Green Door: A Sigils & Totems Midnight Eye Novella by William Meikle

Author:William Meikle [Meikle, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-06-11T04:00:00+00:00

3

Two hours later I was on the road on my own in the van, heading north with Jack's last words to me still echoing in my ears.

"Next time you need a church burgled, Derek, find some other fuckers."

I'd left them in the courtyard of the Twa Dugs. George had been on hand to mollify them, ensure them that their money would be forthcoming and to dispense more of his good scotch to ease nerves that had been sorely troubled by the phantom singing. I only had one small glass—a phone call to my client resulted in a request for immediate delivery and in him giving me an address north of Inverness. I had a long drive ahead of me.

The door started working on me before I got out of the city. It started with the throaty singing, the one about the Dreaming God singing where he lies. It got so that I found myself singing along and tapping on the steering wheel in time. I lit a smoke to have something else to do with my hands, and turned on the radio. Even the country station was better than that rough voice echoing out of the back of the van.

But no matter how loud I ran the radio, I heard it, like a whisper just loud enough to be heard. Now it wasn't just the throaty voice. Others had joined it in the choruses, voices I knew—my mother for one, and her mother too. The old pawnbroker Pat Nolan's out of tune bellow put in an appearance too. By the time I got to Stirling most of my dead were traveling with me.

I pulled in at the all night service station around four a.m. and soon wished I hadn't for the place was as much a dead zone as the thing I had in the back of the van and less entertaining. Two tired old janitors wiped perfunctory mops over the floors, an acne-riddled youth took three attempts to add up my change, the sandwiches looked like they were going to taste of cardboard and they didn't even have my brand of fags. But it got be a brief respite from the bloody singing, although my wee bird tattoo kept burning and flaring in time with the songs even at a distance of more than a hundred yards from the car.

By the time I got to Perth I'd given up on the radio and was singing along.

He sleeps in the deep, with the fish far below,

He sleeps in the deep, in the dark,

He sleeps and he dreams in the depths, in the deep,

And the Dreaming God is singing where he lies.

The dead sang with me all the long haul up the A9. I still didn't have a clue who this Dreaming God might be, but he was obviously attached to the Sigil houses…or the doors of them at least. I could only hope that my pseudonymous client knew what he was getting into, and how to handle it. As for

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