Ancient Eyes by David Niall Wilson Read Free Book Online Page A

remembered the church.   His father had gone further up the mountain to the stone church. Tommy and Angel had been warned to stay as far from the gleaming white walls of Reverend Kotz's house of worship as possible, but they were boys, and they had seen. They had crawled close and watched as families filed in and out those doors. They had seen the faces and heard the soft murmurs.
    Now they would see it brought to life. Tommy still tasted the vile, earthy flavor in his throat, and every time he did his thoughts returned to the girl, and he had to turn slightly sideways so that Angel wouldn't notice his hand straying to his crotch, or the glazed look that came into his eyes.
    Angel would not have noticed, as it turned out, but this didn't stop the hot flush of shame that tinted Tommy's cheeks each time.
    They stopped for the night in a seedy roadside motel on the outskirts of the city and left a wake-up call for daybreak. Nothing was open at this hour, and they would need their strength the next day for loading and unloading the truck, and for the work beyond. Before they slept, Angel pulled a small scrap of paper from his pocket and glanced at it. Then, without a word, he snagged the phone book from the room's scruffy desk and thumbed through it with purpose. Tommy watched for a few minutes, slightly curious, but he was tired, and they didn't have much time to spare, so he laid down, closed his eyes, and dropped off to sleep without comment.
    Angel scanned the phonebook until he found the number he wanted. He took a pen from the desk drawer and scrawled the number onto the scrap of paper.   Then, after sliding the note back into his pocket, he gave a grunt of satisfaction; he crawled into his own bed and dropped off to sleep immediately.

FIVE
     
    A face carved of shimmering white stone hovered in the air. The avalanche roar of rock breaking up and crashing down mountains broke the silence. The long ropy strands of the stone face's hair slid over and under one another, whirled about like vipers and then slammed out and down. They crashed into the earth, impossible lengths that dove deeper, grew and drove through earth and clay, tearing furrows that angled toward Abraham with shocking power and speed. He stood silent and still. Clods of earth flipped up and away and rocks sailed past him, so close that the displaced air of their passing rippled over his skin. None of it touched him, but he was trapped in the gaze of the ancient stone eyes, and he felt the malevolence—the pure unadulterated hatred they held for him. Abraham clutched a dagger tightly in his right hand. His knuckles were white tight on the hilt, and his arm trembled with the effort of holding still.   He lifted his left hand and managed to tear his gaze from the stone eyes for just an instant. In those few seconds of control, he brought the tip of the blade up and sliced the palm of his hand. Then again. He worked quickly, grimacing and biting his lip with each cut. The earth shook beneath his feet more powerfully every time the blade sliced flesh, and he knew that his time was short. The symbol on his palm was crude, the lines imperfect and welling with blood, but they met at each corner, and he knew that even the imperfection was part of its strength. That is what he had been taught. His blood smoothed the edges and dripped from his wrist.
    Slowly he turned and held his tortured palm out before him. The eyes were closer now, and larger, so large that they filled his vision and so bright that they no longer seemed stone at all, but translucent lenses. Shapes moved beyond them; their features were dimmed by the opaque, filmy expanse of the eyes. The earth had stilled to a tremble, and the ropy strands of hair had ceased their endless boring into the earth and hung about him, draped like the legs of a giant spider, but not touching.
    Great veins creased the bulbous eyes and then solidified, like the branches of an ancient tree. Abraham shook his hand and a