THE BOOK FOR A THREAT
Written by Nohbodee
George Addams
Ann Harbor, Michigan
University of Michigan
Professor G. Addams stood at the window of his barren office and looked down at Ann Harbor. It had been more beautiful when he was a student himself, but that had been twenty years ago. He was now forty-one and hardly young anymore; not that he looked his age — with only specks of gray in his pitch-black hair and a small trace of crow’s feet around his serious blue eyes.
His office had once been a place of sanctuary, but now was only a reminder of everything he lost and continued to lose. He long since sold all his valuables and old books, and the things he did keep, fit in a single box on his desk. Inside were two books, both given to him by his father and several letters from his wife before she had become his wife.
She was murdered three years ago, and those written words were the only thing keeping him from taking a leap off a very high building. He had everything else placed in the attic of his manor and it made him feel like a coward, but it was hard seeing the traces of her everywhere he looked.
And the last thing that was in there, was a plaque, to remind himself that he had once been a great leader. The plaque was made of hard oak and displayed a gold medal that bore the image of Alfred Nobel directly in the middle with engravings that read:
The Nobel Peace Prize For Literature
George Z.Z. Addams 2006
These were all that were left of his happy days. Momentums from a life he could never get back. He stared down into the box and sighed. He had a strange feeling that whatever was brewing in the country was about to get a lot worse than just losing his job.
A knock came from the door and a small, round man came in. Hank Smalls was a Professor of History at the University of Michigan. He was an incredibly smart man, though their colleagues never gave him the credit he deserved.
“Hey, George,” he said in a small voice, “They’re locking the doors now. They are checking rooms.”
George’s head dropped and he rubbed his face into his palms, frustrated and lost. Hank entered the room and patted George on the back. “We’ve all lost, old buddy,” Hank said reassuringly, “we just gotta stick together.”
George nodded and then looked over at Hank with tired eyes and forced a smile. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” was all he said.
Hank nodded. “I overheard Roberto in the hall this morning. He was saying that Harvard has shut down and so has Berkley.”
“Things always get worse before they get better,” George said absently.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” Hank chuckled humorlessly. He checked his wristwatch and then jolted a little in his spot. “I gotta go pal, my kids are getting off school now,” he said.
George patted him on the back, “No worries. You’ll give them and Racheal my respect, will you?”
Hank pulled George into a bone crunching hug, and typically George shied away from physicality, he embraced the little man. “I will,” Hank said, he pulled away and looked at George, gripping his shoulders. “Good luck, my old friend,” he said.
“You too, Hank, you too,” George beamed. “And just because we’re not working together anymore, doesn’t mean we can’t go out and have our pints.”
“Yeah, but if they keep raising the prices, we’re going to have to brew our own,” Hank laughed, and then made a sudden expression of thought. “You know, that isn’t a bad idea.”
George chuckled, as he led him to the office door. “And very illegal,” he teased Hank. “See you around, old man.”
“Be seeing you, too.”
When Hank left, George’s smile dropped, and the worry creased his forehead once again. With a sad glance around the room, he lifted up his single box and forced himself to leave, too.
Ethan Ekko
President Ethan Ekko was sitting in the back of a Lincoln limousine, watching George Addams leave the University. He’d been waiting all afternoon.
He knocked on the shade separating him from his driver, Paul. “Follow him,” the President commanded.
Paul put the car into gear and pulled into the slow afternoon traffic. They followed behind the Professor for several miles. Ekko thought it strange. He was one of the highest paid teachers at the University. Could he not afford a car?
Finally, they reached a small neighborhood just past Barton Hills, when they came upon a large house. It was a magnificent structure. The president knew it had been designed by George Addams’ dead wife — a marvel ten years ago, but now just looked dreary and empty of life.
A mausoleum, he thought.
He couldn’t deny, though, George was a man who knew what he was talking about. He needed more men like that. Ones that don’t just take orders but demand them themselves.
Men like himself. Smart men. George Addams was a smart man. A Nobel Prize winner. If anyone could help him with the translation, this man could.
Ekko watched as George went inside his home.
George
George flinched when someone knocked on his door. He had just set his book bag down. What more could today bring? he thought, miserably. He took his time as he hung up his jacket, then with a great sigh, he went to the door.
He peered through the peephole and cursed under his breath. He covered his mouth and took a step away from the door. “This isn’t happening,” he said aloud to no one. He approached the door again, slowly, and cracked it open.
The President of the United States was standing on his porch. “Mr. President,” George greeted him, pulling the door open wider to welcome him inside.
“What can I do for you?” George asked. The President flashed a charming smile and shook George’s hand, vigorously, before entering.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Not since the Nobel Event. You won quite a prestigious award.” The President said, noticeably pulling his hand away to wipe it on his coat.
George smiled half-heartedly, “Uh, yes — it— it was quite an evening.”
The President moved out of the hall, into the kitchen and toward the dining room. George followed, as the president made faces and noises, clearly not impressed by George’s lack of upkeep.
“What can I do for you, Mr. President?” George asked again.
The President took a large volume from out of his jacket and George stared at it. It was so big he was surprised that the President had been hiding it under his jacket like that.
George couldn’t help himself. He approached the president as though entranced. He saw the aged covers and if he wasn’t mistaken it was made out of animal hide.
No. He was mistaken. It was human skin. George felt it and knew for certain. There was no title. Just images carved into the hide.
The President pushed the book toward him, “I can read some of it, but there are parts written in a language I don’t understand. I thought maybe you could help me.”
The translations were mostly in Latin, but yes, the President was right. There were parts he didn’t understand. Latin, but almost jumbled. Like it was all out of order. George took the book in his hands, but as he did so, the room grew dark and cold.
George was suddenly very worried. Artifacts didn’t just carry secrets, they carried curses…
He looked into the President’s eyes, but they were empty.
“I — I don’t think I can help you,” George said, setting the book back down. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
The President sighed in disappointment. “You know, Hank is a good guy. I’d really hate for something tragic to happen to him and his family. Don’t you?”
The skin on George’s arm pricked with goosebumps.
“Are you threatening me?” George challenged, gulping loudly.
The President didn’t respond. He simply lifted the book and put it back into George’s hands. “You have one week to give me what I want,” and with that, President Ekko let himself back out into the cold air.
For as brief a visit as that was, George had the distinct feeling that he was just forced into the middle of something that he was one hundred percent not qualified to handle.
Later that night, George was staring at the book with weary eyes. His shaky hands gripped his coffee cup so tightly the vibration was splashing a few droplets out onto the dining room table.
He figured it out.
He actually figured it out. It was a version of the dead language he had never come across before, but the foundations were there. After several hours, he knew what was in the contents of the book.
The Book of Necromancy …or — it’s proper name: Book of Holy Death.
George believed it predated even Egypt. Predated the Book of the Dead. It was actually quite remarkable. Its writers were tribesmen who were visited by a Death God, though it never did say its name. The Death God taught them how to write and read and bring back their dead from the brink of death using a magical plant that only grows along a river of souls.
The strange thing was, it wasn’t as dark as he initially believed. The book mainly told of tales he’d never heard of and there were only a handful of spells in all. There were many prayers and meditations and images of what looked to George as an ancient tunnel with thousands of candles burning along the halls.
The one thing that did interest him was the exact page the President asked him to translate. It told the story of a necromancer and its pursuit for the resurrectionist.
George touched the inked pages again, noting the brownish color and vaguely wondered if it was made from blood. He looked at the words and had a weird urge to say them aloud.
So, he did.
And then something happened. A heavy wind whistled through the fireplace and blew open the windows. George ducked as every light in the house whined before bursting, enhancing the terrifying silence that settled over his home. The sterile smell of alcohol filled his nose.
When nothing else happened, George slowly stood up and looked at the book. He regarded it like a bomb…and then the word triggered another thought. Ekko wanted what was inside that book and George had enough experience in the field to know some things aren’t just ghost stories. He would feel like a true coward if he allowed this book back into the hands of someone like President Ekko.
It was a bomb, and he was going to find a keeper to keep it.
George stood up suddenly and went to the fireplace. He stared into the empty pit and pondered in thought. He didn’t have anything left but this empty house and picture frames with the images of ghosts.
He grabbed the book and went into his office. He hurried up to his room briefly to pull a suitcase out from his closet. He hastily shoved clothes inside and went to the dresser beside his bed. He opened the drawer and pulled out two rings attached by a chain and shoved them in his bag.
He went back to his office and dumped out his briefcase. He shoved a few pieces of paper inside, an envelope holding nearly five grand, and the book. He didn’t have a plan, but he felt that might be a good thing. Plans unravel. Spontaneity tends to keep people puzzled.
Especially politicians.
He peered out his window and could see the black car. The President was having him watched on all four sides, but he knew something they didn’t.
George hurried into the kitchen and down into the wine cellar. He had tunnels built for his books and papers, long ago. He’d been working on procuring important documents that those in power want hidden. That, perhaps, he knew should be hidden.
One of those tunnels, also included, a secret way out.
George stepped up to the farthest stone wall in the seller and placed his hand on the center of an intricate geometrical design. He pushed against the solid surface and the center suddenly turned into a screen. A red laser scanned his hand and the door opened to reveal an elevator. He stepped inside and went to the lowest level.
When the elevator doors reopened, it revealed a great laboratory. Books stacked the table and floors. Candle wax dripped off most of the furniture and there were six large metal doors around the room.
He stepped up to door two, put in his code, and walked into a large underground tunnel. It was laden floor to ceiling with stolen manuscripts and books worth more than the richest man in the world.
He walked and walked and entered into another hallway, empty of everything except for a wardrobe in the corner by another door. He opened the wardrobe, pulled out a nice leather jacket, boots, and a wallet with a fake identity.
He opened the door that was beside the wardrobe and entered into the darkness.
