windows in time to see a mass of heavy clouds rolling in. They blanketed the starry sky within moments, and heavy drops of rain began to spatter the cobblestones outside. After a barrage of thunder and lightning, Natasha turned to find that her computer had shut down, along with all the lights in the room. Outside, the storm exploded into a deluge.

I forgot to save that scan... she said gloomily, and her eyes darted to the front door.

A gust of wind had just blown it open, letting in the torrential rain. Natasha wasted no time. Priceless artifacts were getting wet. She arrived at the breach in seconds, reaching up to take hold of the outer door and slamming it down with a crash. The workshop plunged into darkness, and it was only then that an irregular banging could be heard coming from the back room.

What is that? she whispered, and a wave of fear ran through her.

Natasha was not one to be easily frightened but she could not deny the eerie feeling that accompanied the banging sound. With a decisive effort she dispelled her fears and made her way into the darkness to find its source.

For almost a hundred years, the back area of the workshop had been used as a storeroom; a place that she rarely ventured into. It was cluttered with thousands of religious artifacts, and bric-a-brac of every kind, its few naked bulbs never providing enough light to dispel the fears she had always held for the place. Nevertheless, she found herself venturing into its depths, groping forward with nothing but a flashlight to illuminate her way.

Is someone there?

A crack of thunder sounded in response. She could feel the little hairs on her neck standing on end as she navigated the maze of cluttered shelves. It was as if something had invaded her workshop; something paranormal; something demonic. She knew this was a ludicrous thought, but she frowned in confusion nonetheless. Her instincts were telling her to flee, yet there was something drawing her forward as well.

It was not long before she found the source of the banging, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The same gust of wind that had blown open the front door had opened the back door as well. She could see it swinging in the dim light of a gas lamp outside, banging the old frame at irregular intervals. Its rusted latch had obviously given way under the jolt of wind.

Natasha looked down suddenly