Necromantic by Rick Gualtieri, Cole Vance

couple of objects in his hands. Sitting in front of the statue were life-sized replicas of the items he held. One appeared to be brass or maybe bronze. The other, though, I was willing to bet it was silver. Quite the trinket. Regardless of what they were made of, something about them seemed vaguely familiar. I had seen items like these before, although I had no idea what they were called.
    A faint recollection popped into my head. I still had no clue what they were, but for some reason they struck me as Egyptian. Looking at the statue again, I got the same feeling. The man on the throne resembled some of the depictions of pharaohs I had seen once or twice at the museum. Unfortunately that was all I had. I had never been into mummies or the like, so my interest, and therefore my knowledge, was somewhat limited.
    I eyed the pentagram and the covered object inside of it. My curiosity was piqued, but I still felt a pressing desire to stay away. I heeded that for the moment and crossed over to the work table.
    A mishmash of books covered the surface. Stacked amongst them were an equal number of notepads. Whatever the subject of these tomes, Harold had definitely not gotten them at Barnes and Noble. They looked and smelled old, their covers a variety of unusual materials. One was clad in rusted metal, another in what could have been tree bark. Others were wrapped in leather - or so I hoped...hadn’t I seen a movie once in which a book was bound in human skin? Ugh, not a pleasant thought right then.
    The title of one of them appeared to be in Latin. Sadly, that was the closest I could get to recognizing anything. The rest, those that had writing at least, appeared to be written in illegible scribbles, although I was somehow sure they weren’t. Regardless, I couldn’t read any of them.
    Fortunately, it turns out that I didn’t need to. Having a hunch, I picked up one of the notebooks. Sure enough, Harold’s neat handwriting stared back at me. I glanced at my watch and saw that while my time wasn’t critical, I probably didn’t have the luxury of an extended read this trip. Still...
    Flipping through the pages, I glanced at a passage. It appeared to be a mix of thoughts and notes.
    Too many contradictions. The Sumerians warn against disturbing the gates, yet the Tome of the Screaming Dead claims it is all but an illusion. The door swings both ways and freely at that. The Atlanteans - if indeed their foul culture is to be believed - prescribe a mix of poisons and hallucinogens to bring the caster closer in tune with the souls of their ancestors.
    Madness! So many different methods, so many dire warnings. Don’t even want to think about what the Dzyan Manuscripts foretell will happen.
    I turned the pages and saw more.
    There may still be hope. Beginning to see commonalities. The Book of Coming Forth appears to have potential. Not sure I believe in their mumbo jumbo, but will attempt the ritual regardless. Seems to be low risk. If it fails, so be it. I shall try again. If it succeeds...then praise-be to Osiris!
    Finally:
    Progress! The gate has appeared and I have gazed through it. Gibbons’s research says that it can be made permanent, the flesh rebonded, but he’s a discredited fool. Not worth the effort to decipher his gibberish anyway. I have the vessel. If I can bind it to the gate...still so much work to do. There is hope, though. We shall see where this leads.
    I looked back toward the altar. Osiris? That name definitely sounded somewhat familiar. It could have been Egyptian. Was that who was depicted in the statue? Neither Harold nor I had ever been fervent church goers. It didn’t seem like him to start worshipping an Egyptian whatever. I had no idea who this Osiris was, but I made a mental note of the name. At the very least, it would give me something to research for my next trip.
    I realized I was breathing hard, thoroughly creeped out by what I had found. It left me with more questions than ever, but at least I had