[…continued from Part 6]
It was around 3am and only a five-minute walk to the hardware store from the part of the river where we were accosted by the Sheriff and his posse. We entered through the front and were forced to the back office behind the counter. I wasn’t surprised, but then again I wasn’t suspecting the store had a basement, which it did. We were forced down the stairs which were made of the same red sandstone as the church. Once at basement level, we walked right past a tremendously long corridor. If my sense of directions was correct, the corridor went under the road and deep into the property of the church grounds. It suddenly became clear to me why anyone was rarely seen going into and out of the church. We approached a small room in which there was a table and chairs and some barrels of small stones. I assumed they were the magic stones. The monks manhandled the women onto the chairs and began tying them up as the Sheriff began to talk.
“Sit down,” he said to me sternly. Then he pulled a fourth chair from the table, spun it around and sat on it facing the back of the chair, as if trying to intimidate me. While at first I thought he was going to grill me with questions like he said earlier, it seemed more likely to me now that he was going to get rid of us one way or another once he got what he wanted.
That was confirmed when Barbara burst out with, “Don’t tell him anything about the book, Blake,” and Charlie fired a round from his pistol into her lower leg. I didn’t think he was going to torture and release.
“It’s only a flesh wound,” Barbara said with an excruciating grimace, followed by some moaning.
“Shut up,” said Charlie!
The Sheriff started a monologue.
“Mr. Harding, I’ve been looking for that book since those kids found it and meddled with something that wasn’t meant for them. My great-grandfather wrote that book. Yes, his name was Brackman, but he was my mother’s granfather. He worked for the rector of the church back then in the late 1800s. The church was built for the soul purpose of recreating an ancient cave that could harness and redirect energy based on the design of the building and the makeup of the stone. Someone who knew what they were doing could drive a man mad or kill another, all mysteriously, while giving its chief operator a god-like feeling. Now, Mr. Harding, that is just something to good for any man with wits about him to pass up.”
“And I suppose you need the book because you don’t know how this supernatural machine works,” I said.
“I know how it works, Mr. Harding. Well, except for one thing – how to achieve resonance with the stones. These monks have descended from an order that built the original cave thousands of year ago, as did the rector who killed himself in 1880. The problem is that the original instructions for using the stones were passed down orally, and the rector inherited his title before he received the transmission from his then dead superior. These monks are educated theologians who speak numerous languages and they will be able to translate the book, I think, just fine. For all these years, all they could do was keep the hope alive that they would rediscover their buried secrets. At the same time, they also served to guard the church so no curious crackpot would get the idea of chipping pieces of the stones that comprised the building. There’s a lot of potential power in that sandstone. So, Mr. Harding, do you know where the book is?”
“It’s in my desk drawer at home.” Of course it wasn’t. But, it was the most believable lie I could tell. And with Corey at his friend’s house that night, there was no real risk.
“Well, I guess we are going to have to go check that out,” said the Sheriff.
By then, the ladies were all tied up and the monks had gone back presumably to the church. Feeling he made his point, Charlie had tucked his pistol in the front of his pants.
“Get as comfortable as you can ladies,” said the Sheriff as he looked at Sarah and Barbara.” Your future depends on my getting that book. We won’t be long.”
While he was saying that, I had pulled out the book and to keep the Sheriff occupied for a few seconds, I said, “No need to go to my house; here it is!” And I tossed it in his direction higher than his head so that he and Charlie would look upward, throwing each off the integrity of his balance. Once the book left my fingers, I hit Charlie in the face as hard as I could with a right hook. I grabbed his gun and in a scuffle it went off into his stomach. The Sheriff had also drawn his gun by then but was not quick enough to dodge the bullets I was discharging in his direction.
After untying the ladies, Sarah helped Barbara upstairs. We called the State Police and FBI as I had planned. The monks, hearing the shots, must have fled, for they were never found in the church or elsewhere. The book and the Paketka Tribune article from 1880 corroborated Billy’s original story, although there was no one around to indict. Charlie and the Sheriff had died from their wounds.
As for the book, it had to be destroyed as it was more dangerous than ever. With the base stone under all of that collapsed rubble, using the magic stones guaranteed tragic results. Of course, someone with resources could recover and possible resurface the base stone. But, no. The FBI stated in their report that the book would be destroyed rendering the church and quarry fragments harmless. So, the story of the magic stones will only survive as small town gossip…or will it?
© 2018 Michael Armenia