R.D. Shah - The 4th Secret

To the young lady who stole my heart and the reason this book is so very late.

Charlotte Isabella

My beautiful daughter

That blood-curdling growl echoed down the murky stone-walled corridor once again, as Father Danilo Baziak stumbled upon the soft uneven soil surface beneath him and fell face-first to the mud floor. The sharp pain barely registered as he looked down to see a jagged piece of stone protruding from the earth, which had dug deeply into his thigh. Immediately he scrambled to his feet and forcefully limped onwards even as a feeling of sheer terror engulfed him.

What in Gods name were those things? Human beings or animals? And as for their teeth!

Baziak pushed the horrifying image of them from his mind and focused on the wooden ladder at the end of the passageway, just metres ahead. If he could only make it outside, his jeep was parked within a stones throw. Those damn things might be fast but let them try and outrun a four-litre engine.

Baziak struggled to keep his injured leg moving forward, as the pain from the jab he had received began to stifle his senses, but a distant scuttling sound behind him now encouraged him to step up the pace.

They were getting closer.

Within seconds he had reached the steps and was already pulling himself up them as, somewhere below, the sounds of scuffling grew louder and louder. Reaching the top step, he threw back the trapdoor and pulled himself up onto the cold floor, before slamming the cover back down and locking it shut as, below, that something began to thump heavily against it

The room around him was dark except for a few silver rays of moonlight shining through the two large shattered windows in the wall opposite, exposing the dilapidated interior of a small church. The wooden flooring was peppered with gaping holes through which an assortment of thistles and other weeds had sprung up, and chips of grubby white paint littered the ground like fallen snowflakes encountered on a cold winters night.

Baziak was back on his feet in an instant, and racing over to the Churchs only exit. But, as he reached the door something solid struck the other side of it with such force that the cleric was thrown right back across the room, and slamming hard against some desiccated wood panelling that gave way with a loud crack. As dust and splinters of fractured wood sprinkled all around him, Baziak struggled to focus his thoughts on the cause of the blow though he realised he already knew. The impact had hit him pretty hard and his vision was blurred, but it wasnt what he saw but what he smelt that sent a fresh wave of fear coursing throughout his body. A blend of rotting flesh and pungent chemicals assaulted his nose like smelling salts, and out from the now open entrance doorway something moved. Something fast. Something big.

A bulky shadow swept across the wall and then came to a halt within inches of the strip of moonlight separating them. Baziak could feel his breathing quicken uncontrollably as his eyes tried to focus. He couldnt yet get a clear image; the force of the impact and the dust in his eyes having seen to that, but he didnt need one for he knew what was there. That swaying shadowy outline was now joined by two others and the reflective glint from their teeth betrayed the true height of these things.

Father Baziak shakily got to his feet, but his wounded thigh immediately gave way and he crumpled back onto the floor with a thud. The heaving silhouettes began to encircle him whilst all the time staying just out of the moonlight, and expelling a series of scratchy low-level grunts. Baziak felt a stream of warm liquid trickle down inside his trouser leg as he lost control of his bladder, but the humiliating sensation seemed to bring some clarity to the priests thoughts and he felt a sliver of strength return to his muscles. He immediately latched onto this resurgence and then closed both his eyes and pressed his hands together in prayer. Oh, my Lord, give me the strength to do your will and endure this evil He was only halfway through uttering his prayer when a warm and fetid breath brushed his cheek, the putrid and offensive smell of it now overpowering.

I have a message for your masters, a voice whispered, in a deep and husky tone, as the priest continued to mutter prayers, his eyes still tightly shut. And dont bother wasting your breath as it wont do you any good here, priest, the voice then hissed angrily. Your soul now belongs to me.

And welcome back to The Midnight Hour, where were talking to the renowned archaeologist and Cambridge professor Alex Harker about the success hes enjoyed during the past year, and to try and dig a little deeper into his personal method for success.

Alex Harker sat back deeper into his chair and forced a smile at this wholly unremarkable pun, with only one thought occupying his mind: What the hell was he doing here on a late night show that catered to a mixture of drunken college students and the unemployable, even if it was being filmed during the afternoon. Just off stage, the keen-looking and wide-eyed expression of Dean Thomas Lercher or Doggie to his friends instantly reminded him.

While being persuaded to participate, Harker was told: Look, I know this shows not your usual kind of thing but its youth demographic is off the chart, and thats who we primarily want to attract to Cambridge University; the best young minds of tomorrow. The head dean of archaeology had continued. Besides there is no such thing as bad publicity, so do this one for me would you?

Since Harkers recent discovery of the still-surviving Knights Templar, along with their sworn enemies, the secretive religious sect known as the Magi, he had been working hard to keep Doggie appeased. Even though the archaeology dean had learned only a fraction of the Secrets Harker himself had uncovered, keeping him off the subject of the relics they had both discovered had proved a considerable challenge. Harker had been forced to mollify the older man by agreeing to any piece of promotional activity that was asked of him and that had unfortunately included a toe-curling interview with none other than this star of late-night talk-show cheese, Vinnie McWhicker. Aggressive, unashamedly coarse and frankly just plain offensive, McWhicker had garnered a reputation for his on-air rants, most of which subsequently ended up littering the next days tabloids. From people with a fetish for plastic surgery to proponents of gay marriage, Vinnie hated them equally. That it was such a widely watched programme astounded Harker, but to his mind it probably had something to do with the majority of its audience at home on a Friday night being fairly drunk and killing off their last half hour of consciousness with this outrageous weekly spectacle of depravity. To be fair, the host had been taking it quite easy on Harker so far but that was probably more to do with the last guest a prized poodle who could fart on command that had taken a chunk out of Vinnies hand when the hosts wandering finger had got rather too close to the offending orifice and less to do with any respect the man might feel for Harker. With his greasy-quiff haircut, a bandage wrapped around his bitten digit and a truly revolting diamond-cut yellow blazer, McWhicker was rightly at the top of his game in the world of late-night sleaze, and Harker was just praying that he could get through this with as much of his dignity intact as possible.