Secret of the Warlock’s Crypt

By Thomas Hayes

Cryptic drawings, maps, strange symbols. This is what twelve-year-old Mike Hilliard discovers as he investigates the long-dead, ruthless millionaire Titus Morley. As these strange symbols and drawings hover in his dreams, Mike rambles through the listless Cleveland Heights summer with Billy Hayworth, a photography intern at the Western Reserve Historical Society, where Mike’s uncle, Robert “Otto” Hilliard is an historian.

After his death in an 1872 refinery explosion, Titus Morley’s treasure trove of rare grimoires and ancient masks disappeared. Could the drawings and maps provide clues? Mike and Billy are determined to find out.

But after rambling through a nearby cemetery at midnight, Mike’s confidence is shaken, Billy is not the same, and a soul-stirring horror has been awakened.

A fortune in missing books and masks. A long-dead millionaire who wanted out of his body and wanted to command the dead. Bodies missing from morgues and graves. What can these things possibly mean to a boy spending the summer with his uncle?

• Language: English
• Publisher: ATBOSH Media Ltd.
• Release date: Oct 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781626131293

Thomas Hayes

Tom Hayes draws on his love for both Cleveland Heights and John Bellairs’ books in his foray into Gothic thrillers. Mr. Hayes also writes plays and has been produced at several local theaters in Northeast Ohio. He grew up in Ohio and lives in Cleveland Heights with his wife, daughter and son, and three cats.

Book preview

Secret of the Warlock’s Crypt

by

Tom Hayes

Table of Contents

Title Page

Secret of the Warlock’s Crypt

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

About The Author

Secret of the Warlock’s Crypt

Copyright © 2015 by Tom Hayes

All rights reserved.

Print ISBN - 9781626130197

Library of Congress Control Number - 2014945506

Cover Design by Amanda Almon

Published by ATBOSH Media ltd.

Cleveland, Ohio, USA

www.atbosh.com

Dedication

For John Bellairs, whose gothic, spine-tingling tales filled my adolescence with happiness.

Prologue

The doctor hurried in from out of the winter night. Deputy Sheriff Cummings pushed the door shut behind the doctor, fighting off a blast of frigid air carrying flecks of ice.

Inside it was quiet and a potbellied stove in the corner shone like a fat man with a full stomach. There were several lanterns shining light. The doctor unwrapped, revealing a man in his early fifties with a serious face and graying hair. He tossed his coat and scarf onto a chair.

Where is he? the doctor asked.

He’s in there, Doctor Yates. Deputy Cummings tossed his head toward a door in the far wall. He’s calmed down.

What happened?

Can’t say. He was raving mad. Something about seeing his brother…alive.

Ah. Poor man. It’s grief. William’s only been dead… what?

Three, four days, said Deputy Cummings.

I was there, too. Bad business. Wagon full of oil barrels fell on him. Doctor Yates shook his head. Glad you found him. He’d freeze to death sure on a night like this.

You going to look at him?

Doctor Yates nodded.

Deputy Sherriff Cummings took a lantern from a nearby table and opened the far door. Doctor Yates followed.

The lantern light revealed a long room that ran the width of the building. Here were the jail cells and the cast iron bars. Inside an open cell on a rope bed with a thin straw mattress lay Jeremiah Lindquist, staring wide-eyed at nothing.

Doctor Yates entered the cell and bent down to look at Jeremiah, who blinked and tried to sit up.

No, no, Doctor Yates said.

The doctor motioned for light and then lifted the rough wool blanket from Jeremiah. He gave him a cursory look. Jeremiah’s wool pants were ripped open at both knees and his white cotton shirt was torn and stained with dirt and blood. A quick examination of his hands revealed cuts, scrapes, and more dirt.

Do you know who I am, Jeremiah?

I do, Doctor Yates, he said.

Looks like you had a rough night.

Jeremiah frowned.

Can you tell us about it?

Jeremiah looked between the doctor and the deputy and nodded.

The Schuttler wagon jumbled as the wheels slid in and out of the deep ruts in the mud road, and the wagon box tilted up and down.

Jeremiah jounced on the driver’s seat. Nothing about the motion seemed to bother him, and his blank eyes stared into the distance. A stiff breeze swirled through the leafless forest trees around the road and caused the limbs to click and knock together. A black bird shrieked from a dead branch, bringing Jeremiah back to himself.

William’s death hurt. It was unexpected. It changed everything. He and his brother had plans. The plans were ruined. Their expectation, cut off. The Schuttler wagon, which cost them both so much to buy, now seemed to Jeremiah useless. He rode the wagon without energy and without joy.

The night would come before he got back to Titusville. Already the sun was sliding behind the hills. Its rays seemed baleful and weak. The blooming red of the horizon made silhouettes of the sleeping trees. Marty and Tam, his two horses, were nervous in the darkness along the rutted road. Jeremiah flapped the reins. The horses jerked their heads and billowy clouds escaped their nostrils and flew away. The horses sped up.

The wagon came out of the forest into a large snow-covered field. Immediately, Jeremiah’s eyes locked on Munson Morley’s house, barns, and scattered clapboard derricks. Morley’s house, here, was small and plain, unlike the brick house in town. The collection of buildings weren’t painted and each had been burned grey by the wind, rain, and snow. Two broken-down barns slouched like old dogs with bent spines and one newer barn stood in perky contrast. The clapboard derricks, ten in total, reminded Jeremiah of a Union camp in the snow. To Jeremiah, Morley’s farm seemed abandoned.

Flapping the reins, Jeremiah guided Marty and Tam onto a worn wagon path that looped around the farm’s outbuildings. Jeremiah urged the horses along a route that got to Morley’s front door as quickly as possible.

As the wagon drove by the newer outbuilding both Marty and Tam reared and snorted. Each horse tossed his head and mane. The building steamed in the twilight and as the wagon passed, Jeremiah covered his mouth and nose. It was the sickly sweet smell of rot, of death.

The noxious stench cleared as the wagon path turned in front of Morley’s small house. Arriving, Jeremiah reined in Marty and Tam and prepared to step down from the wagon, but Munson Morley surprised Jeremiah, coming up behind him.

From the direction Morley walked, Jeremiah realized that Morley came from the reeking outbuilding. His belief was confirmed by the repulsive odor that Morley carried along with him. Marty and Tam tossed and objected again.

Here, now, Jeremiah said to the horses.

Morley was a small man with a great head and tiny, fierce eyes that moved quickly. The little, rapid eyes missed no detail, a fact that irritated many of the businessmen who had dealings with him. Morley was known for his precise demands. He was dressed in short sleeves and a bloodstained apron and seemed not to notice the frigid air swirling around him.

A bit of butchery, eh? Jeremiah said, trying to be friendly.

This is the last time I will be needing you, Morley said, without any form of greeting. Got my own men now.

Jeremiah nodded. His interest in the teamster business had died with his brother.

Just back your wagon to the doors, Morley said, pointing to the largest and most dilapidated barn. The haul is five barrels. My man is on the winch. He’ll lower it. No need to get down.

Jeremiah nodded again.

Well, man, Morley said. Get to it.

I’ll be needing my pay, Jeremiah said flatly, looking away from Morley’s eyes.

Morley, who was about to turn away, stopped. His face drew up with a look of concern, his dark, small eyes flashed.

You spilled my last haul. I lost four barrels. You will do this one for free.

Jeremiah’s felt his face flush and anger filled his voice. My brother died…

I know, Morley said, cutting Jeremiah off. That is the only reason I’ve not asked you to compensate me. Take the haul to Titusville, or I will change my mind.

Jeremiah sputtered. His mind ran different directions and a burning rage rose in his throat. He sat, calming himself, figuring what to do. Jeremiah couldn’t afford to pay for the spilled barrels, and yet Morley’s lack of feeling choked him.

Jeremiah flapped the reins and called to Marty and Tam to ‘walk on’. As the horses clomped toward the large barn, Jeremiah smiled at the notion of selling Morley’s oil on his own. At sixty dollars a barrel, Jeremiah could make a start for the West, and leave everything behind.

At the barn, Jeremiah backed the wagon in front of the closed doors. Above, in the near darkness, Jeremiah could see five barrels netted and bound, hanging from a winch.

Ho! Jeremiah called out.

He waited. No answer came.

Jeremiah cursed under his breath.

Hey! Ho! he called.

At a distance, Morley stopped near the door of the small barn. Jeremiah watched as Morley turned and started walking toward him. Jeremiah shook his head at Morley and got down from the wagon.

He went to the barn doors and pounded them.

Hey! he called.

Jeremiah glanced back at Morley, who was striding toward him. Morley called out, but Jeremiah couldn’t make out what he said.

Grabbing hold of the right door handle, Jeremiah slid the barn door aside. In the dim light Jeremiah saw Morley’s man lumbering up the ladder to the winch crank. The man’s movements were strange: a lurching, jutting, mechanical sort of jerking.

You been at the tar water? Jeremiah called, wishing he too could have a drink.

After Jeremiah said it, Morley’s man turned. The tar water must have impaired the man’s ability to climb, for upon turning, the man lost his grip on the ladder and crashed to the barn floor.

At first, Jeremiah couldn’t move. Morley’s man had fallen such that his head and neck hit the barn floor before all else. A sickening sound filled Jeremiah’s ears: the sound of cracking sticks and crushed hen eggs.

A fear like hunger filled Jeremiah’s stomach and caution froze the muscles of his arms and legs. Morley’s man lay on his right side, at the bottom of the ladder, facing away from Jeremiah. When he finally could move, Jeremiah gently placed a hand on the broken man’s shoulder and moved around to see his face.

Mister, are you all right? Jeremiah asked, afraid that he knew the answer. Mister… The words on Jeremiah’s lips expired like the rays of sunlight behind the hills when he looked on the face of his own dead brother!

Jeremiah inhaled so sharply that his throat and lungs burned.

William?! The great shock broke Jeremiah’s mind. In his mind the horrible event replayed: the Schuttler wagon, overloaded with wooden oil barrels, tipping to the side as William leapt upon it. Jeremiah watched, again, and again, the left side of the wagon rise into the air, towering. He heard the rumbling of barrels in his sleep and the cracking of wood and bone as his brother was crushed under the spilling load. His brother was dead. His brother was here!

Morley ran through the barn door, stopping near to where Jeremiah stumbled, stricken at the sight of his dead, yet strangely un-dead, brother.

Is he killed? called Morley.

Jeremiah looked at Morley, trying to understand, trying to speak. There was nothing to say.

The look of astonishment on Jeremiah’s face was apparently funny to Munson Morley, and a wriggle of a smile crept across his lower face and his eyes, in the darkness of the barn, seemed to glow.

Jeremiah’s head shook involuntarily from side to side, and a nauseous horror surged in his stomach, filling him. He stared at his dead brother’s face: expressionless, frozen.

Then, Jeremiah ran. He was on his wagon. Marty and Tam were racing. Jeremiah flapped and shouted at the horses, driving them on the looping path that encircled Morley’s farm.

All around the wagon path, lurching forms of men staggered and reeled and jutted. Wicked mechanical forms, silhouettes pasted against the flat snowy fields, roamed and lunged at the fleeing cart.

The wagon raced and turned on to the main road. The sky was black. The trees thrashed in the wind and snow ravaged the air. There was no thought in Jeremiah’s head except flee, flee, flee. Horror blackened his mind. His eyes and face burned in the frigid wind.

Jeremiah didn’t know where he was going, only that he had to get away. He gave over flapping the reins and actively whipped Marty and Tam, something he rarely did. The horses raced along the forest road in terror, white billows filling the black air around them. The frozen mud tormented the wagon, tossing and jostling it as it sped. Then one wheel of the Schuttler twisted in a rut, the axle broken. Jeremiah felt the air race past him as he was thrown. Marty and Tam, mad with fear, dragged the shattered wagon down the road leaving Jeremiah in the snow. His face was freezing, his mouth gaping, his heart racing and broken. Jeremiah jumped to his feet and ran and ran...

Through the forest, tripping, slipping, breaking twigs and falling, Jeremiah ran. The winter air fired his lungs and his throat burned. The tears and saliva and breath turned ice in the hair covering his face. He screamed. He was outside himself but deaf. He yelled and heard no sound. He ran.

Calm yourself. Calm yourself, Doctor Yates admonished, putting a hand on Jeremiah. It must have been your mind playing tricks. He turned to the deputy. Do you have any brandy, anything?

The deputy nodded, disappearing out the door. He came back momentarily with a glass half-filled with an amber liquid.

Drink this, Doctor Yates said.

Jeremiah drank. He coughed.

Here, lay down, sir, Doctor Yates eased Jeremiah onto his back and covered him with the wool blanket. He turned to leave.

Old Scratch is in those woods, Jeremiah called. Mark my words, Doctor!

Get some rest, Doctor Yates said.

Outside, in the Sherriff’s office, Deputy Cummings pulled the door shut.

What do you think? Deputy Cummings asked the doctor.

Man’s a wreck. I’ve seen it too much these days. Young men coming back from Salisbury, Libby, Andersonville, Bull Run, you name it. The doctor shook his head. There’s something about death that leaves its mark on a man.

You think there’s anything to what he said?

To that? Doctor Yates asked. He shook his head. No. Not about his brother. I suspect he saw an accident tonight, though. Probably hear about it soon enough. Doctor Yates motioned to Jeremiah’s sleeping form. That young man’s seen enough accidents in the past week to last a lifetime. Right now, I think Death’s got its grip on him.

Doctor Yates went to the chair and began to dress himself for the cold.

Anything I should do? Cummings asked.

Just let him sleep. Doctor Yates, now bundled, gripped the door to the courthouse. He turned to Deputy Cummings. I’ll come by in the morning.

The doctor pulled the door open letting in a blast of raw, frigid air. He stepped into it and pulled the door shut against the winter night.

Chapter 1

With great flourish, Otto swept his arm toward the portrait. There he is, Michael! Titus Morley!

Otto dropped his arm, and his excited expression vanished when he realized Mike wasn't looking. Squinting so that crow's feet clawed at the corners of his eyes, Otto gazed at Mike, who studied the contents of a glass display case. Then, scratching his fuzzy blond beard, Otto looked at the portrait again.

I'll be right there, Otto, Mike said, looking up.

Michael Hilliard and his uncle, Robert Otto Hilliard, were poking around the drawing room of what once was Titus Morley's house in Titusville, Pennsylvania. The Morley House, as it was called, was a small brick two-story off a narrow brick side street surrounded by grass and a short, loopy, cast-iron fence. The house had white trim, two chimneys, and a slate roof. There were black shutters next to the windows with clubs cut out of them, like the kind of clubs on playing cards. The house was old. It was built in the 1800s, during what was called the Victorian Era, after Britain's Queen Victoria.

Inside the house, wood floors creaked and thick plaster walls swelled and cracked. The rooms had high ceilings with chandeliers and tall windows that let in fields of sunlight. Nearly every room had a fireplace. The rooms were filled with period furniture and the doorways were roped off to keep visitors out.

Otto worked for the Western Reserve Historical Society in Cleveland, Ohio, and got paid to travel around and poke his nose into things. Mike was along for the ride. Otto was currently poking his nose into Titus Morley, who once had a house on Cleveland’s Millionaire’s Row, and was the current subject of Otto's research. According to Otto, Titus Morley was a millionaire back when a million dollars was a lot of money. Like a lot of rich people at the time, Morley made his money in oil. His oil business