The Tomb

F. Paul Wilson

Contents (120)

Acknowledgements
Chapter One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
Chapter Two
1
Chapter Three
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
Chapter Four
1
Chapter Five
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Chapter Six
1
Chapter Seven
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
Chapter Eight
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
Chapter Nine
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34

The Tomb

F. Paul Wilson

to my own Vickies: Jennifer and Meggan

Acknowledgements

Knowingly and unknowingly, the following individuals have aided me in ways large and small during the course of writing this book: Betsy Bang and Molly Garrett Bang (The Demons of Rajpur), Richard Collier (The Great Indian Rebellion), Larry Collins and Dominique LaPierre (Freedom at Midnight), Harlan Ellison (with the last line of “Crotoan”), Ken Follett, L. Neil Smith, Steven Spruill, Al Zuckerman, and, most of all, the old-time tellers of Weird Menace/Yellow Peril tales.

Chapter One

manhattan

thursday, august 2, 198-

1

Repairman Jack awoke with light in his eyes, white noise in his ears, and an ache in his back.

He had fallen asleep on the couch in the spare bedroom where he kept his Betamax and projection tv. He turned his head toward the set. A nervous tweed pattern buzzed around on the six-foot screen while the air conditioner in the right half of the double window beside it worked full blast to keep the room at seventy.

He got to his feet with a groan and shut off the tv projector. The hiss of white noise stopped. He leaned over and touched his toes, then straightened and rotated his lower spine. His back was killing him. That couch was made for sitting, not sleeping.

He stepped to the Betamax and ejected the tape. He had fallen asleep during the closing credits of the 1931 Frankenstein, part one of Repairman Jack’s Unofficial James Whale Festival.

Poor Henry Frankenstein, he thought, slipping the cassette into its box. Despite all evidence to the contrary, despite what everyone around him thought, Henry had been sure he was sane.

Jack located the proper slot in the cassette rack on the wall, shoved Frankenstein in, and pulled out its neighbor: The Bride of Frankenstein, part two of his private James Whale Festival.

A glance out the window revealed the usual vista of sandy shore, still blue ocean, and supine sunbathers. He was tired of the view. Especially since some of the bricks had started showing through. It had been three years since he’d had the scene painted on the blank wall facing the windows of this and the other bedroom. Long enough. The beach scene no longer interested him. Perhaps a rain forest mural would be better. With lots of birds and reptiles and animals hiding in the foliage. Yes… a rain forest. He filed the thought away. He’d have to keep an eye out for someone who could do the job justice.

The phone began ringing in the front room. Who could that be? He’d changed his number a couple of months ago. Only a few people had it. He didn’t bother to lift the receiver. The answerphone would take care of that. He heard a click, heard his own voice start his standard salutation: