The Green Door

  The Green Door

  The Eternal Artifacts Book One

  Heather Kindt

  Copyright © 2020 by Heather Kindt

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * This book contains adult content that might not be suitable for children under 16.

  Created with Vellum

  To Ryan and Bailey, my never ending source of inspiration.

  Join Me

  I invite you to join me on this fantastical writing journey. Get news and released chapters before anyone else. You can also pick up my free novella. See the back of the book for details.

  Prologue

  The Green Door

  The Recruitment

  The curved stone staircase disappeared into the darkness below the crypt. In the evening hour, the man glanced over his shoulder again, staring into an empty cemetery—only the spirits to watch out for. A heavy fog weaved in and out of the gravestones creating the perfect scene for any horror movie. With a shudder, he adjusted the hood of his sweatshirt and set his foot on the first crumbling stair.

  With each step, the unforgettable stench of death became an ominous signpost that he should do a one-eighty and leave as quickly as possible. But he had a message to deliver, and it came with a hefty reward.

  Water dripped from the crypt’s ceiling into puddles below, sending an echoed plop through the musty chamber. He reached into the front pocket of his pants and removed his cellphone. He swiped several times at the home screen, finally managing to produce a beam of light from the device. The passageway rounded a corner ahead. Why didn’t we meet at Starbucks or in a back alley or on some bench in Riverfront Park? Most of his illegal deals were in fairly public places. But a cemetery? That was new, and it gave him the creeps.

  He followed the path to the right, making out the faint familiarity of voices ahead. Maybe this deal wouldn’t be so bad. It had only taken him ten minutes to drive to the cemetery, and once he got over his nerves, fifteen minutes to find the courage to make the descent below the earth. What kind of club holds a meeting six-feet under anyhow?

  Since he’d taken this second job, most of his deliveries had been illegal drugs or hit notices. And that’s what he assumed this was when he’d met with the woman in the corner booth of the rundown bar. Another hit. She’d been shady herself—sunglasses covering her eyes in a place so dark he could barely see his hands in front of him, Cubs baseball cap over her hair, and a long knit sweater covering up any other abnormalities on the unusually warm spring day.

  “Deliver this message to the crypt in Walnut Grove tomorrow at midnight.” She pushed a white envelope across the table; her fingernails painted black and pointed. A figure eight composed of arrows sealed the flap.

  He didn’t touch it. “You mean the cemetery? What kind of deal happens at midnight in a frickin’ graveyard?”

  The woman raised an eyebrow and then pushed a second envelope beside the first. “A thousand dollars to deliver this message.”

  A thousand dollars? His other deliveries paid two hundred bucks at the most. He drummed his fingers on the table. It should be a no-brainer, but he still hesitated.

  “If you don’t want the job, I’ll find someone else.” She was impatient. Her hand set on the envelope containing the money.

  “No.” He snatched it from beneath her hand. “I’ll do it.”

  That had been two days ago. Now he stood here, his legs shaking slightly, wondering if it had all been a big mistake. He should be in bed sleeping. He had to be up at six.

  The passageway opened into a room lined with the box-sized metal doors. The final resting places of the deceased. He shuddered. Square corners and the neat lines of marble slabs provided a monument-like atmosphere. Torches blazed beside a high-backed chair in the center of the room. A hooded figure sat on the chair encircled by others dressed in the same garb. Each raised a chalice that they proceeded to down in union. Definitely some kind of weird secret society or club.

  He cleared his throat. “Um, I have a letter to deliver to. . .” he’d forgotten the weird addressee’s name he’d glossed over earlier. He struggled to read the script in the dim light. Why hadn’t he brought his reading glasses? The sooner he got out of this creepy place, the better.

  “Come forward.” The voice came from the figure in the chair. It was the voice of an older man. He remained seated, not even bothering to get up to greet his guest.

  The envelope shook in the deliver’s hands as he stepped closer to the circle of hooded figures. They parted to let him approach the apparent leader. As he drew near to the man in the chair, the others closed in around him.

  He shoved the envelope out in front of him. “Uh, not really sure if this is for you, but if you just take it, I’ll be on my way.”

  There was silence. Then the hooded man let out a sinister sounding chuckle. “In your line of work, you better ensure your delivering to the correct person, or you might find your name on one of these letters.”

  He swallowed and pulled the envelope back to him, leaning towards the light to read the name. “It’s for a man named Mortimer. No last name. Is that you?” Whoever it was must be so well known that he could go by one name and get away with it.

  He held out a hand, revealing his forearm. The same figure eight stamped on the back of the envelope was tattooed on his skin.

  “That symbol must be pretty important to you. Is it your calling card?”

  “No questions,” the man snapped. He grabbed the envelope from his hand and gave a quick nod.

  Strong arms restrained the deliverer from behind. His heart pounded as he squirmed back and forth trying to free himself. “Let go of me.”

  The leader slipped a pointed black fingernail under the flap of the envelope to tear it open. “You know too much.” He removed the paper and unfolded it. “No one can know where we meet or that we even exist.”

  What did that mean? Were they going to kill him?

  The older man handed the letter to the hooded person beside him.

  “She is of age.” A younger female voice read beneath the hood. “Her initiation is to begin.”

  They must be talking about some new recruit.

  “Good…good.” The older man rubbed his hands together, a grin forming on his lips beneath his hood. “Now, with the boy, we’ll finally break the curse. We’ve waited a long time for this.”

  The man behind the deliverer adjusted his grip, his nails digging into his arm, and he wondered if this teenager was destined to a similar fate.

  “Master.” One of the hooded members stepped closer. “What do you want us to do with the messenger?”

  The smile, barely visible in the dim room, appeared again. “Slit his throat and drain his blood into the basin.”

  The man’s heart rate accelerated as he struggled to break free from the stranger’s grip.

  The old man stood and hobbled across the room to a large, wooden door. “And alert me when Miss Covington has initiated the process.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The man bowed as the leader left the room, leaving the deliverer to the fate of the servants.

  1

  I crumpled the sticky note, rolling it back and forth between my thumb and forefinger. Ms. Richards had droned on about the Pythagorean theorem for eight minutes straight before turning to the board to provide the visual evidence of the subject’s incredibly dull nature. It was obvious that most of the class had veered off into the chasm between sleeping and staring helplessly at the clock, so I had to create my own action.

  My
target was in sight, sitting directly between Hannah Swenson and Victor Juarez two rows behind me. His hand was embedded in his brown hair as he leaned on his elbow. Brek’s descent into oblivion made him the perfect target.

  The pink paper sailed through the air, landing perfectly in Brek’s hair before bouncing onto the desk in front of him. He didn’t move—must have been sleeping. Hannah smirked. Reaching into my bag, I removed another weapon. This time it was yellow. I took my pen and scribbled, Her wart looks bigger than yesterday. Maybe she’s taking wart growth hormones. The sticky note sailed over Hannah’s head and hit my target on the nose.

  As he woke from whatever dream had kept him occupied for the past ten minutes, Brek shot me an annoyed look before opening my note. He rolled his eyes and settled his head back on his hand.

  Come on! Can’t you ever have a little fun?

  After class, he met me by my locker as I switched out my geometry gear for my biology books. Using my locker mirror, I checked to see if any of my blonde hair had escaped the two French braids I had woven that morning. A blue streak ran through the one on the right side.

  “You’re getting brazen, Covington.” He leaned against the locker next to mine. His blue eyes sparkled, his tan skin highlighted by his bronze hair. “If Richards ever catches one of those notes you’ve written about her—“

  “I know, I know.” I slammed my locker shut and slung my passenger bag over my shoulder, ready to take on cell mitosis. “She’ll lock me in the janitor closet with the other students she’s killed over the years.” Removing a blue sticky note from my purse, I stopped to scribble a word on it and then slapped it onto his forehead.

  “Dork,” he mumbled before looking at the sticky note where I had scratched the same word.

  “Exactly. Spinners after school?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” He grinned and headed to his next class.

  Brekken Matthews and I had been best friends since fifth grade when he stood up to a couple of bullies who had stolen my Lunchable. He’d always called me Covington because he had actually thought it was my name back then. Our gym teacher in elementary school called me that instead of Meg, and it had stuck with Brek.

  We were from what was considered the wrong side of the tracks—the south side of town. The place the rich kids affectionately called the Dump. And it didn’t help that the actual town dump was located there. Throughout elementary and middle school, we were pretty much segregated from Worthington’s elite, but high school was a different story. With only one high school, there was no escape from the rich and powerful.

  Spinners was on the south side, situated between Betty’s Beauty Salon and a medical marijuana shop. The smell from both permeated the walls, giving it a unique aroma that reminded me of home. When Brek wasn’t running cross-country, he was here with his beat-up guitar.

  The bell above the door rang as I entered the store. The owner Ricky was skimming an inventory list on top of three boxes. He looked up at me through his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Got anything new today?” I hopped onto a stool by the glass counter he used as a place to display the special merchandise: signed albums and rare first editions.

  “Naw…but you still haven’t checked out the Ramones. I swear, Meg, I know they’re old, but you’d love them.” He swung his hefty frame around and lifted a box to a shelf behind a curtain. His salt-and-pepper hair was controlled by a backward Orioles ball cap.

  “Give it to me.” I held out my hand and snapped my fingers. “I’ll put them on before Brek gets here.”

  “I’ll put them on the record player once I finish unloading these boxes.” He removed a rag from his pocket to wipe his brow. “Can you clean the glass?”

  I sighed. I marched to the back of the store and then rummaged through the cabinet in the rundown bathroom for the cleaning supplies. From what I could see in the dirty mirror, my braids were still in place, the ends resting on top of my Nirvana shirt. Was this what my future held? Brek would head off to college in August, and I’d be working at a hole-in-the-wall music shop for minimum wage? With Dad out of work again, it was the only thing that kept ramen noodles on the table.

  The bell on the door announced the arrival of either a customer or Brek a few minutes early. I went to find out. Three teenage boys leafed through the records as I rounded the corner with the rag and cleaning spray. They wore green and white varsity jackets identifying them as members of the football team, ones from Worthington Heights. It was the complete opposite of the Dump, filled with mini-mansions and sports cars. They weren’t supposed to be here. This was not their side of the tracks.

  One of them, a redhead, barked at Ricky, “You got any Kayne?” He removed one of the records and raised his eyebrows. “What is this crap?”

  Another boy, with dark hair, took the album from the redhead and placed it back in the slot like it might be worth something. He lifted another record as if to read the songs on the back. His jacket read Reyes across the back. Why were football players wasting their Thursday afternoon at a washed-up music store on the south side?

  “Do you actually get any business in this place?” The third boy, this one with sandy colored hair, ran his finger along one of the shelves to reveal the thick layer of dust that coated most of the surfaces in the store.

  Yeah, I wasn’t the best at cleaning.

  Ricky rested a box on the counter beside the register. “Can I help you boys with anything?”

  The redhead gave me a once over with his eyes before he leaned his elbow on the glass cabinet I’d just cleaned. He reached into his back pocket and removed his phone. “Yeah, I was wondering if you could help me download a record album to my phone?” He was silent for a second, but then he burst out in laughing. The sandy haired boy joined in.

  Ricky shook his head and went back to his boxes. His laid-back personality wouldn’t give these boys the time of day unless they really caused problems. It’s probably why he hired me.

  I marched up to the redhead with the bottle of Windex and pointed it at his eyes. “If you don’t get the hell out of here, I’ll show you where you can download that song.”

  With an ugly grin still on his face, he held up his hands to surrender. “We’re just having a little fun, Covington.”

  “How do you know my name?” Never taking my eyes off the target, I inched closer to him. My finger felt trigger-happy.

  “You’re in my bio class.” He snorted as if he thought I was the stupidest person alive. “Oblivious much?”

  “Well, bio boy, you’re obviously not here to buy anything. Get the hell out of the shop!” I squirted the mirror to the right of his head to emphasize that I meant business. I had to clean it later anyways.

  Two of the jocks exited. On the way out, they grabbed a handful of mints from Ricky’s candy jar. Reyes stayed and held the album in his hand at the register.

  I aimed at his face with the spray. “Do I need to take care of you, too?”

  He grinned with deep-cut dimples in his cheeks. He scanned my face. “I’ve been searching for this one.” He held it up as a shield. “You know, the Beatles. It’s the one record I’m missing.”

  Feeling stupid for still holding up the Windex as a weapon, I lowered it to the counter. “Um… do you want to buy it?”

  “Yeah.” He held out his hand to mine as a peace offering. “I’m Carter, and you’re Covington?”

  For some reason, I blushed and kicked myself mentally for being vulnerable around a stranger. “Uh… no.” I reached out and shook his hand. “I’m Meg. Covington’s my last name.”

  Carter handed me two ten-dollar bills. As I dropped the change in his hand, the bell above the door rang again. Brek entered with his beat-up guitar—the hand-me-down from his grandfather.

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you around, Meg.” Carter smiled and walked out the door. He stopped at a flyer hanging in the entryway and tore off one of the tabs at the bottom.

  “What’s the quarterback doing here?” Brek strapp
ed his guitar around his shoulder and chest.

  “He’s the quarterback?”

  I looked out the window as the redhead gave Carter a playful shove. The three of them hopped into a BMW and sped away.

  “Come on, you can’t be that out of it.” He ran his fingers along the strings. “Haven’t you been to a game?”

  “You know it’s not my thing.” But maybe it could be.

  Brek finished tuning his guitar before he picked out the intro to Sweet Child O’ Mine. I’d never admitted to him that he has a great voice. Not an Axel Rose kind of voice, but a sweet voice that made you feel like snuggling under a warm blanket and dreaming of cute bunnies. Well, maybe I’d admit it to tick him off.

  Ricky returned from the back room and to unpack another box. Brek’s vintage piece of junk broke two strings that hung like metal wreckage.

  “You really need a new guitar.” Ricky inspected the instrument.

  “Ha! You’re funny.” I threw the rag at Ricky. “Are you ready to take on another high school misfit?”

  “I can barely afford you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I just felt the need to point out the obvious. Maybe with the right equipment you could pick up a gig to earn some money.”

  I’d had watched Brek salivate over a Martin at a used instrument store near the school. One of my deepest wishes was to buy him that guitar, but my pockets were empty with Dad out of work.

  I sorted the new inventory while Brek worked on our geometry homework, which I’d copy later. He’s the brains in our operation, making schoolwork easier on my part.

  “See you tomorrow, Ricky,” I called to the backroom as soon as the clock hit seven. I gathered my coat and bag but stopped in the entryway.

  The flyer Carter had ripped a piece off, hung between an ad for pet sitting and a local real estate poster for a house that no one could afford.