Necromancer opening
I’m just here to watch.” He paused. “You’re the one with the magic. You’re the star of the show.”
I stiffened. Shit. I knew those words.
Chapter 1
I was alone in a graveyard somewhere in London. A forgotten place where moss covered most of the toppled headstones and crept up the side of the black monolith before me. How poetic. Just once I’d like to have a dream that took place in Ibiza or Miami Beach. I’d seen half the world; my subconscious could send me anywhere. Instead I was treated to a repeat of the week’s headline weather. I stuck my hands in my pockets, my fingers clammy and cold. The collar on my jacket was flipped up, but without an umbrella or hat, it didn’t offer much protection from the rain pouring down my back.
I suffer from dreams. It’s an unfortunate side effect of my gifts, if you want to call them that. Gifts that seem to completely destroy people’s lives. I guess it would be more accurate to say I suffer from nightmares. Something I thought I had cured myself of, thanks to a delicious combination of single-malt, Fireball and three or four sleeping pills before bed. For two years, I’d managed to knock myself into a dreamless existence each night. Two years and a bit since the last time I’d used my so-called gift.
But tonight I was dreaming.
Guess I needed better whiskey. Or bigger shot glasses.
“Lovely time of year, isn’t it?” I didn’t see who said it.
“Yeah, gotta love British weather.” He laughed in answer. I could tell that much from the huskiness of the voice and the baritone growl that accompanies his laugh.
I stepped forward. It was like trying to pull my legs out of quicksand. I moved about two inches. With my luck, I would end up in the direct path of a stampede. What a way to wake up.
“Uh uh, it’s not time for you to go anywhere yet.” He moved. I caught it in the corner of my eye. Turning my head was also like moving through quicksand, so all I got was a short man clad in black moving to sit on a tombstone. He had a hat and an umbrella - well-prepared bastard.
“Looks like you’re in charge then. So what’s the plan?” I asked.
I know how it looks. Why engage at all? Why not just try to wake up? In my experience, the lesson of the dream is to torture you over some past shitty decision that you desperately wish you could go back and change. So the sooner you get to that part of the dream, the sooner it ends, and you can drown out whatever feelings it dredged up.
So, why not speak to the shadowy character my subconscious had come up with? Fuck me, he’d probably end up being my third grade math teacher and it would be a stampede of isosceles triangles, so I could wake up with a burning hatred of myself, and geometry.
“Oh, I’m just here to watch.” He paused. “You’re the one with the magic. You’re the star of the show.” I stiffened. Shit. I knew those words.
“Enough.” I think I said it to myself. I felt for the glasses in my pocket, but it was empty. The glasses were a little trick of mine - a way to give me some bearing in the dream world. When I put them on, it usually meant I had got some control over myself and ending the nightmare. What the hell did it mean if I couldn’t find them?
“Great,” I continued. My chest felt so tight I swear my voice went up an octave. “Thanks for dragging me out of bed then.” He laughed again. I grimaced.
“That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Alastair. Always a cracking sense of humour.” I sighed. I was pretty screwed if my dream was addressing me using my full name. That was reserved for authority figures and ex-girlfriends. “Now, it looks to me like you’re getting a little wet.”
I wasn’t the only one here with shit jokes.
“So why don’t we get started, hmm?” He stood up off the stones.
“What’s the lesson?” He got closer to me. He looked ridiculous, dressed up in a three-piece suit and hat like a character out of Sherlock Holmes. I couldn’t see his face. Which was even stranger because I could see his face. But if you’d asked me to describe anything about him, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you much. Except that he was a man in a stupid bowler hat.
“Why don’t you open the crypt. And we’ll talk about it then.” My fingertips tingled. I fought a compulsion to move my hands.
…
Story photo by Scott Rodgerson on Unsplash