Shadow Walkers

By Stefan Vucak

In Cairo, anything and everything is obtainable, provided one is prepared to pay the price.

I happened to be in Cairo because it is one of the best places to obtain a rare codex and ancient books. The older and weirder the better, and some of my most prized pieces came from the Middle East.

Morning clear, I entered the Khan el-Khalili alley; a bewildering array of souvenirs, two-day-old antiques, papyrus paintings, gold jewellery glittering under bright lights, silk garments, exotic foods, and piles of coloured spices.

I stopped in front of a shop stuffed with ancient books covered with dust of centuries, and papyrus rolls that might have been written in Khufu’s time. I was hooked, certain to find something in this cave of wonders.

Old as time, brown skin wrinkled by age, bony hands that looked like claws, the man slowly looked at me. Black, impenetrable eyes gave an impression of dark depths and mystery.

“Can I help you with anything?” he rasped with surprisingly good English.

“I’m looking for ancient manuscripts and any codex that deals with Sumerian or Mesopotamian writing.”

He pursed his lips, nodded, pried himself off the stool, and peered at a row of books that packed a shoulder-high shelf.

“I may have something for you,” he murmured, pulled on a pair of dirty, white cotton gloves, and reached for a slim volume bound with blistered, frayed leather.

“What is it?” I asked, intensely curious.

“An old Mesopotamian text copied from original Sumerian cuneiform.”

I reached for the book and he gave me a smart rap on the wrist. “Never touch it with your bare hands!”

“Why not?”

“It holds forces beyond your ken. Wait, I’ll get you some gloves.” He placed the book on the stool, turned, and rummaged in the back of the shop.

My gaze was drawn to the book. Slowly, I reached for the thing.

I grasped the slim volume and gasped in shock as unbelievable cold shot up my arm. I instinctively tried to drop the thing, but it remained glued to my hand. Small red flames appeared from the book and licked around my hand. Desperate, I shook my hand, but the book stuck to me.

The old man turned, gloves in hand, and gaped. “You have damned yourself!”

Then it started.

Horrors from the depths of my soul burst forth. Serpents from the basement of my mind coiled around me, hissing — long fangs bared. Transfixed with terror, I screamed, desperate to shake them off. They struck and kept striking and I writhed in agony. All I could do was scream endlessly, begging for release.

That’s when the spiders came, my other nightmare.

Giants, their furry legs sent my skin on fire where they touched exposed skin. Black fangs glistened as they struck. I writhed and clawed to get them off me, but the snakes were there, ready with their bites. I sobbed and pleaded for help, but the horrors I’d unleashed would not be appeased.

The old man rushed toward me, a broad sword in hand. He brought it down and sharp pain lanced through my wrist. The terrors retreated. I gasped when I saw my severed hand on the dusty ground still clutching the book. I moaned, fell to my knees, cradled my wounded arm against me, and sobbed uncontrollably. Part of me stared at the raw wrist and I pondered why no blood. The wound seemed cauterised and without pain.

Around me, total silence. Tourists, vendors, children, men and women, clustered in the narrow alley, eyes wide with fear and horror as they stared at me. Gradually, they dispersed, not wishing to be involved.

The old man helped me to his stool and offered me a yellow drink that burned on its way down, but it cleared my head.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he rasped in a thin, reedy voice.

Without saying anything, I stood, looked at him, and punched out his lights. He fell, arms flailing, and lay buried beneath his smelly books. I picked up the fallen sword and thrust the point through the book. Little blue flames writhed around the cut, then faded. I shoved the book into my little backpack and walked off.

The hotel arranged for a doctor. Curious how I came to lose my hand, I could not tell him anything. What could I say that would sound believable? The other thing I insisted on, no police. I’d had enough horrors for the day.

I made it home to Melbourne trying to forget Cairo. In my Southbank apartment, I sat in my black leather recliner, a tumbler of bourbon at my side. Three months since that horrid episode, my demons sometimes ventured forth tentatively, but did not fully show themselves.

In another month when the stump healed completely, they would fit me with some bionic prosthesis. The thing would not give me full dexterity, but better than a pirate hook.

My gaze shifted to the library shelf and focused on the book and its cracked binding. I had not touched it since I put it there and never opened it. Why did I bring it at all? After everything that happened, I still wanted to read the thing.

The leather felt dry and warm as I carried the book to my recliner. The sword cut had disappeared and I had no idea how that happened. Slowly, I opened the hard cover. My fingers slid across the faded page. Intense cold surged up my arm and I gasped in horror. Unlocked, my demons came for me. This time, I had no one to cut off my hand. All I could do was scream as the snakes and spiders struck me and hope that perhaps a neighbour would hear my screams and rush in to help me.

In Cairo, anything and everything is obtainable, provided one is prepared to pay the price.

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