Death's Cathedral: Shadow King Series, #2

By Ian Fortey, Ron Ripley and Scare Street

Shane was fighting for his life. Now, he's fighting for revenge…

After surviving the bloody ordeal of the Iron Tournament, retired marine and ghost hunter Shane Ryan is out for blood. He's hot on the trail of Guthrie, the man who organized the supernatural fighting ring. And behind him lurks Lazarus, the sinister entity who draws power from the dead…

Shane's search takes him north, to the frozen wilderness of Canada. There, in a remote town nestled among the dark trees, Lazarus' evil power has been unleashed. A host of spirits have been freed to stalk a nearby graveyard. And they inhabit the townsfolk, controlling them like ghastly puppets.

But as Shane and his allies battle these living dead, he quickly discovers the true depths of Lazarus' evil. The dark spirit is using these servants to build a cathedral, a monument to his dark power.

And if this diabolical church is completed, Lazarus' power will become impossible to contain…

And it just might be the end of the world as we know it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scare Street
• Release date: Jan 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224999682

Book preview

Prologue

Conner Barlett’s eyes narrowed. The breeze was faint and cooling, coming at him head-on from the north. He could feel the tension in the air, the palpable sense of anticipation. And, to some degree, dread.

He wouldn’t have admitted he was nervous. Not to those watching, and barely even to himself. He had to keep his head, though. If he lost his focus, or screwed up, it would all be over.

The muscles in his arms tensed, and his grip tightened. The feeling of the hardwood in his hands gave him some comfort, strength, and confidence; something to believe in. The air seemed to pull away like it had been sucked out of the world, and he could not even hear the others around him. The world was gone. There was only him and the ball.

The pitcher from Whisper Lake let fly a breaking ball. Conner’s teeth gritted, and he swung the bat. At 6’4" and 205 pounds, Conner was the biggest player on either team. Whisper Lake feared him, but even before bat met ball, the hometown crowd in Birch Valley exploded.

Bat met ball like thunder. He didn’t wait for it; he just ran.

The stands came alive, and Conner felt that rush. People screamed his name, cheered, and clapped as they rose to their feet. It was just high school baseball. In another year, he’d be at university in Toronto, and none of this would matter. But at that moment, he was the center of the universe.

His legs pumped, and he thundered towards first base, rounded the bag to second. His eyes drifted up, and he watched as the right fielder sprinted back. The guy made a beeline for the fence between the field and Briarwood Cemetery. There was no chance. That ball was gone.

Conner grinned as he rounded second, and the crowd was roaring at a fever pitch. Two other runners crossed home plate as he made his way around the bases. The rest of the team were clapping, and the coach was having an absolute fit. They needed two runs for the win. He’d just won the game and clinched their spot in the playoffs. Whisper Lake was out. Birch Valley was in.

Danny Hogan met him at home plate, jumping on him and practically knocking him over as the rest of the team jumped into the fray. Someone aggressively rubbed his head, while others patted his back, shoulders, and arms.

An absolute monster! Danny yelled into his face.

Conner laughed, breathing heavily and looking around the crowd. He saw his mom and dad at the backstop, clapping and yelling. And just beyond them, he caught Tina Farrow’s eye. He grinned at her, and she mouthed some words he couldn’t make out. It didn’t matter. The expression on her face said enough. He was on top of the world.

Someone got under him, and he wobbled unsteadily. Danny and Will Aikerson managed to lift him onto their shoulders. Danny was a tough kid, but built like a string bean, so Conner was impressed. He rose above the crowd and celebrated as hard as any of them, his hands up in triumph.

The team from Whisper Lake looked dejected and depressed. He saw the right fielder in the distance, still at the cemetery fence, and shook his head. He thought baseball games shouldn’t get to them; a sore loser was no way to be.

People shouted and laughed, and a hundred voices asked a hundred questions. Conner engaged with everyone at first, but then he slipped as he watched Whisper Lake’s right fielder. He didn’t know the guy personally, had never even spoken to him, but something seemed to be off. He wasn’t just standing at the fence. He was slumped against it.

Kids had told stories for years about Briarwood Cemetery. For teens under fifteen, it was the local hot spot for night-time break-in dares. When you got older, it was a place to party with friends.

The cemetery was older than the town, and dated back to the church’s days of serving a few scattered families in the wilderness, back when the nearest town was Red Earth Creek. Some of Alberta’s earlier settlers were buried there. It made for good ghost stories. When he was younger, walking amongst the briars and tombstones had even spooked Conner out. All it took was the call of a loon or the laughter of a fox to set your nerves on edge. He never saw a ghost there, but the place had still terrified him.

The last time Conner had crossed into Briarwood, he had heard what sounded like the rustling of fabric, like someone unfolding a blanket or making a bed. Barely more than a whisper. It had been in July, and the humidity of the lake had sweat running down his back. but at that moment, the air grew shockingly cold.

The sound and the feeling were all it took. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, and he had never gone back in over three years.

The crowds in the stands were still shouting and celebrating. Nearly the entire town had shown up for the game, though that wasn’t saying much. Birch Valley’s population was just a few hundred people. Any time there was a game, people showed up, whether they liked baseball or not. They brought barbecue grills and coolers full of beer, salads, and meats. Every game was a party for the entire community.

The right fielder’s arm dangled at his side, and Conner watched the glove fall to the ground.

Hey, he said, trying to get Danny’s attention. The talking around him was a storm, and his words were lost. Guys!

The fielder’s body swayed. The distance to the fence was too great to make out anything clearly, but a chill ran down Conner’s spine. He tapped Will and Danny, and got them to lower him to the ground. People kept patting his shoulders and offering him hugs as he pushed past the team and stood on the foul line.

Something flew out of the cemetery. Conner watched it rise in an arc and squinted against the blue sky to follow its progression. When the ball hit the ground, it was only yards from his feet. It rolled down the foul line to his feet, where it came to rest. Bright red blood was caked with bits of grass and dirt.

Conner began to run. Shouted questions followed him, but he didn’t pay them any heed. He ran towards the right fielder. He wanted to call his name, but he didn’t know it. So he simply yelled Hey! again and again. He got no response.

He slowed his pace and approached the boy cautiously. This close, he could see the teenager was slumped, propped up against the wrought iron fence. One leg was not under him so much as limply drooping to one side.

Hey, are you okay? Conner asked.

The other boy didn’t move. Conner placed a hand on his shoulder, and the boy slumped over completely, falling in a heap. Conner knelt down and rolled him over, staring down into his face. His flesh was deathly pale, but the front of his uniform was soaked in blood. Conner couldn’t find a pulse.

Having taken a first aid class, Conner knew he needed to stop the bleeding if there was any hope of saving the boy’s life. He pulled the jersey open, looking to at least compress the wound until more help could arrive. Blood was still pooling under his shirt as Conner pulled it up. Peeling the blood-soaked shirt off revealed a gaping, fist-sized chasm in the boy’s chest. Fractured edges of his ribs were clearly visible in his chest and back.

Conner gasped, his eyes wide, and he dropped the bloody shirt. The ragged flesh hung limply where it had been torn apart.

What could have done this? Conner thought, puzzled.

He realized after a moment what it was. A baseball. The hole was exactly the size of a baseball.

Conner pushed away from the boy, fear gripping him. His back hit the fence, and he grabbed it to pull himself up. Pain ran up his arm, and he screamed through gritted teeth. The iron of the fence was like fire in his hand—not with heat, but a deep, burning cold. He tried to pull away, but his flesh had bonded to the metal.

He struggled to pull free, his flesh stinging as the cold metal refused to let loose. He turned back to the field and the stands and waved his free hand. Someone waved back, but most people had spread out for the barbecue, with few eyes in his direction. He called for help, unsure if anyone would even hear him over the din of the crowd.

Scream for them, a voice whispered against his ear. The cold burned his cheek, and he turned in time to see a shape shambling out of the briars and tombstones towards the fence. It was thin and reedy, pale and unsteady. At first, Conner thought it was a man, but the face was skeletal and dead, only scraps of flesh hanging from the decayed bones.

No, Conner murmured. His mind reeled as he tried to process it. It was a prank. It had to be.

Yesssssss, the voice in his ear insisted. The thing shambling towards him had just enough flesh on its face to offer a hideous grin. The hollows in its skull where eyes should have been felt like they were staring at him, and Conner screamed.

The pain was immense, but the fear was more than he could bear. Conner tore his hand from the fence. Skin ripped, and he could see pieces of it stuck to the bar as he pulled his injured hand close and got to his feet, running back to the infield.

Run! he yelled, barking the word out with urgency. Everyone run!

He could see heads turning in his direction. People drinking soda from plastic cups and eating hot dogs and burgers. Some cheered and raised the cups to him.

Run! he screamed louder. A burst of cold rolled over him from behind. His breath burst from his mouth in a plume of white mist. It was as though the harsh Alberta winter had descended from nowhere. The sweat on his back froze into beads of ice, and his skin pebbled with gooseflesh.

Conner saw the blast of cold hit the crowd like a wave. A synchronized gasp seemed to rise from them all, and the haze of condensed breath made a fog.

Something grabbed Conner from behind, and he struggled to free himself. Sharp points sunk into his lower back and his shoulders. His feet lifted from the ground, and finally, the crowd noticed. Screams cut through the confusion. Conner rose higher and higher. It felt like fishhooks had been rooted into his body, then used to raise him up.

Yes, the voice whispered in his ear.

The pressure on the invisible hooks suddenly released, letting him fall. Conner’s body tumbled through the air, end over end, like a discarded rag doll. Amidst the screams of fans and players, he hit the backstop with a crash and collapsed to the ground.

Someone ran to his side, but an unseen force hurled them back into the field.

The screams came from all corners. Conner’s pain was impossible to pinpoint anymore. His arms, his back, his legs. He felt like he had broken several bones and had punctures throughout his body.

A spray of something hot caught him in the face as he tried to roll over and see what was happening. More screams, near and far, filled the air. He wiped the fingers of his good hand across his face and pulled them away, then saw it covered in blood. His body shook with pain and fear, and anger. He had been too slow with his warning. If he hadn’t been so slow…

Something crashed into the backstop above him, and he flinched, instinctively covering his face as a body fell on top of him. Conner pushed away painfully and slowly, looking at the crumpled form next to him in the dirt. The head was twisted around so far that Conner couldn’t see the face. He could only identify him by the number on his jersey.

Jesus, Danny… he muttered, unable to hold back tears.

Chaos had overtaken the tailgate party. Bodies peppered the field and the grass behind the backstop. Conner watched as the Whisper Lake coach struggled, held aloft in thin air by invisible hands, struggling to free his own neck from whatever was choking the life from him. Even through the screams, he heard the snap of the man’s neck before the body hit the ground.

People fell by the dozen, near and far. But Conner could see nothing. There were no attackers, no weapons. No words were even spoken. There was only the cold.

It was over in minutes.

The screams faded from many, to few, to none. Conner sat against the backstop, shivering against the cold as well as the panic. His left leg was broken, and he couldn’t get to his feet. Even crawling was painful. He could not get away.

His parents had vanished in the crowd, as had his coach. Across the field, next to an SUV with a still smoking grill, he could see Tina Farrow lying lifeless next to a headless man. Conner wanted to scream, but he could not force a sound from between his lips. He was alone, and he was going to die.

Then movement caught his attention, something out of right field. A figure walked slowly in his direction. Beyond it, the body of the right fielder still lay where he had fallen in front of the cemetery fence. The figure limped along, slow and steady. The dead thing he had seen beyond the tombstones.

No, Conner whispered. Please, no.

The skeletal figure continued its journey, almost to the second baseline now. Conner turned his head away, closing his eyes shut.

No, no, no, no, no, he pleaded.

More cold air rushed in a blast against his face, and he turned his head, ready to confront the shambling monstrosity. Only it was gone. There was nothing there any longer. The field was empty. The world was dead. Conner’s breath came in unsteady gasps. He looked around the field, pain searing through his body. The thing was gone. It had vanished without a trace.

He needed to call for help, but the idea made him laugh. Help. What could anyone else help with now? They were all dead. The entire town was dead. He could only hope some had escaped before whatever it was had happened.

But Conner knew there had to be a phone nearby. He could force himself to crawl to one of the bodies; to call the Mounties in Red Earth Creek. They could get some officers there in just minutes. He had to try.

The nearest body was only a few paces away. He rolled onto his side and winced as pain shot up his leg and arm. Using his elbows and his good leg, he dragged himself forward. The wounds in his back pulled and burned. His breathing was labored, and his chest felt like it was being crushed.

What should have taken seconds took long, agonizing minutes. He struggled forward, stopping for long breaks between each minuscule movement. Finally, he was within arm’s reach of the body of an adult male in jeans and a red T-shirt. The man was face-down on the ground, and he couldn’t tell who it was. The back of a bald head was all he had to go on. Maybe Carter Frieson from the gas station, or Trevor Putnam’s dad. It didn’t matter, though.

The body had nothing in its back pockets. Conner gripped the red T-shirt with his good hand to roll it over. The body was heavier than it looked. He pulled with all the strength he had left until it rolled over. The body flopped against his own, and a nearly fleshless, skeletal face grinned at him.

Yesssssss, the dead body said.

Conner screamed and tried to back away, but the thing’s hand gripped his throat tightly. The dead, empty eyes seemed to be staring into him.

Something else moved then, just at the periphery of Conner’s vision. First there was one, then many. Bodies, some long dead and decayed, others still fresh, walked towards him. And in the middle of them all was a thing wrapped in shadows, like darkness on darkness. He heard it speak words that made no sense, from a language he had never heard before, and his vision rolled over black as his final breath caught in his throat.

Chapter 1: Homecoming

It wasn’t quite ten in the morning when Shane and Jacinta returned home. She had insisted they stop to rest so she could check over his injuries, and at least patch one or two up as well as she could with supplies from an all-night pharmacy.

After the Iron Tournament had been laid to waste with ethereal fire, he had escaped with his life—barely. Both Guthrie, the head of the tournament, and Lazarus, the ghost behind it all, had escaped, although Guthrie was no longer alive. In the end, Shane had achieved nothing. People had died, spirits were destroyed, and if not for Jacinta, Guthrie would have killed him.

It had been a harrowing couple of days.

Shane had never even heard of the Iron Tournament until a box containing the ghost of a pirate arrived at his door. He’d tracked the address indicated in the card that came with the parcel and found himself participating in a battle-to-the-death competition between the living and the dead. The tournament involved high-stakes fights, with big money gamblers playing with people's lives.

But all of that seemed to be a smokescreen for Lazarus. The ghost harvested souls, taking the energy of those who fell in combat. He somehow used selenium to channel that power into his own form.

They had invited Shane under the guise of wanting him to be a combatant. But in truth, Lazarus had just wanted him dead. Lazarus wanted any human who could destroy ghosts dead. For the ancient spirit, they were all in his way, limiting his access to more power.

The tournament had lied to all of