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

single drop of blood splashed against the surface of one eye. The branches re-arranged and for a quick flash in time, he saw huge, multi-pointed antlers sweeping up toward infinite darkness.
    He whispered a word forgotten the moment it passed his lips and pressed the palm of his hand into the eye. An incredible rush of air threatened to drag him off his feet and tumble him through the air.   His hand flew back so hard and fast his arm was half-wrenched from its socket, and he screamed. The sound grew from a keening wail to fill the world with its painful, hateful sound.   He clapped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes.
     
    Abraham sat bolt upright in bed and clapped his hands over his mouth. He bit down hard on his lip, squeezed his eyes closed, and a moment later was able to slide his legs quietly over the side of the bed and rise. He was drenched in sweat, and his knees were so weak that he had to steady himself on his nightstand. He heard Katrina's steady breathing from the far side of the bed and knew he had managed not to wake her this time.
    It was still early, but sleep was out of the question.   He slipped into his jeans and a t-shirt and out into the next room. Their small townhouse overlooked the beach, just below the cliff where The Cathedral of San Marcos by the Sea leaned out over the waves and the rocks below.   The church gleamed bluish white in the waning moonlight, and the waves themselves were steel blue tipped in silver. From where he sat, it looked as if the small cathedral might tilt and drop to its destruction in the waves at any moment, but Abraham knew it was an illusion.
    He had stood on the cliff beside the cathedral once and stared down the beach, trying to make out the walls of their home. He had not been able to do it. Everything got lost in the brilliance of the sun and the gleam of the sand. Another illusion.
    The clouds rolling in over the horizon swirled and he would have sworn they formed the symbol from his dream. He closed his eyes, but all this did was solidify the image and redden it with flowing blood. He cursed softly under his breath. He shifted his gaze to the sand and considered going out for a run. It usually cleared his head, especially when the beach was dark and there was no one in sight, but he wasn't sure that his legs would carry him, and something cold had imbedded itself in his heart; irrationally, he didn't want to go down there alone.
    So he sat in the old rattan Papasan chair by window and stared out over the beach, his knees pulled up to his chest. He didn't really see any of it after the first couple of minutes. Memories slipped past his carefully erected defenses and teased at his senses, and it was all that he could do to keep them buried and under control. It wasn't cold, but he pulled the frayed afghan Katrina had made for him from the back of the chair, tucked it under his feet and pulled it up around his shoulders.
    The moon's radiance was dying away, and he knew that before long dawn would kiss the skyline. Something was in the air. The dreams had left him alone for more than a year, and they had been fading in intensity even before that. The longer he spent away from the mountain, the less real it all became, and the less his past invaded his sleep and his life. Until this last dream he had hoped they would disappear entirely.
    Somehow this nightmare was different.   The dreams had never been so real or powerful in the past. He still saw those eyes, and if he stared too long at the vast expanse of white sand on the beach below, he saw the opaque lens and the dark things moving beyond it.
    He grabbed the leather thong that hung around his neck and drew out the medallion he'd worn since childhood. Staring at it in the dim light, it caught a wink from the moon and glistened in his hand. The dark lines of the equal-armed cross ran like liquid ebony around and through the design. The same design he'd cut into his hand in the dream. The skin of his palm