From The Grave: The Prayer

By William Castle

As the Gypsies gather in the ancient village of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer for the annual celebration honoring their patron saint, a mystical convergence of events brings four adolescents together at a haunted house and sets them on a perilous quest to locate a centuries-old manuscript that holds the power to release the devastating force of the Ancient Ones upon the Earth.

Fifteen-year-old Sarah and her younger brother Luca are lonely Gypsy kids who travel about Europe with their parents. Forced by their Gypsy father to beg and pick pockets for money, Sarah and Luca find it impossible to earn their father’s approval. Fifteen-year-old Edgar cannot stand his parents (and the feeling is mutual) when the family moves from New Jersey to France so that his parents can live out their dream of being French aristocracy. Fourteen-year-old Aleck’s world is turned upside down when his parents are killed in a car crash and his older sister decides that he would be better off in France with their Aunt and Uncle whose real concern is their own lavish lifestyle.

Beset by their parents and guardians, the four young people must also survive the mercurial activities of a spirit haunting the house that holds clues to the location of the manuscript which is also sought by a secret society bent on locating it for their own purposes. In a frenzied chase that takes them from the ancient villages of Provence through the blood-soaked quarries of Roussillon to the macabre catacombs of Paris, the four must put aside their differences and suspicions to outwit the evil forces who would stop at nothing to get their hands on the ancient book.

From the Grave is a classic tale of terror, suspense and intrigue set in southern France, from the Master of the Macabre, William Castle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Castle
• Release date: Jul 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450784047

William Castle

America's "Master of the Macabre" is at it again. Remember the Lloyds of London life insurance policy that protected moviegoers if they were frightened to death by "Macabre"? Or the theatre seats that buzzed when "The Tingler" came on screen...and the refund for cowards who could not face the last terrifying minutes of "Homicidal"? Bill Castle loved scaring the pants off America...especially with his most famous hit, "Rosemary's Baby." Castle has always sought and found the thrill of thrilling--a mark of successful showmanship. And he's at it again, with his greatest gimmick of all time soon to come. Follow him daily at www.williamcastle.com and join his fan club at www.williamcastlefanclub.com.

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From the Grave:

THE PRAYER

by

William Castle

Smashwords Edition

* * * * *

Published on Smashwords by:

William Castle

From the Grave: The Prayer

Copyright 2011 by William Castle

ISBN 978-1-4507-4804-7

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

The text of this book is an eBook file intended for one reader only. It may be used by that reader on computers and devices that she or he owns and uses. It may not be transmitted in whole or in part to others except as stated above. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Excerpts from Step Right Up: I’m Gonna Scare the Pants Off America © 1976 by William Castle, reprinted by permission of the publisher, William Castle Productions.

Cover Art by Nathan Thomas Milliner

* * * * *

This book is dedicated to all the kids I scared when I was alive and to all the kids I hope to scare From the Grave,

Especially to John Waters and Joe Dante, without the two of you I would just be another stiff in the graveyard,

And to my grandkids, Kyle and Will, know that I am forever watching over you.

* * * * *

AGREEMENT WITH OUR READERS

The story you are about to read is true, absolutely true. However, because the very nature of this story is so incredibly terrifying, the publishers (on the advice of our lawyers—isn’t that always the case) have asked that YOU the Reader read the release written below just in case YOU might accidentally die from fright:

WHEREFORE, YOU, the party of the First Part, being the reader of the attached tome, and WE, the party of the Second Part, being William Castle, the author, and Aleck Lambert, Edgar Good, Sarah Tsura, and Luca Tsura in their own right whose story this is (and including the PUBLISHERS of said story), in consideration of the terror that may be engendered on account of the horrific nature of the events described herein, do hereby agree that YOU, the party of the First Part, shall fully and forever release US, the party of the Second Part, from and against any and all claims and controversies which may befall YOU, the party of the First Part, including but not limited to death by fright, insomnia (the inability to sleep) and/or nightmares on account of what YOU are about to read.

Your actions in continuing to read the following chapters signify your consent to be bound by the release above.

* * * * *

CONTENTS

Foreword

Chapter 1—The Awakening

Chapter 2—Aleck Lambert

Chapter 3—Sarah Tsura

Chapter 4—Edgar Good

Chapter 5—Luca, Sarah, and the Apparition

Chapter 6—Aleck and the Humidor

Chapter 7—Aleck and the Butcher Knife

Chapter 8—Aleck and the Evil Eyes

Chapter 9—Edgar and the Stinking Shrink

Chapter 10—Aleck and Aunt Cruella de Ville

Chapter 11—Luca, Sarah and the Silver Dagger

Chapter 12—Aleck and his Deadly Obsessions

Chapter 13—My House

Chapter 14—Aleck and a New Home

Chapter 15—Edgar and the Willow’s Weep

Chapter 16—Aleck and My Resolve

Chapter 17—My House, My Will and My Kryptonite

Chapter 18—Luca, Sarah and the Shared Nightmare

Chapter 19—Edgar and his New Gift

Chapter 20—Aleck and the Showdown

Chapter 21—Aleck and the Night From Hell

Chapter 22—Aleck and Volume I

Chapter 23—Edgar and the Gold Devil Charm

Chapter 24—My House

Chapter 25—Aleck and Edgar Faceoff

Chapter 26—Edgar, the Knife, the Needle and the Stitch

Chapter 27—Edgar, Aleck and the Large Wooden Box

Chapter 28—Luca, Sarah and the Council of Kintala

Chapter 29—Edgar, Aleck and the Undead

Chapter 30—Aleck, Edgar, Volume II and the Unmentionable

Chapter 31—Luca, Sarah and Papa

Chapter 32—The Strangers and the Psychics

Chapter 33—The Strangers and the Strange Borie

Chapter 34—Aleck, Edgar and the Unknown Assailant

Chapter 35—Luca and Sarah Meet Aleck and Edgar

Chapter 36—Strangers Become Friends

Chapter 37—The Friends and Seeping, Weeping Sermonde

Chapter 38—The Friends and the Onlooker

Chapter 39—The Friends and a Few Thousand Rotting Skulls

Chapter 40—The Friends and the Desperate Train Ride

Chapter 41—The Friends, the Cataphile and the Catacombs

Chapter 42—Edgar, Sarah and the Kiss

Chapter 43—Aleck and the Assault

Chapter 44—The Friends and their Confessions

Chapter 45—The Friends and ‘The Call of Cthulhu’

Chapter 46—The Friends and a Little Taste of Blood

Chapter 47—The Friends and Succinylcholine

Chapter 48—The Friends and Volume III

Chapter 49—The Deceiver

Chapter 50—The Deceiver and the Bloodied Dagger

Chapter 51—The Prayer

Epilogue

Acknowledgment

* * * * *

Foreword

Many of you have not heard from me in a long, long time. I have dearly missed the sound of your uncontrollable screams, the sight of bristling goose bumps on your bare skin, and the unsettling look of your eyeballs dilating in terror. It has indeed been far too long since I sat watching you, alone in a darkened theater. For all the years that you were willing to suspend your disbelief, I am forever appreciative.

Today, I won’t ask you to suspend your disbelief because I can assure you of one indisputable fact.

There are such things as ghosts.

Of that, I am now certain.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

The Awakening

William Castle

May 24th

IT didn’t bother me in the least when a fat, black rat with his wicked, slimy tail darted straight in front of me as I eagerly made my way down the darkened stairway to the ancient crypt. I actually found it oddly entertaining, because I knew that a sniveling rat with jagged fangs was usually secretly hiding in some mysterious place, close to the dead, anxious to emerge at the smell of human flesh.

The silly, little rat didn’t stop me from my mission. How could it? I was immune to such juvenile frights. The fact that I was deep inside the fortified Church of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer in Southern France, making my way down into the desolate bowels of the eerie church, didn’t scare me a bit, even though the passageway was dark and dank and smelled like death itself. I could feel the beginning of a smug grin forming at the corners of my lips.

The corridor beneath the church was long but narrow, with stone walls that seemed to fall in on themselves. Chiseled walls and hastily placed stone steps led the way to ancient crypts—crypts that housed the remains of people who died thousands of years ago.

There was nothing like being close to death to make a person feel alive. At least, that was my thought on that sunny, spring morning.

But deep inside the corridor it wasn’t sunny at all. No, a bitter chill crept through my black linen pants and short sleeved, white cotton shirt. A strange wind seemed to blow bits of dust and debris about the empty corridor. But I didn’t mind.

Imagined voices from the remains of important people housed in the chambers on either side of the corridor called out to me. Yes, I was tempted to peek inside and witness years of deathly decay and earthly divinity. In this particular church were the remains of Mary Salome and Mary Jacobe, two women who were said to have viewed the empty tomb of Jesus Christ himself, immediately after his resurrection.

I couldn’t afford to waste any more time. I was here to meet the Saint that was said to have supernatural abilities. She was here. Somewhere. And I was going to find her. I was so close now. Close enough to touch her. She was entombed underneath the church in one of the crypts, waiting to grant my wish.

All I knew about her was what I heard or what I read. The patron saint of the Gypsies—Saint Sarah was said to have predicted the violent storm that toppled the boat carrying Mary Salome, Mary Jacobe, and Mary Magdalene. She had rushed into the sea off the wild Camargue coast and saved these drowning women. And that is why she holds a special place in the heart of every Gypsy.

I was fumbling in the dark corridor looking for my Saint, when I heard a faint clicking sound.

I turned and watched an old man in tattered clothing hunched over a well-worn broom. His leathery, liver-spotted skin had seen many Mediterranean summers. As he slowly swept the stone floor, he clicked his yellowed dentures in and out of his parched mouth, over and over again.

I smiled cheerfully. Hello there, old fellow. Good to be alive on this fine spring morning, wouldn’t ya say? I said, as I smoothed my wiry, grey hair with my left hand.

He didn’t answer me. Instead, he stopped sweeping and just stared.

I looked in his milky, light blue eyes. Thick cataracts glazed over both eyeballs. He must not see me, I thought.

Must be difficult keeping up with that shifty wind. I laughed loudly, so he could easily make out my direction.

He gazed to my right, then to my left. Finally, the old man fixed his stare right at me. He didn’t say a word, just turned and bolted straight to the ancient stairs that lead up to the church above.

Strange man, I thought. But just like the church to hire a blind man to sweep up for them, I snickered. I turned back to face the end of the corridor. That’s where she was. That’s where the remains of my Saint were housed.

I thought about what she must look like now. All her flesh would have decomposed years ago. But I’m sure her bones had remained intact; I just hoped that the worms hadn’t devoured too much of her exotic face. Of course, it would be just a skull now—but perhaps the empty eye sockets had acquired an unnatural glow?

What a deliciously macabre thought. An ethereal glow would make perfect sense because she has the gift.

I’m one lucky man, finally getting to meet the corpse of such a venerated spirit.

I knew she rested behind the last door at the end of the corridor because an old Gypsy man I had met a month ago had told me all about the church, the Saint, and her supernatural abilities.

Sit in a pew and write down your prayer. She’ll answer it, he told me. Don’t let the ominous interior of the old church frighten you off, he laughed. It will be worth your while.

He didn’t know to whom he was speaking, because I would never let a little thing like a stinking corpse or a rotting skull get in my way.

The door to the chamber was open, and I took a deep, excited breath and stepped through the threshold. A silly plaster statue stood on top of a wooden altar. The statue was adorned with cloaks of many colors. Kitschy, really.

My heart sank. Was this it? This gaudy little statue was all that there was to commemorate the great Dark Saint? My eyes fell below the altar. The sarcophagus was there. I could see it, sense its heavy weight. There’s my girl.

I took a breath of relief.

The room was filled with tall white candles and thousands of small white scraps of paper. Thousands of people had been here before me.

I didn’t waste any time.

I sat down in a pew and pulled out a scrap of my own paper and found a pen I had placed in my shirt pocket right next to my two Don Diego #5 cigars I always carried in my breast pocket. I began to scribble my note. I read the words back, making sure I wrote exactly what I had intended.

The door to the crypt must have been caught by a nasty gust of wind, because it slammed shut, rocking the old timbered pew in which I sat rereading my prayer.

The wind creates a nice effect, I teased, as I spoke to the motionless statue.

She smiled.

I blinked and looked again. The smile was gone. I must be seeing things, I said to myself, as I quickly folded my note and walked up to the altar, leaving the scrap of white paper right at her feet.

I made the big mistake right here. I should have just turned around and walked straight out the door, but no, I had to look up. I had to look into the Saint’s black eyes. She had intense, burning pupils, and suddenly I felt her stare pierce through me. I needed to leave immediately.

I turned and took three large strides to the door, quickly grabbing for the iron door handle. I couldn’t wait to feel the chilly metal against my sweaty palm, but I felt nothing.

I looked down, but my hand had melted right through the iron.

I retracted it in haste. I looked at my closed fist, not really comprehending what had just happened. Then, I took my large fingers and placed them around the iron lever once again. Still, I was unable to connect with the handle.

There must be a reasonable explanation I reassured myself, when a soft voice filled the empty chamber. It was faint at first. But then it rang out, loud and clear.

You’re dead, said a woman’s voice.

I turned to look at the plaster statue of the Saint standing on her altar. No one else was in the darkened room.

My bravado instantly slipped away.

You died many years ago, but I have granted your wish, the wish you placed at my feet thirty-four years ago on this day. Her Arabic accent made her words seem all the more impassioned.

My breath caught in my throat. Paralysis seized me.

Her intense black eyes stayed focused on me. You left a note at my feet on May 24, 1977. One week later, you died in your home in California.

And then just like that, I began to tremble violently, like a seismic event of epic proportions was rattling my every bone.

But today is May 24th, I managed to stammer.

Yes, it is. Today, the Gypsies will honor me in their annual festival. Yes, today is May 24th, in the year of Our Lord 2011!

I must have suspected the truth in her statement because suddenly I became afraid—deathly afraid.

I turned and ran through the closed door and down the darkened corridor. I ran as fast as I could possibly run. But I could still hear her voice long after I had exited the basement crypt. You are dead, but your destiny does not end here. Your fate is weaved into the fabric of four living souls, Aleck, Edgar, Sarah, and Luca. Today you will meet these strangers—two misunderstood teenage boys, one beautiful 15-year-old girl, and her perceptive younger brother. You will quickly come to know everything about the three teen-agers. The younger boy in time will come to know you. Make no mistake; the destinies of these kids will be inexplicably intertwined with yours. Forever.

I ran far away from the church, far from the seaside town of Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer, yet I could still hear her voice. You will return to me today. But we shall never speak again. وسوف تعودون .

I kept running. I ran through villages and ancient towns, down windy roads and paved highways. I ran with the wind in my face, up hilltops and down into meadow-covered valleys. I ran all the way back to my home in Gordes, France, the one that I had bought in the fall of 1959. I opened my front door and flopped on my old floral couch. I was home at last. But it was at this moment that I was certain.

I was dead.

I screamed out loud. Long, trembling, deep, echoing. And then came the unexpected eruption. The floorboards of my old house rippled like the waves of the sea. The doors of my home opened and slammed shut. A windowpane cracked from the gale of my breath.

I had no idea I had this power.

I looked at the carnage around me. Shattered glass, toppled tables, scattered books. Indeed, I did have power.

I must confess that I was not only stunned by my supernatural abilities but somewhat enamored with them as well, that is, until I realized that I had turned my perfect refuge into a total shambles with no thought of how to restore order to my home.

I fell to the ground wondering how on earth I got these powers. The disaster inside my house seemed like the perfect metaphor for my death. I began to weep, softly. Hot tears trickled down my burning cheeks. I was left with only a slight recollection of the life I once lived, nothing more. And if I had been dead for thirty-four years, I had no idea where I’d been or who I had become.

I stood up and looked around my home. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my right hand, then intuitively raised my arms high above my head, and with fierce determination took them and made a grand sweeping motion. My hunch had been correct; my home instantly returned to normal. The books neatly stacked on the bookshelves. The tables righted themselves. Even the splintered glass found its way back into the window frames.

I sat my tired bones back down on the recently up-righted couch, my back resting on the faded floral pillows—a phantom, on a collision course with four very alive young strangers. Sarah, Luca, Edgar, and Aleck were names without faces. One disturbing thought gripped my mind.

I realized that the prayer I had left at the altar of Saint Sarah thirty-four years ago had been answered.

But my words had been horribly misconstrued.

And then I heard his call.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Aleck Lambert

Hollywood, California

May 24, 2011

I didn’t exactly hear his call in the usual sense—sound waves bumping air molecules together creating vibrations that bounce around your eardrums. No, that would have been too commonplace. His cry came to me in a vision. Not like God speaking to Moses in the wilderness from a fiery bush. No, this image was disturbingly surreal, like a Salvador Dali painting. The jet-black pupil of Saint Sarah’s left eye dilated fully, stretched abnormally forming a huge, black, oblong cylinder, and then collapsed in upon itself, just like the shutter of a camera lens snapping a photograph at one thousandth of a second. When Saint Sarah’s pupil reappeared, her eyeball popped out of its socket, and the black iris and pupil suddenly morphed into an intense, blinding white light. I tried to avert my eyes, but the light consumed my entire vision. When the blinding light finally dissipated and I could once again see, everything around me had changed. There was no denying that I was in a different place.

Thankfully, I knew roughly where I was. The harsh Hollywood sun reflecting off the hot concrete pavement below felt familiar. I reveled in the familiarity for a brief moment. It felt good to remember a piece of my past. I had once upon a time made movies. I was almost certain of it.

My relief did not last long, as I realized that the dark Saint had pulled me halfway around the world. I was standing in front of a small pinhole on the left side of a corrugated steel storage unit.

It was here at the initial stage of my awakening that I began to view my death as akin to a great drama playing out on a stage or as a film being directed by Alfred Hitchcock or even George Romero. Anxiously, I stood center stage, wanting to peer into the abandoned storage locker. Alone.

So you can understand that when a young man moved out from the shadows, I gasped.

He was really just a kid, standing and sweeping the empty storage locker, looking as lonely and afraid as an injured doe. Just moments before, I had watched an old man sweep the corridor that lead to the ancient crypt of Saint Sarah. Now, this young boy swept the empty locker.

Was he dead or alive?

Something about his wounded expression made me think that he was alive. Was there a connection between the old, blind man in the church and this young boy in the abandoned storeroom?

I kept one eye shut tightly with the other pressed against the small hole in the blazingly hot steel siding that formed the exterior of the twelve-by-eight foot cubicle he was sweeping.

I had but one delicious thought, the perfect victim.

I could see his vulnerability, as I gazed straight into his bright green eyes. He blinked, and his expression flashed to anger. He stared blankly out of the darkness through the open door and into the direct sunlight. I watched a dark shadow dance across his chiseled cheekbones. Yes, this would be a horror story.

Perhaps the kid would make a better antagonist?

Which one? I fumbled through my pockets and found a coin. I tossed it high in the sky.

Heads, victim. Tails, foe, I whispered in the harsh sunlight.

I laughed.

Heads, of course.

He looked the part with his unsettling eyes, the slight freckles around his upturned nose, the sun-kissed hair that fell gently over half of his right eye. Girls would love his sullen good looks. Boys would want to be him.

But this was not a movie. This was really happening.

I walked into the storage unit and smiled at the boy. He stared right at me without the slightest reaction. I walked over to him and patted the top of his head. He swatted away my attempt at intimacy like I was just a nasty nat.

Did he find me condescending?

What’s up? I tried.

The boy ignored me and just kept on sweeping.

I admit