Legacy Read online

  Some gods demand blood!

  Sean Black, a teenage science whiz in a small New England town, leads a pretty normal life...until the night of the storm. After that, nothing is the same. He experiences strange nightmares. He hallucinates about alien creatures and begins to notice weird physical changes in his body, things no one else seems to see. The girl he’s had a crush on for years is acting strange as well, delivering cryptic messages to him that things are not what they seem. When he discovers a secret room in the library, Sean finds himself faced with a life-changing decision, one that could either save the world or plunge it into centuries of death and destruction—with Sean ruling over all.

  Legacy

  JG Faherty

  Dedication

  To my wife, Andrea, my parents, and my friends: thank you for continuing to be my biggest fans and promoters.

  To Don D’Auria and the fantastic staff at Samhain: thank you for making this book a reality!

  To everyone who’s reading this: thank you for supporting writers. Without you, we couldn’t keep doing what we do.

  I also dedicate this book to the memory of lost pets, loved ones, friends, and colleagues: they are the true legacies, because they remain with us forever.

  Chapter One

  It began with the storm, and the nightmare. Afterwards, nothing was ever the same.

  I’ve never been the same.

  The nightmare came first, at least for me.

  I walked across a bleak landscape. The black dome of the sky extended forever in all directions, unmarred by stars or planets, yet somehow there was light enough for me to see by. Gray, featureless land stretched out to all sides. No hills or mountains interrupted the desolate plain; in fact, the only evidence of geologic activity was the presence of large stones, boulders really, that lay half-buried in the grassless, monochrome soil.

  Not that life didn’t exist in that dreary place. A double handful of trees, each one spaced hundreds of feet from its nearest kin, dotted the monotonous topography. Their distance from each other suggested a repulsion for their own kind, either environmental or emotional. Drawing close to one, I understood their aversion to proximity; in fact, I felt it myself. Festering wounds gaped in the drab bark, weeping fluids colored mold-green and pus-yellow. An atrocious odor like nothing I’d ever smelled before emanated from the oozing sores.

  I backed away from the abominable stench just in time to avoid capture by grasping tentacles masquerading as branches. The entire alien growth leaned toward me, appendages extended and waving in my direction. I took myself farther away, fearful the creature might uproot itself and follow.

  After my encounter with the botanical nightmare, I chose my path, such as it was, with more care.

  I’d gone perhaps another hundred yards, certainly no more than that, when a violent bolt of red lightning ruptured the ebon sky.

  I froze as the afterimage left blinding jagged lines of color across my vision. The empty plain offered no protection, and I grew nervous about being exposed. I had no desire to serve as a human lightning rod. More angry flashes fractured the all-encompassing blackness. I held my breath, anticipating the tumultuous thunder I felt sure would come with such a spectacle.

  Instead, a sepulchral voice spoke to me.

  “Open your mind to me, open yourself to me. I am the gateway; through me they speak. I am your legacy, your history and your future. You and I will be as one. The past and present shall reunite. I will fill you, and you shall rise above those of lesser status.

  “Together we shall speak the unspoken and call those whose names are not known.

  “The spirits of the great places beyond space prepare themselves for battle once again, waiting only for you to guide them forth. Before you stands the Gate to the othersphere. Only speak the words and those of the realms will enter three wide and seven strong.

  “Those who hold the stars in their power and live in the spaces in between shall awaken!

  “Azathoth! Tulzscha! Cthulhu! Yog-Sothoth! Shub-Niggurath!

  “Nine hundred ninety-nine times I shall call their names! Listen to my words. For I am—”

  Chapter Two

  “—Nyarlathotep!”

  I burst from the covers, nearly falling from my bed in the process.

  For a moment I just sat there, chest heaving, heart jackhammering, my back as straight and stiff as an iron rod. My hands clenched the sheets so hard my fingers ached. The echo of the strange word I’d shouted still reverberated in my brain, each repetition evoking dread.

  Gradually, I eased from my rigid state as I grew fully aware that I was back in the familiar surroundings of my room, rather than the dreadful landscape of my dreams. Just as I was about to lie back on my pillow, thunder crashed outside my window, the unexpected aural explosion causing me to release a tiny squirt of piss into my underwear. It took me a moment to realize it was only an ordinary thunderstorm, that the dire crimson bolts and virulent landscapes I’d so recently wandered through hadn’t followed me back to the real world.

  Lightning, wonderfully ordinary and white, flashed across the sky. Before the first jagged bolt faded away, three more bursts followed in rapid succession, accompanied by cannon shots of thunder that shook the walls of the house. The lightning erased the night’s darkness like celestial flash pots, as if God himself were taking the stage for the universe’s greatest rock concert.

  Two more hellish claps of thunder accompanied more lightning, and I revised my initial evaluation of the storm’s normalcy.

  My bedroom door banged open, delivering my third fright in as many minutes.

  “Holy crap!” my brother shouted, his eyes wide and his face corpse-white in the glare of more strobing lightning. I feared that if it grew any brighter outside, I’d actually be able to see right through him. “Sean, you gotta come see this. It’s like the end of the world out there!”

  Normally I’d have cursed Owen for barging into my room without knocking, but the truth was, I felt a large measure of relief at seeing another human, even if it was my obnoxious little brother. So, rather than yell at him like I normally would have, I told him I’d be down in a minute. A manic grin on his face, he turned and ran from the room to the accompaniment of further extraterrestrial drumming.

  I pulled on fresh underwear, sweatpants and a T-shirt, and went downstairs to join Owen, my mom and my dad on the front porch, where they stood watching the incredible pyrotechnics.

  Our house was a large New England–style Victorian with a wide wraparound porch. The porch had always been our favorite gathering place as a family, more popular even than the kitchen. In the summer, we’d sit in oversized rocking chairs and drink the lemonade or iced tea my mother made, listening to the gently comforting sounds of growling lawn mowers, chirping insects and calling night birds. In the fall, before the frigid New England winter made it too uncomfortable to be outside, we’d cradle mugs of hot chocolate in our chilly hands as the winds brought us the smells of burning leaves and homemade soup on its weightless waves.

  One of our favorite things to do was sit under the protection of the overhanging roof and watch the summer storms roll across the island. You could sway back and forth on the old-fashioned swinging couch my dad had rescued from a yard sale, sipping cold, tart lemonade—or in my parents’ case, beer—and ooh and ahh at the lightning over the ocean only two blocks away. In spite of the awesome violence of the storms, watching them from the safety of the porch was a peaceful, reflective pastime, almost meditative in nature. The wind would bring a welcome coolness to the hot, muggy air that always preceded a summer thunderstorm, and the hiss of falling rain would act like white noise, creating a hushed silence, as if the rest of
the world no longer existed.

  I’d always enjoyed those evenings most of all.

  This storm engendered no such feelings.

  Rather than sitting, we gathered just outside the front door, as if responding to a primitive need for protection, a genetic instinct to huddle in a group for survival. No breeze jostled my hair or cooled the sweat on my brow; instead, the air grew heavier with each passing moment, a physical weight that made itself known every time I tried to draw a breath.

  I was already a jangle of nerves from my dream, and seeing my parents standing there without cans of beer in their hands made the whole scene even scarier. Not that either of them was an alcoholic; as far back as I could remember, I’d never seen them get drunk, not even at barbeques or clambakes. But more often than not they’d grab a Narragansett or Harpoon ale from the fridge the same way a kid will reach for a soda. Especially on the hot days of midsummer. One before dinner, maybe a couple while watching the game, mowing the lawn or jawing with the neighbors. Not every day, but frequently enough for me to consider it commonplace around the house or when company came to visit.

  On the porch, it was tradition.

  The last time I’d seen them sans beer at home was when we’d been sitting in front of the television watching the events of September 11 unfold. The schools had closed early that day and my mother had to pick me up from kindergarten. Not long after we walked in the door, my father pulled into the driveway. Mom had cried while she watched television; Dad had poured himself a glass of the twenty-year-old single-malt scotch he only brought out for weddings and funerals. It was years before I really understood what had happened that day, but even as a small child their reactions had made a lasting impression on me.

  This was the first time a storm had ever engendered the same type of anxiety in our household. Not even hurricanes or nor’easters, which we’d dealt with more than once, had produced such a profound disquiet.

  “Norm, I’ve never seen lightning like this.” Another flash accompanied Mom’s words, the crazed bolt arcing wildly across the sky before arrowing down to the not-so-distant waters of the Atlantic.

  Dad’s reply was partially lost in the rolling boom of thunder that followed.

  “—don’t know where it came from. The Weather Channel said the storm was supposed stay out over the water and skirt past us, not stop and settle in like a poor relative.”

  “Thunderstorms are one thing,” Mom replied, twisting a lock of sandy-brown hair between two fingers. “But there’s no wind and no rain. This reminds me of the weather we’d get back home right before a tornado.”

  Mom didn’t come right out and say she was scared, but I could see from her face that the storm was really affecting her. Unlike my dad and his side of the family, Mom wasn’t a native New Englander. She’d grown up in Oklahoma, where spending the day at Summit Lake constituted going to the beach. Her family had moved to Massachusetts when she was eleven, after they’d lost the roof of their house to a twister for the second year in a row.

  “Don’t worry, hon.” Dad put a beefy arm around her and pulled her against his chest. “We’re on an island. It’s not like this is a hurricane. The closest thing to a tornado we ever get around here is waterspouts. And they’re only dangerous if you’re out in a boat. This is nothing but a freak summer storm that’ll blow over before you know it.”

  Mom didn’t look convinced. She leaned against him, her lips tight and one hand still tugging at her hair as she watched the lightning bolts chase each other across the sky.

  “Daddy, what’s wrong with the clouds?” Owen was leaning over the railing, his face turned upward.

  My parents joined him. I didn’t want to; I was afraid I’d find myself staring at the alien skyscape of my dream. What I really wanted to do was run back upstairs and hide under the covers with a flashlight, the way my nine-year-old brother sometimes did after a scary movie.

  Somehow my feet ended up carrying me forward instead.

  “It’s just a different type of storm cloud,” Dad told him. But he was lying; I could hear it in his voice. More importantly, I could see the evidence with my own eyes.

  Nights in the modern world are no longer dark times when you can’t see to get around. Lights from cities, and towns, and highways cast a glow we’re usually not even aware of, a glow that allows us to find our way around outside when we’re taking out the garbage or putting something in the car. If the sky happens to be cloudy, a lot of that light reflects back down to us, making the night world even more visible.

  That’s why I had no trouble seeing the bilious green and ochre streaks in the purple-black masses hovering over Tall Pine Island. They looked like ordinary storm clouds infected with some type of horrible disease, their gaseous flesh gone gangrenous. The sickly lines of putrid color were like tracks of poison running through healthy tissue. Rather than forming random patterns, the ghastly hues radiated outward from a central point, a spiral design of meteorological cancer. As I watched, more lightning flared from the core of the spiral. It felt like I was inside one of those glass balls you see at museums, the ones where if you place a finger on the surface, tiny bolts of electricity dart back and forth.

  I lowered my gaze slightly, hoping to squelch the sudden gurgle of nausea rumbling in my guts, and caught sight of the clock tower sticking up over the other buildings in the center of town. A sickening realization came over me.

  The atmospheric tumor sat directly over the town of New Hope.

  My town.

  Although nothing about the situation resembled the events of my dream, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the two were related in some way. Bits and pieces of that nightmare, nonsensical names and chants, attempted to come forward. I didn’t want to remember, but the mysterious words beat a determined path toward me. I placed a hand over my mouth, afraid some of those evil words might burst free before I could stop them. I didn’t know why, but I felt it would be very bad to speak any of those words out loud.

  So I was relieved when a tiny yellow light, barely a spark compared to the unnatural fireworks overhead, pulled my attention from the repulsive vista and the mental images it conjured.

  “Someone’s coming,” I said, pointing to the sidewalk, where the bobbing glow of the flashlight was growing stronger.

  “Who is it?” Mom’s voice trembled, as if she were afraid the storm had brought alien visitors to our shores. At that moment, the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched.

  “Chuck and Stacy,” Dad replied when the next set of pyrotechnics lit the landscape, revealing the newcomers’ faces.

  “Hey, Norm, Dusty,” Chuck Meriweather called out, raising a hand in greeting. My parents waved in return. I paid no attention to them. Instead, I focused on a third figure, behind Mr. Meriweather’s wife. My heart beat faster when I saw her lithe body and California-blonde hair illuminated by the storm.

  Melissa Meriweather.

  The girl of my dreams.

  Chapter Three

  At sixteen, Melissa Meriweather was six months older than me. She was also the most popular girl in school, among both students and teachers. A star on the track team, she carried a straight-A average and volunteered at Rose Memorial Hospital two evenings a week.

  Her well-proportioned body, toned rather than muscular, drew the eye of every straight male between the ages of thirteen and eighteen; when she hit the beach in her string bikini, you could up that number to include most of the adult men in town as well. And some of the women.

  The only thing that kept people from staring lecherously at her chest when they talked to her was the fact that she had a face as perfect as her body. A tiny nose, the slightest scattering of freckles on her cheeks, and eyes as green as the shallow waters off the coast of our one-town island. Her smile, filled with white, perfectly straight teeth, could brighten even the most depressing day.

  All the kids in our class were e
namored of her, “crushed on her” as the current slang went.

  I was no different. Hell, I’d been in love with Melissa since the day I’d met her eight years ago. Her family had moved to the neighborhood not long after we did. For most of those years, she’d been my only friend; until recently, she’d been my best friend. Even now, with her being Miss Popular while I slunk in the shadows with the science geeks and library trolls, we always managed to find time to spend with each other. Partly because we shared a common bond of friendship from when we were younger.

  And partly because I knew her darkest secret.

  “Hey, Sean,” she greeted me as she came up the steps, her smile as dazzling as the lightning overhead.

  Once she stood in front of me, the sky could have split open and disgorged flying butt-monkeys and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  “Hi, Melissa.” She hated to be called anything but her full name. “What’s up?”

  Unlike a lot of my classmates, I was never tongue-tied around her. Probably because I’d been crazy about her long before she’d turned into the shining star of New Hope, brighter than Tall Pine Island’s lone lighthouse. At ten, she’d been a scrawny kid with too many freckles. By the time she reached thirteen, not much had changed; she’d been an ordinary-looking, flat-chested, skinny tomboy, still three long years away from being voted “Most Attractive” at our high school.

  I hadn’t cared that she wasn’t cute and flirty and filling out her training bra like some of the other girls in our school, and she hadn’t cared that I was the dorky smart kid with the thick glasses who’d been bumped up a grade.

  We’d done everything together—fishing, dropping crab pots from the pier, bicycling around the island. We’d even dared each other to skinny-dip a couple of times. Seeing her naked body had filled me with urges that I’d never had before. The first time I ever masturbated, it was Melissa’s face I saw in my imagination. Three years later, I still relived those afternoons in my dreams and fantasies, only instead of us being two scrawny, underdeveloped kids, Melissa’s early-teen breasts morphed into round, firm globes like fresh summer apples, and my penis wasn’t shrunken into a bitty mushroom from the cold waters of Miller’s Stream.