The Warlord

The scalding sand burned across the rock with preternatural malice, the vicious wind transforming life into dust within minutes, and yet… even this might be preferable to the madness found within the depths of the Crypt.

The Warlord, with a spot check of equipment, reaffirmed his existence. Gripping his sword he prepared himself for the advance into the next, and hopefully not the last, chamber.

The weight of the steel was comforting. It pulled on a mysterious inner strength that could be poured into the blade. The times when he allowed this the weapon sang in his hands and could almost cut through stone. The same could be said for most of his equipment. It was as if he could call upon an items hidden trait and put it to its best use. And, as he was fast learning, this ability might extend beyond his weapons.

There was a movement-he saw sand slide by the side of a block, become motionless.

He rumbled in his throat.

“Not so sneaky as you suppose.”

But the monster was sneaky, very sneaky indeed.

Crouched on the top of the block, it fell on the Warlord from behind and above: well in his blind spot. But the gods were not yet interested in his death...Yet.

Somehow a hand found the creature’s throat at the last moment and his blade found other vulnerable areas. There was a struggle and all was still.

The Warlord looked at his thigh where a small patch of red blossomed. He hadn’t had time to feel it.

The vermilion sand beneath his boots was vivid and tactile, as was the new pain in his leg and still the way out lay somewhere ahead.

It would not come to him.

The Spellmancer

The sultry chamber was filled with the heavy scent of frankincense. Amidst the drifting smoke, a spell formed on delicate lips. The speaker’s exquisitely manicured nails, festooned with colorful arcane symbols enclosed within tiny pentagrams, moved with uncommon grace. Deep in the sweet darkness the shadows shifted and roiled, crying out for a touch of her eyes.

With a whisper of power a Magnificent Defender sparkled into view, illuminating the space with magical light. The shield shimmered in a see thru golden half-dome, shifting as her eyes shifted; a strong humming sound filled the room with each movement.

A tiny voice came from a moon-shaped earring, “You should have listened to your grandmother!” The dangling jewelry was another piece of her new-self she had found upon awakening…here. The earring was as real as the mist that contorted about her nude body. At her side rested a pouch of magical tools and spells. Its leather covered with magic symbols matched those on her nails.

The Spellmancer shoved the shield here and there using its light to see into the shadows.

“I did, but…my mom -that witch- said Gran was just telling ghost stories!”

She could feel the tiny face smile.

“Careful now, you sound like you’re starting to believe...” The earring’s voice carried an irritating tone of confidence and deep understanding.

“Well, if you could please take a moment out of your busy schedule to explain what’s going on, I might believe. It’s like I’m lost in some kind of demented carnival maze designed in Hell or something!”

The Spellmancer rethought this; she could feel the power she had just released. And that was no simple transportation spell that brought her here hours-or was it days-ago. And this was no carnival maze.

“Just like you were warned…” The earring sounded bored, as if it had explained this many times. “It’s your turn to pay for the crimes of your ancestors. You must find a way out of the Crypt and the surreal dominions!”

The Spellmancer stomped a delicate foot.

“But...I’m a Cosmetologist!”

“Search for the key...” whispered the tiny, voice. “Search for the Key.”

The Undertaker

Light poured from the ever-burning torches in a flickering shower of warmth; bathing the chamber in a supernatural glow. Amidst the ancient hieroglyphs was depicted a scene of paradise. In the center of the chamber rest a massive sarcophagus; its lid upraised and waiting for an occupant.

It was quiet, and for now, safe.

Alan rested. This chamber, unlike so many others, had no apparent danger. It was almost serene and pleasant.

The Undertaker checked his backpack and marveled at his mechanical arm. It was amazing to actually feel with the pseudo mechanical extremity. After rummaging through the pack, and finding nothing of particular use, he caught sight of something in the shadows.

Within moments a glistening Key rested in his metallic palm. It shone with the promise of freedom as the artificial hand closed with a tiny whirring sound.

Now to find the way out!

The Undertaker turned to face one of the exits from the chamber. It was blocked by a wall of shadow that would only yield if he strode boldly through it; hopefully into a way out of the cursed Crypt.

His body ached from a dozen small wounds, his legs almost giving way as he stood. With dragging footsteps, the Undertaker faced the shadow and stepped through …into chaos!

Like a waterfall rocks poured from the ceiling, as if each stone sought desperately to please whatever gods ruled this place and snuff out his life: unfortunately for them they never got the chance. Amidst the death, a gigantic cobra reared up and spat in his face. Through tears and pain the world went dark, his last breath choked with sand and loss, his last tortured thoughts about… the Key.

All was white, and then…

With a surprising jolt the familiar scene of paradise greeted Alan anew as he opened his painless eyes; the scent of frankincense nourished his soul with each breath.

He breathed for a moment, selfishly, deliciously.

Alan’s thoughts soon cleared I’m alive! But something was different, there was a task he had to do, something he was responsible for…

Yes!

The mummy felt ancient and invulnerable as it crawled from the sarcophagus in search of those who had dared to enter his new home. In the distance he could feel the life-force of the others, it was...sacrilege! Soon all of them would join him in an eternal vigil over this place…forever.

The Avenger

In the short minutes since her arrival Elisabeth accepted all of this was real, and now the thought that it might not be, was simply a nice diversion. In her mind’s eye she could still see the office: with all its cubicles and prairie-dogging co-workers frozen in mid-motion. But when she refocused her attention, there was no escaping it; she was here…and there.

A small scorpion scuttled toward her boot. Ordinarily she’d have run screaming, but as it neared Elisabeth had to resist the urge to not only stomp on the poor thing, but to smear it into utter oblivion. The feelings made her shiver.

The Avenger brushed her hands together in an effort to remove some of the rust ground into her palms. The echoes of the fight, the jarring in her arm, was familiar and yet completely alien. It was like watching herself in a Kung-fu film.

Elisabeth tightened her hands together and pressed; her arms bulged like a bodybuilder. She admired her silhouette: with a body like this she could be a pro-wrestler.

“Jah, look at me now baby!” She announced to her shadow with a pose.

And quite unexpectedly, the shadow responded by slowly drawing a weapon: its outline flickering in the torchlight.

Elisabeth’s jaw dropped.

“You’re the one responsible.” The thin voice was nearly swallowed by the hungry darkness. “You’re the one who will pay!”

Without a thought the Avenger’s hand found the hilt of a weapon. However, in the flickering torchlight, the shadow’s blade shifted. At the last instant, she changed her mind, calling upon the Tome of Benediction.

A ghostly book appeared with a splash of blue and red light and released a lesser protective spell in the form of a white radiance.

The light pressed the shadow back into oblivion.

From the next room came the sound of fighting, the view of the battle blocked by a blackness: the song of crashing blades pulled at her heart; with a light spring in her step the Avenger charged through the entryway.

“Now this was living.”

The Magician

The Magician concentrated as a handful of roiling, multicolored smoke trailed from his finger tips. Within a few moments the genii-like creature materialized. The Magician looked up…it was big!

The creation’s voice rumbled like a cave-in. “I am Din and I shall protect thee Master. While I live none shall set hands on thee, and thou shalt not suffer.”

The creature bowed to the floor, its horns scraping up the warm sand when it arose to take a guard position before him. The thing’s gigantic breathing had a reptilian sound as if the creature were part dragon.

“If you perish lord, feel free to dominate me,” said Din indifferently. “I will make a good vessel for your greatness: and through me you may smite thine enemies.”

The Magician stopped in his tracks. “What are you talking about?”

“Possession milord,’ lisped the draconian voice. “If, and when, you fall, your soul shall waiver momentarily. It is at this juncture that the gods have granted thee a choice. Thou may possess one of thine minions or thou may possess one of the denizens in the Crypt.” Din made movement toward the door amidst the whirling thoughts of the Magician. “Possession.”

The Engineer

Kate blinked as two worlds began to collide in her vision. “Here we go again,” she thought, as this world smeared into another. It was perhaps the sixth time she had been drawn into this delusion in the past month. Her therapist had said it was caused by a “Deep seated escapist fantasy brought upon by Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.” This was very odd indeed because she was about as adventuress as an under-worked librarian, and far less fatigued.

In addition, up until now, she had broken into a nervous sweat when simply asked about what type of espresso she would like: so much for therapy.

The most annoying aspect of all this was the general impolite timing of the events, not to mention the disconcerting feeling of an occasional sudden death. One moment she would be happily chatting with a co-worker about some inane and very boring detail, and the next instant she had a monster attempting to rip out her throat, without so much as a, “How do you do? I shall be your attacker this evening.”

And then, once finished with the insane session, she would find herself in exactly the very instant she had left.

It made it difficult to remember what topic she had been on.

For the most part she had begun to keep notes.

Fortunately the time between this session and the previous one had given her an opportunity to do a little research. The constant, and if she might add-annoyingly superior, voices in the Crypt mentioned she was, “Paying for her ancestor’s crimes.” A very popular theme for these sorts of delusions she was sure.

Armed with this and a little simple research, well not so simple; the family records were hidden in a basement; without steps and a warning sign about toxic waste. It was there she stumbled upon an old diary.

In a terrible script, and even worse dramatic flow, was a spotty account of a great aunt (or some such relation on her mother’s side) that had spent a great deal of time in Egypt. The diary depicted lurid accounts that Kate took for pure fiction: stories of monsters, narrow escapes and treasure…always the treasure.

Treasure stolen from the Crypts, a debt she was now repaying. The diary held rough sketches of some of the items. And Kate believed that if she could find all of the treasure her aunt had liberated, perhaps she could break the Curse. It was either that or get used to a life split between two worlds.

With resolution, she accepted this, the latest transition, cradling a Plasma Blaster in her arms where she had previously held a half-full coffee cup.

After a quick note about her conversation, the Engineer checked to make sure the weapon was charged; the green light reassured her as she moved off with a purpose. She had a life to get back to and maybe a way out of this dual existence forever.

The Warlord vs. The Spellmancer

The Spellmancer’s shield shattered when the trap slammed against it. It was all that saved her from the glistening spikes. At the far end of the chamber stood the Warlord, his armor having blunted the damage from the trap he had faced as well.

This chamber was a mad maze of ramps and walkways interconnected by catwalks; all of it trap-filled or very near to collapsing. Clinging to life within this room, they faced off: magic verses weapons.

The Spellmancer chose a Prometheus Sphere; the flaming spell came free of her bag leaving a fiery trail. With a flick of will the attack seared the distance between them. The Warlord was too fast: he dodged and leapt to the platform she occupied. Death-dealing in his eyes: his poisoned sword struck toward her heart.

“He’s got you,” said the tiny voice in her ear.

“Not by a long shot,” spat back the Spellmancer, as she neatly disarmed the Warlord. To his astonishment, his weapon clattered to the chamber floor far below.

The pair battled, crossing dangerous spaces without hesitation. Moving from room to room, they both sought to end the other’s life while searching for a way out of the Crypt. And in the darkness the newly awakened mummy dogged their every step.

Nothing to loose but time

The Magician rolled the word possession around in his mind. He had heard about it: seen the Exorcist. Nonetheless, he had never thought about it as possible. However, lately Charles David, or C.D. as he preferred to be called, had redefined his thoughts of what was possible.

His first trip lasted only a few minutes. It ended with a splash of light and his reappearing back in his cell. For a while, he thought it was just a weird flashback or something in the stuff he got the night before as pay for the hit on Cherrino.

After the third time, he began to look forward to it.

Of course C.D. told no one what he was going through. Someone would stick him for sure if they thought he was wacko. He was short and looking forward to a real vacation on the outside and not just a vacation in his head. Until then this would have to do. He had nothing to loose but time and just three little weeks left till payday, and vacation!

In the bag at his hip, the Magician felt the key. This time it was one of the first things to appear in the Crypt and one of the last things he intended to use; for every moment he was in the surreal dominions was another moment of freedom.

Din’s monstrous breathing dominated the chamber. C.D. tried to match it and found he did not have the capacity. The Magician watched the massive chest expand like a bellows, folds within folds. His mind raced along obscure paths; memories, he was sure were not his own, instructing him. As he meditated, C.D. was learning.

His special powers seemed to be at they’re limit. The spells and traits floated in a soup just on the edge of his awareness; solidifying only at the touch of his will. Once more his finger again brushed the Key. In his minds eye, he could see the Exit Chamber, just off to the left. The peaceful door set in the stone would seem so inviting to someone else.

Not so inviting when it lead back to a cold hard cell.

Din directed a glance at his master. He knew it was a foolish chance but Din took it anyway. Every creature summoned knew the inner feelings of the caller. In this master’s heart lie nothing but blackness and a hunger for satisfaction; a satisfaction that came only from watching the suffering of others. Unlike many before him, this Magician wore his feelings like a garment of office. He was as much a part of the Curse as he was subject to it.

The Magician took a moment to view his new surroundings, his vision catching more than it normally should. Blood dripped from the walls of the many tunnels cut into the room. Tiny drips sizzling as they met the edges of the dimensional portals at their ends.

He relaxed somewhat as he recognized the chamber, “The Crypt of Bloody Passages.”

Din’s agreement snort sounded like a miniature hurricane. “From here we can see all of thine enemies.” The creature’s hooves scraped across the floor; the sand sounded muted and moist against the blood-soaked stone.

At the end of the short passage, within the portal, the pair could make out the Spellmancer and the Warlord fighting in the Chamber of Traps. In another portal, the Magician saw the Undertaker-turned mummy- as he stalked his way through the crypt.

C.D. knew it would hurt, but he could throw any attack through one of the portals. What a surprise that would be, but for now it was better to just watch and breathe the free air. What I wouldn’t do for a smoke.

He looked at another of the portals. The sight chilled him. It was the Engineer and she was in the Exit Chamber with the Key in hand! His heart collapsed as the Magician watched the Exit open its light spilling out and splashing away his freedom.

In the dark, C.D. snapped back into his cell the stinking thin mattress beneath him; his heart slamming in his chest. He shifted and his cellmate groaned a vague objection, as C.D.’s mind wrapped around this latest episode. When will it call again? He thought in the darkness, When?

Jumpstart

The Avenger was practicing with her sword, calming her mind and listening to the sounds of the Crypt, just as the light splashed her back into the real world.

Elisabeth stiffened at the keyboard, thankful that no one was around. Without thinking, she exhaled and said, “That was weird!” Not as weird as the first few times, but weird nonetheless, the sensations tingled around in her memory. She looked up at the clock and saw that hardly a second had passed. She exhaled again and took a sip of her coffee; it was still hot.

This must be what it is like to go crazy, thought Elisabeth bleakly. You just slip back and forth between worlds until you did not know which one you are in!

Well not this girl, thought Elisabeth firmly, people only lock you up of you talk about stuff or start acting weird. Elisabeth dove back into her work determined to enjoy both worlds for as long as she could.

On the bus ride after work, her thoughts drifted to the shadow voices from the Crypt. They had whispered repeatedly, a taunting verse that was just for her.

“Your Blood leads down history,” And another, “Golden Bast longs for home.” These two verses stood out from the rest of the taunts, there was no trace of sarcasm only revered truth.

While she rolled these thoughts around, her mind found its way to the sword fighting, suddenly the memory of the bone jarring echoed in her arms. Unbidden an entire sword routine came to mind as clear and sharp as a cheer. The movements deeply etched in her. She recalled a particular twist and step, with a turn of the wrist and the placement of the tip of the blade. She had never done it in her life, but she felt that she could now. Unthinking she found herself making the motions with her arm.

As, she stepped from the bus; Elisabeth’s eyes fell on the martial arts studio on the corner, right next to her favorite Thai place. It was just after 5:30 and the large windows were free of fog a sure sign that practice had yet to begin. Elisabeth opened the door, noted the place smelled terrible, and called out, “Hello!”

A middle-aged man stepped from behind a series of screens, covered by medals and certificates. He was in good shape and in a uniform with a black belt; he looked every inch the instructor.

“Yes miss…” he broke off, hesitating.

“Oh yes?” She was suddenly temped to leave.

Before she could turn, he asked helpfully; “Would you like to use the phone?”

Elisabeth’s eyes glanced around the room and fell on a pair of wooden swords mounted on the wall amidst other weapons: on impulse, she pointed.

“Do you teach people to use those?”

The instructor eyed the swords and his expression turned to one of appraisal. She could read his thoughts; she looked more like an out-of-shape cheerleader than a karate girl. Elisabeth dropped her bag and in three steps had the weapon off the wall. It seemed heavier than she remembered but the balance was the same.

“Whoa!” Said the instructor, “Please be careful miss…”

“Liz,” She said flatly, the blade moved smoothly in the air.

“My name’s Steve,” he extended his hand, “nice to meet you.”

Liz fought back the urge to smack the hand away with the blade; instead, she smiled and stepped back a pace: kicking off her shoes, “Nice to meet you Steve.”

The invitation was unmistakable: he refused it.

“Not like that,” he said sharply, his tone carried all the formality of an instructor, his expression one of caution and concern. He stepped over to a box of equipment and collected headgear, vest, and assorted pads.

Liz plopped down on the mat; ignoring the fact that she was wearing a skirt and began to wrestle with the equipment.

“Why are you doing this?” Steve asked.

She could hear the concern in his voice; he was expecting an abuse story.

“I’ve been dreaming that I can sword fight,” she lied quickly, “I just want to see what it is really like.”

Steve’s expression said he could read the lie but took for what it was: a reason; not an excuse, Steve did not believe in excuses. There were only reasons that people simply refused to believe. When the girl struggled into the leg braces, Steve snuck a peek, and smiled.

Liz was first on her feet, her dance training mixing in with the new memories. She adjusted her helmet to fit so she could see clearly: it all seemed too familiar.

Steve rolled to his feet in one single smooth motion. He took several swings with his sword. The air swishing around them was frightening. Cautiously he approached her.

“Now take it easy…”

Liz was suddenly shocked at how much she could read in his movements. There were subtle imperfections in balance, and a miniscule mis-position of his wrists. It was all so clear: as if, he were shouting it at her. Liz tested her feelings: she used a miniscule shift in her wrist and cutting angle, to which Steve adjusted-just slightly wrong; unable to resist she snapped the tip of the blade out and lightly touched the three time world champion’s throat.

Three more tries…three more perfect strikes.

Steve was now smiling like a Japanese lantern.

By the end of the evening, Liz had never felt so alive. Carting a new wooden sword, a gift from Steve for never letting him beat her, the last few blocks slid by as she made her way home and into a new part of her life. Walking the dark streets home she found herself almost hoping she might get jumped. Now I’m the thing in the shadows to be afraid of!

Tis the season…

Ian pressed on, his hands sore and his head about to burst from sinus pressure. Finally, the last scoop was delicious as he stretched his back and wiped the final bits of snow from the walkway. One last look at the lights and he stomped his way back into the house and comfort.

It was a good life… except for the Curse.

The Curse was why he lived alone.

The Curse was why he was cooking dinner for his family and hosting a party for the other families rather than one for his own.

It began after his great grandmother passed on in the asylum. In her will, she left a note, seemingly to any and everyone in the family. At the time, it made no sense. Ian now had a copy and poured over it constantly.

“I am sorry that I have failed you. Answers sought have remained covered in sand and blood. To you that find the Crypt, continue the search for freedom. I can leave you only this bit of certainty. This is the last magic left in the world and therefore the strongest, for all other magic’s have joined with the curse in an effort to preserve itself. It is a torment for our family, and others, but it is as precious as the Earth itself. Free us but do not destroy. We know for certain that the Pharaoh’s Curse can be broken; others have done it, those of the Cursed Alumni known as Ingratis.”

Ian obtained a copy of the letter after the first visit to the Crypt as the Warlord. From that one episode on it became clear what his great grandmother was doing in an asylum. The realization sent a chill across his existence. “I am sorry that I have failed you. Answers sought have remained covered in sand and blood” She never discovered anything more?

That was when he started to live life like someone under a curse, which seemed natural, as this was his current situation and as soon as it became convenient, he was determined to live as normal as possible, especially after the last episode and the “Death.”

The Valley of the Kings

The great river flowed out of the nothingness that bordered the surreal dominion. Shining in the sunlight, it drifted past one of the five massive portals’ that connected this desert realm with all the others. Any who crossed through this, or the other portals, would be transported to one of the nine other dominions: the catch was it was never the same dominion twice. This makes any type of economy between the regions impossible; however, it also prevents all out war.

It was this very situation that was on the mind of Bhurma’tet, the leader of all Cairo, as he watched the river glide away beneath his balcony. Its endless wealth, coveted by every other dominion, was simply passing by for any to freely take.

Bhurma’tet knew that outside his dominion even the richest would not purchase water needlessly; less there simply not be enough for everyone around them to survive. The thirst, a feeling so familiar to everyone throughout this cursed realm, was almost completely unknown to even the poorest in his surreal dominion, and that was a reason for war. If any dominion could map the portals then there would be an avenue for an attack, or at least trade. In the current situation a caravan cannot travel between the dominions and reliably end up where they wish to be; more often than not, they will cross into the Burning Wastes, and be accosted by brigands never to be seen again.

Bhurma’tet glanced at his reflection in the polished brass mirror, behind him he could make out the pyramids and his city state flowing out around them. His dark eyes sought out his own appearance; he could see his fathers features grow more prominent as he aged. At forty nine, the pharaoh still felt strong and capable: every inch the leader that his father was at his age and more. There was the magic!

The city-state below thrived as it had during his grandfather’s time and was growing steadily. The marketplaces were filled with a climate of prosperity brought about by the abundance of water. Every other dominion coveted their good fortune especially the driest dominion: the Dunes of Loss, and the City-state of Anu.

Since before his great-great grandfathers time, the Ra-men had been at war with the Anubians-the worshipers of the sun versus those of the god of death, sand against water. Generally, it was small assassin teams deployed to strike at key targets and return safely. But, if the pathways between the portals were to be solidified, then all of this prosperity could come to an end beneath the blade of the Anubians; if not the entire combined might of the surreal dominions.

The breeze carried the scent of the hanging gardens mixed with the sounds of the streets below, filled with artists, poets and gentle folk, all of them ill prepared for a war with Anu.

And that was the whole point, the portals and war. The only way the pathway through the portals would be solidified was if one of the Cursed were to pass, or be passed, through it. Then the portal will remain fixed to the other surreal dominion for the duration of the cursed ones visit.

Drawn into the realms by the same mystical forces that govern the daily lives of all those who dwell here, since time immemorial the cursed have appeared in the dominions: plundering through crypts in search of the Keys that will win them freedom. Apparently, when any one of the Cursed finds the key, and manages to escape, they all vanish wherever they happen to be.

Bhurma’tet took a deep breath and sighed, this morning his spies informed him of rumors that one of the cursed was asking questions and purchasing spells in the marketplace. Fortunately the Ra-men were a friendly people and often welcomed strangers into their midst. In Cairo, people could have all the water they needed and “from water flows all things.” So it was understandable that it was here that the cursed often took sanctuary from the trials of the Crypts.

The Spellmancer pharaoh looked down into the crowded streets. With one of the cursed in the dominions, word would spread quickly; soon everyone, from the lowliest beggar in the sewers-to the leader of Anu, would be looking for them. And then there would be war.

Perhaps this time, he would break with tradition, contact the cursed ones, and explain to them that together they would stand a better chance; than by forever battling amongst themselves and the crypt.

Intercession

Alan’s bike rolled toward the crosswalk as the stolen car roared toward the intersection. The light went yellow and the driver pressed the accelerator to the floor. At the last instant, Alan checked and managed to break. The car squealed passed narrowly missing his front tire. Alan exhaled slowly mumbling. “That was close.” The rest of the trip was uneventful the end punctuated by a message on his door step. “Enter and press any key.” Read the clean type face. Alan pushed on his door and was surprised when it swung open. Someone deactivated my alarm!

The coffee table had been moved and an ultra thin laptop with miniature umbrella like antenna rested in its center. The note was repeated and taped to the keyboard. He pressed the space bar and screen came alive. A message in red type appeared on the monitor, “Wait one moment connecting….”

The screen filled with a vaguely familiar face; the micro camera on the top of the computer suddenly moved, focusing with a tiny whirr. A voice came from the speakers, “You are alone?” The accent was vaguely German, the camera panned around the room.

Alan was both surprised and delighted, “I am! What it this about? Who are you?”

I am a member of an Alumni of those cursed such as yourself, and I contact you now with a warning. You, and this latest generation of the cursed, will soon become targets for the curse while you are out of the Crypt as well as within.”

Alan’s mouth was open, and the man on the other end of the connection chuckled. “I guess we have found the right person after all.”

“But..I mean…” Alan could not stop the smile that stretched across his face. Until he recalled, targets of the curse while out of the crypt.

Alan sat down in front of the laptop, “What do you mean targets?”

The gentleman sat back in his chair and touched fingertips. “Monsters, to put into a word my boy. Monsters!” The gentlemen shifted close to the camera, his face covering the screen. “They will begin appearing soon and will attract great attention. They come just after you exit from a call; we believe in response to exiting with the Key. I would like offer you an invitation to visit the Alumni where you, and any others we can locate, can be protected or at the very least out of the public eye, when the curse does come crawling into your real life.” The old man pulled back and smiled, “Whether you like it or not, you are part of a distinguished line of adventurers whose exploits were thought to only be the stuff of legends. We are also of the same bloodlines, and we can help you understand, survive and eventually be free of the curse.”

Alan sat back and exhaled slowly, “But I don’t even have a passport.”

“Look beneath the laptop, you will find airline tickets, some cash and a passport. Please accept our invitation Mr. Clark.”

“Do I have time to think about it?”

“Do you know when the next time you will be called to the Crypt?”

Alan shook his head. “No.”

“Then perhaps you have less time than you might think.”

Alan shifted to the front of the couch and said, “Who are you? You look familiar.

“I was known as Albert Einstein, but that was during the last century, before my death, now I am known as Dr. Goldmen.”