The Jar of Nephren-Ka

What Lies Beneath

Quitman, Georgia: 11:17 PM, Sunday, June 10th, 1984

Back in the room, I began examining the floors and walls as quietly as possible. I moved chairs and tables off the rugs, setting them as quietly as possible to the side, then checking under the rugs. Finding nothing, I placed the furniture back in the same spots, using the divots in the rugs as guides.

I removed each painting from the walls, examining the wall behind them and finding nothing. I moved over to the fireplace, and went to check the mirror when I stopped cold. The details in the brass frame were much clearer from this distance, and they were strange and disturbing.

The frame appeared to be several snake tails, complete with individually carved scales, interwoven in a pattern that resembled the Celtic carvings back in Kayrevla. At the top of the mirror, the tails merged into several snake heads, each with open mouths accepting one of the tails. The frame was effectively several Ouroboros; mythical snakes eating their own tails.

The mirror surface seemed strange to me as well, and it took me a moment to figure out why: It was steel, not glass, and had a slight waviness that distorted things a bit. It made me look a bit smaller and less substantial than I was, and strangely, I felt a little less strong.

Shaking my head to clear it of this nonsense, I stepped forward. I grabbed hold of the mirror and attempted to pull it from the wall, but it wouldn't budge. I considered pulling hard, pretty sure I could tear it from the wall, but I didn't want to break anything. Maybe it detached with a twist?

I twisted counter-clockwise, but nothing moved. I tried clockwise, and nearly fell over when the mirror smoothly rotated forty-five degrees around the center, emitting a mechanical snap when it reached the end of its travel.

As it did, the left stone surround of the fireplace swung out with a quiet pop, the two inch thick fascia breaking away from the rest of the column along one smooth line.

A priest hole. Probably the last thing I expected in a mansion in Georgia, but that had to be what it was.

I heard some movement, furtive but heavy footfalls, coming from behind the secret door. I settled out of sight on the other side of the door.

A few moments later, the door opened, and the tall man stepped out, his back to me. Up close, he was even taller than I expected, easily over seven feet and possibly as much as a foot taller than me. He was also more substantial than I thought, his incredible height making his bulk deceptive.

I stepped forward and swung my pistol, handle first, at the base of his skull. There was a soft thud as I connected, and the shock traveled down my arm like a tuning fork. The tall man went limp and dropped to the floor like a sack of flour. I sprang forward and wrapped both arms around him, just catching him before he hit the floor.

The guy must have weighed nearly as much as I did, and manhandling him, limp as he was, was a struggle. I eased him down as gently as I could, but there were still a couple of thumps as he contacted the floor.

The back of his head was swelling badly and bleeding a little from a minor laceration. I checked his breathing, which was steady, and left him on the floor, face down, in case he started projectile vomiting from the concussion.

I heard a noise from the priest hole and spun around. There was no one there, but now that the door was open, I could see down into the hole. It was a staircase, about a foot and a half wide, spiraling down into the darkness. I heard a voice, possibly singing or praying, coming up from below.

I squeezed myself into the staircase, my fatigue jacket scrubbing against the stone of the walls. I went down the stairs sideways, flattening myself and side-stepping down.