Scrolls: Book 1

By Michael Ubaka

A long lost, dark secret filled with immense knowledge and power from ancient biblical times is discovered, and it's exposure threatens to bring about the apocalypse. While an ancient cult and nightmarish creatures plague the darkest parts of a Gothic city known as Raven City, sacred scrolls and supernatural items must not fall into the wrong hands, thereby unleashing an infamous, icon from the past, the very first vampire, known as " the eater of the tree. " In a game of suspense; death; love; deception; greed and betrayal, a detective; an upcoming anomaly researcher; a priest and a mysterious girl along with other friends will have to work together in a quest to prevent the apocalypse. But some of them have dark secrets that threaten the strength of their fellowship. Can they trust each other? Will they succeed in their quest to destroy the secret? Will they even survive? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Ubaka
• Release date: Jul 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223723523

Book preview

Prologue

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The poor little girl ran through the cold, dark cave, tripping and falling as her bare and bloodied feet dashed against sharp rocks. She was only 9, so she was scared to death. She wanted mummy. She must escape this place, whatever it was.

She heard the heavy footsteps approaching in the dark. Evil men. Unreal men. Monsters. They wore a strange pendant around their necks and during the worship session, she had awoken from her sleep to behold their eyes turn fiery red.

She couldn't see. She ran aimlessly and collided with a wall. She fell to the ground. Her head was busted open. The men could smell her blood. She heard them growl. She was out of breath and couldn't scream. She just lay there, enshrouded in the unforgiving darkness, still confused as to what's going on, like most children do, until those red eyes materialized in the dark again, and a powerful talon grabbed her by the throat and pulled her closer to a growling, cold breath. Mama, her subconscious called, mama, where are you? Help me.

She felt a jaw clench around her tiny neck; sharp pains bit deep into her. She felt a warm, gooey liquid rolling down her neck, as the monster fed.

It was brief a moment of pain, and then, she didn’t want him to stop.

Chapter 1: A Touch of Destiny

And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

–Friedrich Nietzsche

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June 1966. 10 p.m.

The huge figure crossed the dark street as the rolling thunder clapped down and released the force of raindrops on him. For some reason, it appeared all the raindrops falling from the pitch-black sky targeted only him; he was 7-feet-tall, and the same can almost be said for his shoulder span. He was enormous and, wearing an extra-large-coat that extended well beyond his knees, he looked double his size.

He was the perfect specimen: genetically superior to any other person he grew up with. His parents looked normal, so it was a mystery he had six fingers on each hand six toes on each foot, instead of the usual five. Some say he's an angel in disguise; others say he's a thing spawned from hell.

The flickering street lights revealed more ghostlike figures than men. Every man who was decent enough had found his way home hours ago. The type that was left on the streets now were mostly the night crawlers, hookers, hoodlums, and crusaders like him.

He may have had the gigantic size of a monster, but his heart was that of a man, a family man. He knew what awaited him at home: his wife would berate him for being a workaholic, as she always did, and his daughter would sit in the corner, watching the drama. No child should ever have to experience this. He would personally carry her off to bed and tell her that Daddy is a hero. Tonight, he would at least try not to get shot.

He had seen the Gaston brothers enter the club he had been surveilling for weeks now. There was a fake door in one of the bathrooms through which they entered an underground chamber and conducted their business, not the kind of business that makes Mummy proud; their business was child trafficking. The Gaston brothers were runaways at a very young age, for decades, they had climbed the crime ladder employing violence and bloodshed. This was their club, the Angel Falls Strip Club.

The figure's knuckles hurt a little. Not now, he said to himself. He hasn't even gotten to the real fight yet, he thought. He had been carefully following the Gastons in the dark, avoiding the street lights so that his huge size would not give himself away when he was suddenly cornered in a dark alley, some pocket-knife wannabe gangster trying to earn his street cred. The gangster popped a cigarette in his mouth and demanded a light, and that was his mistake: if only he had seen the size of his supposed victim, he would have demanded nothing but mercy.

The figure knew the words hoodlums typically used to demand their victim's wallet. So, he merely obeyed, turned around like he was pulling out his wallet, but made a quick 360-degree turn and with a great force, he struck the hoodlum's jaw with a crushing blow. The hoodlum crashed hard onto the ground, tried to get up but fell back down. He moaned and muttered to himself like he was drunk. His cigarette stuck in his throat; he let out a harsh cough and spat it out. He managed to raise himself onto his feet and, muttering a few fucks and shits, he staggered away as quickly as he could.

That's why the figure's right knuckles were hurting.

The figure allowed five minutes to pass after the Gaston brothers entered the club before he approached the door. First, he peered from the outside, taking note of the activities inside; there were fewer people tonight than other nights he knew. When the Gastons disappeared into the bathroom, he decided to enter.

It was another world where darkness was a delight. The hypnotic glow of red and purple lights turned the place into an infernal circle of vice. The hot, steamy half-naked worshippers rubbed together in a glorious orgy of flesh, as the diehard rock beat pushed them on. Hands pushing into the air, heads bobbing, young bodies twisted as wildly as their spines would go, these free-spirited birds dancing in a flaming ritual of passion. Slowly, he walked through the dance party, trying to avoid as many bodies as he could. The seductive music filled his ears. The beating lights – the reds, the purples – carried a dagger of danger. Sex filled the air as perfectly curved specimens of women worked their bodies to strip poles, sirens contorting, as anxious men furiously tossed bank notes at the erotic show filling their eyes. Some strippers were beneath the table giving generous clients a bonus. The intoxicating alcohol helped fuel the show to an even higher salacious appetite.

He walked past the show. Deeper into the club was a section where an old woman, a psychic, held court in a booth deep inside the club where customers took seats to hear what fate had in store for them. A young couple sat with her, their palms spread open on the table as she enlightened them about their future. As the big figure passed the booth, the changing lights revealed the old psychic staring at him with a cold and wary eye. Her face was held a frightening look, riddled with all manner of fetishes. She was saying something, and the figure caught the movement of her lips. She had said something like ...a touch of destiny... , and it looked like she was talking to him. The figure looked away and kept walking.

He sat at a waiting table where an exotic and braless girl tended the bar. He ordered a scotch. A man with a grotesque beard, a beard that suggested a demeanor that bordered on the insane, sat beside him and stared. The figure turned to the man who looked away immediately. The girl at the bar poured out a drink and pushed the glass gently to him. He downed the drink with one gulp. He wasn't a drinker but wanted to blend in. He dropped the glass back on the table and said, I’m here to see the Gaston brothers.

She froze for a moment, then said, Never heard of them, and continued to clean her glass.

He put his hand in his coat, took out his badge and placed it on the table. Detective. The bearded man next to him immediately backed away.

The bartender stuttered and placed her hand beneath the table to reach for an alarm trigger.

I would not do that if I were you. The figure said.

She froze.

Place your hands where I can see them.

She obeyed.

Good.

You’re not likely going to get out of here alive, detective, she warned.

He looked back. Behind him, at the rear end of the club were three doors that led to three bathrooms. The doors each were marked by a sign: Male, Female, and Pets. The latter was the door that led to the underground basement, he suspected. Who the hell brings a pet to a strip club?

Two men stood near the third door. They were casually smoking, talking, and ogling the toy candy passing by. They were henchmen, he knew. One was way shorter than the other. The taller henchman had tattoos all over his face and arms. He caught the detective staring suspiciously at them and whispered to the other one. They knew who he was; his presence meant trouble. One of them opened the door and stepped inside, a minute later, he was back in view, accompanied by a solid mass of a man, his sleeves rolled up, and a baseball bat in his grasp.

The detective turned to the girl and said, If I were you, I'd get out of this place before the real dancing starts.

She retreated at once. The figure stood up from his seat and walked to the door. The men stepped in front of him. Piss off, fucker! One of them said. A menacing frown underscoring his words

The detective pulled out his badge and showed them. He said, I'd like to see the Gaston brothers. I know they are in there.

The hefty guy spat on the ground in front of him without saying a word or looking at him.

Gentlemen, I prefer to do this the easy way.

The shortest among them, and naturally the most overconfident came right in front of him and said, There are no Gastons in here. You are in the wrong place, detective. Show yourself out!

The figure warned, If you don't step out of the way, shorty, you’re going to take a nap at the bar over there. He pointed at the waiting table where he’d been seating.

Go screw yourse—

In a flash, the detective grabbed him and tossed him some eight feet in the air and into the bar. He crashed hard, a chorus of bottles and glasses smashing on the ground. The music came to a stop. The bar crowd turned and caught the rapid movement of a bulky man fighting two men.

The hefty henchman swung his bat at the detective, but the detective intercepted the swing with both hands before it could impact. He twisted the bat away from the henchman, grabbed him by the neck and knocked him out with his right, six-fingered fist. The other tattooed bodyguard swiped a dagger at his chest, and the detective tried to evade but was not quick enough. The bottle ended up ripping his thick coat but didn’t do further damage. The henchman tried to slash the second time but was quickly disarmed by the detective who grabbed his arm and broke his elbow. He cried out in pain. The onlookers cringed backwards in fright. The hefty henchman who was briefly knocked out had staggered back to his feet, pulled out a pistol and defiantly pointed it at the detective. The detective quickly grabbed his wrist and pointed the gun away, and the henchman began to fire at the ceiling.

There was pandemonium in the club as naked screaming men and women fled from it, falling on each other and turning tables over. In few seconds, the club was empty except for the two men struggling to possess the gun.

The detective was strong and not easily subdued. He head-butted the henchman on the forehead and got him off balance, then he punched him in the throat, and then the gut. The henchman reeled backwards looking disoriented and groaning in pain, the detective picked him up, spun around and slammed him into the ground spine first. The hefty henchman passed out the second and final time.

The figure looked around the empty club, and all he saw were broken bottles, missing shoes and henchmen that lay unconscious on the ground. One was taking a nap in the bar like he was warned he would; the other with a broken elbow lay on the ground, wincing and groaning in pain. Shots have been fired. That means war from now on. He pulled out his Colt Trooper revolver and slowly opened the door to the lavatory labeled Pets. He saw shadows beneath each cubicle. They were waiting for him to venture and they will shoot him up. He pulled out a canister of knockout gas, turned off the light to the lavatory, pulled the pin of the can, tossed it into the lavatory and shut back the door while he waited outside. Then there was an explosion.

It wasn't long before the disoriented, and fear-gripped men inside began to choke, cough loudly and stagger about. Some fired hysterically at anything that moved, killing their targets in the process. The detective had a portable gas mask with him–always prepared for any situation. He fitted it on his face and waited for the noises and gunshots to quiet down, then he entered the room. Everyone lay unconscious or dead on the ground. In one cubicle at the end of the lavatory, a light showed like there was a passage in there. He opened the cubicle, and a doorway built into the wall opened to a narrow staircase that led downwards, into a hidden basement.

Someone at the bottom of the stairs carelessly appeared and began to fire his semiautomatic machine gun at the detective and hit him in the left shoulder. The detective ducked away and waited for the assailant to exhaust his magazine.  Then he heard the click of the trigger like the magazine was empty. The assailant began to reload. The detective turned towards the stairs, pointed his revolver, fired a bullet into the man's forehead, and he dropped dead at once. He quickly made it to the bottom of the stairs and grabbed the semiautomatic. He entered the basement and ducked behind a wall.

It was outfitted like a large office, except that it smelled of hard drugs and alcohol. The walls were not plastered; the pile of cartons in a usual office setting was replaced with stacks of drugs. The detective took out his gas mask and shouted, Joe and Ken Gaston! I know you are in here. Surrender now, and you will not end up like your bodyguards.

There was silence.

You got a warrant, detective? It was Joe Gaston, the elder brother.

No, but I'll get one once I arrest you and your brother, the detective said sarcastically.

Joe Gaston laughed. That's funny, detective. You don't have a warrant, and you come here thrashing my crib?

You are a human trafficker and a drug dealer. The evidence is right here. The choice is yours. Surrender now with your brother, because, dead or alive, you are coming with me.

Fuck you, asshole! a voice blasted, as its owner fired a round of semiautomatic in his direction. Come get us! That was unmistakably Ken, the younger and brasher one. Ken was notorious for being a trigger-happy motherfucker who shot first and asked questions later.

The detective's shoulder was bleeding from the gunshot he took earlier; he would have to wind this up quickly.

That's it then, he said and put the mask back on. He took out a smoke grenade, pulled the pin and tossed the hissing canister at the center of the room. It exploded into a cloud of thick smoke, and the detective was already on his feet, waiting for the gas to smoke them out. A group of assailants defiantly raised their weapons and the detective opened fire, shooting up armed men in disarray. His revolver and a submachine gun in his hands, bullets flying around. Several bags of heroin exploded, sending the white powder billowing into the air as the bullets shot through them. He was hit once or twice in the chest, but he wore a bulletproof vest that protected him. He loved to take risks. This was his life, his destiny. In a minute, he'd shot down about five men.

When the smoke cleared, dead bodies were laying around. The only two persons left were Joe Gaston, the elder of the Gastons, who laid on the ground with teary eyes and laboured breathing from the toxic air. He was bleeding from his gunshot wound on the right arm. The detective quickly moved to cuff him while pinning his face to the ground. Joe Gaston groaned all through the process, cursing out loud. Then he was propped to his feet and slammed face first against the wall. 

Where are the children!? The detective barked.

Gaston groaned hard and said, they are in a dark room on the west side of the office.

The detective dragged him to the said location, they got to the door. Keys!? the detective asked.

In my back pocket! retorted Joe.

The detective took them.

If your men are in there, tell them to back off!

Fuck you, detective. You've wasted my men!

That's good to hear.

The detective unlocked the door and opened it. The room was dark. He heard children sobbing and muttering words like help me, and mommy? the detective flicked the switch and the light turned on. What he saw turned his stomach.

Little children were locked inside dog cages. They looked gaunt and malnourished. They stared at the detective with wide, pathetic eyes that almost moved him to tears.

Angrily, the detective pulled Joe Gaston out of the room, away from the sight of the children and slammed his front side to the wall, harder than before, pressing his face into rough concrete. Joe Gaston cried out.

This is what you do!? Kidnap little children from their parents and sell them off to God-knows-who, for money!?

Gaston won’t say a word, he just grunted and tried to free himself. The detective continued, you and your kind are the lowest forms of life on this goddamned earth. You don’t deserve to live. He pointed the revolver at the back of Gaston’s head.

Fuck you, detective. Shoot me, shoot!

That will be too easy, Joe. This is what I’m gonna do... The detective aimed the revolver at the back of Gaston’s left knee, then he fired.

Joe Gaston jerked in pain and fell on the ground rolling, writhing and screaming in pain.

That won't kill you, the detective said, but it will make you suffer for what you've done to those kids.

The detective couldn’t unlock the cages containing the children, so he dialed the police department, calling for backups and two ambulances. He slowly walked back up the stairs, leaving behind a litter of dead bodies and Joe Gaston screaming like a little child.

He got outside on the street and filled his lungs with fresh air and waited for the backups to arrive. The Gaston brothers were the last of child traffickers in the city, he thought. Perhaps child trafficking is a thing of the past now, and children will play safely on the streets again? But that was a farfetched hope, he knew. Just then, someone patted his shoulder, and he swung around immediately.

It was the old, little and sinewy psychic. Her eyes wide and scary. There was a wickedly wide grin on her face.

Would you like to feel a touch of your destiny? she asked in a dark voice, as she stared up at him.

She had said that before, He thought.

No, thank you. He said and turned away. I make my destiny.

She placed a hand gently on his bloodied left shoulder. Don't be so hasty, Detective Damien Crow, she said.

The detective slowly turned around with a look of surprise. How did she know my name?

She slowly slipped her hand off his shoulder. It was smeared with his blood. She stuck out her tongue and ran it gently over her bloodied palm. The detective cringed at the sight of that. She closed her mouth, tasted it and shuddered with her eyes tightly shut. The detective watched her fidget like some crazy demon possessed her. Strong, too strong! Too sweet... Too deep... She raved wildly in a fitful gyration. Suddenly she stopped with her eyes shut. She turned to the detective. When she opened her eyes, they were wider and bloodshot.

She said in an eerie voice, One journey ends, another one begins. The one who hunts monsters is soon to become a monster.

The detective scoffed. Nothing but a foolish prattle from a demented mind. He thought. It’s a mystery sane people believe their fairy-tale.

Your destiny begins tonight, and you can't escape it, son of a zealot. She giggled, soon began to laugh hysterically like a drunk.

Stay away from me, you freak! The detective backed away from her.

The laughter carried her about and drove her into the road, and there came a speeding car. She must be really insane!

Watch out!

But it was too late. The speeding car knocked her off her feet. She smashed her head into the windshield and tumbled across the roof of the car, slammed hard on the ground, rolling with the momentum until there was none. She laid motionless on the asphalt.

The detective ran up to the lifeless body in alarm and stooped down to it. Blood began to ooze heavily from all parts of her broken body. Thankfully, he could hear the ambulance sirens, but something mind-boggling caught his eye. Her bloodshot eyes were locked with his, and she was grinning at him.

On her bloodied face, her lips were apart with a wide grin and her lower jaw moved up and down like she was mustering just one expression a dying person could hardly conceive: Ha ha ha ha... After a while, she was still. Eyes were staring blankly at him, blood dripping from a gaping mouth; she was dead.

The detective stood to his feet. He was a hardboiled cop, but for some reason, the incident shook his core.

One journey ends, another one begins. The one who hunts monsters is soon to become one.

It would be two years until he understood what those words meant. The sirens were closer.

For the first time since he was a kid, the detective muttered a prayer for the psychic’s soul.

Chapter 2: The Meeting

Many a true word has been spoken in jest.

–William Shakespeare

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11:00 p.m.

On the same night, a night when nightmares become realities and destinies are shaped, two men were seated in a dimly lit room high up in the tallest tower in the city, known as Mayor's Tower. Although it was built in the late 1700s, the tower had been refurbished inside with a touch of modernity. But on the outside, the walls had turned from white to mottled gray over the centuries. The building was in the northeastern part of Raven City, near the river Mura and the Argon Bridge. It was like a fortress, a watchtower high up in the sky guarding the city while it slept. Mayor's Tower was the center of authority in Raven City.

The office where the two men sat was large and resembled a library. There were stacks of books piled neatly on a row of overhead, polished, wooden shelves lined along the walls. For some reason, all the lights in the office had been turned off, except for the reading lamp on the desk. Nobody knew that the two men had decided to meet. An air of mystery surrounded them. Silence filled the large office as they sat face to face. A beautifully carved, mahogany office table separated them. On the table lay a rust-coloured scroll half unrolled, filled with unreadable markings. One of the men could read them. The other listened with a furrowed brow and an intense stare.

It appeared one of the men had come to visit the other most discreetly. Their faces half shone in the table lamp which. The visitor's face was round, and his skin a bit wrinkled by age. He was in his late fifties. He had brown eyes, gray hair and moustache. He wore a thick brown cotton shirt, and there was a gun holster over his left shoulder with a revolver fitted in it. The host had a haughty look on his face. In his mid-forties, he looked younger than the visitor and strikingly handsome. He had a proud bone structure, deep gray eyes and a strong chin. His hair was jet-black and whipped entirely backwards. He wore a black suit.

There weren't drinking or smoking. The visitor had refused any food and wine offered to him. As for the host, he wasn't much of a drinker either.

There was silence between both men for a while. One could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the office like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant you dare not wake. The men knew that the decision they made here in seclusion could affect a lot of people. And even when they spoke, they used discretion like they were mentally sizing up on each other and weighing each other's thoughts.

Your Greek has improved, Mayor, The visitor said with a weak smile on his face, trying to hide his fear. In his mind, he was still perusing the obscure words the Mayor had translated from the scroll.

What do you think, Commissioner? the host asked the visitor.

I... I think it's fine, Mayor. I mean, we are both enthusiasts only that this is beyond us. It shouldn't fall into the wrong hands, the visitor replied.

The host unrolled the scroll further. Over here, he said, pointing at some Greek words.

The visitor looked at the symbols but couldn't grasp their meaning, ο τρώγων του δέντρου.

That translates as 'The Eater of the Tree’, the Mayor said. It's him".

The visitor felt goosebumps on his arms. He felt the darkness closing in on him. How did this all begin? He asked the host.

The host cleared his throat, leaned forward with both hands locked together and elbows supporting his weight on the desk, his handsome face was aglow with the golden light rays from the reading lamp. He began to speak. It all began in Eden. Our first parents had just sinned and were expelled from the garden. What wasn't recorded was that the serpent that had deceived them was cast out of the garden as well, but his expulsion was not an easy one.

And by the serpent, you mean ... the devil? the visitor asked.

The host nodded. He continued, he fought the cherubs until he was driven out. But it did not end there. That shrewd serpent, on his way out, stole something from the Garden very precious to God himself, something potent, compelling, very powerful. Something he plans to use in due time to enslave humankind, some say; or perhaps to help humankind reach its full potential, others believe. It’s all written in this lost scroll.

And what do you believe? asked the visitor.

The host snorted derisively. If they are not fairy tales, then we can at least respect the devil's talents.

The visitor stared long at him and said, Absolute power corrupts absolutely. This shouldn't be allowed to thrive.

Are you a religious person, Commissioner? The host asked.

No, I am not!

Then why do you care?

The visitor thought for a second, just a bad feeling... the professor, the stories of his strange encounters, down at the cursed valley...

The host scoffed. I would have retired from my job if I were nearly as old as the professor is. I'm sure his old age has something to do with his rabid imaginations.

His findings must be confiscated. the visitor said.

Do as you wish, the host replied. My top priority is the safety of this city, my city. I am the Mayor, he said. I will do my duty. As for the scroll, I'll need it for further study, and help you keep it safe among my archives. But don't worry, it doesn't exist."

The visitor thought it was a good idea. He nodded. All right, Mayor. He stood up to leave. I trust that not even the devil himself will find it.

The host laughed, Even if he finds it, he would have to wrest it from me.

The visitor gave him a warning look. After a while, he said, "The devil comes in many forms. To Adam, he was just