Page 134 of Eternal Obsession

“Why put a lit candle in an already-lit place?”

“It’s easy to forget the light,” I said.

“When you find yourself in darkness, consider that you are there to guide the others out!”

I contemplated his words. The priest, like me, was a man of philosophy, and it was comforting to hear.

“That’s an interesting ring you’re wearing,” he said.

I removed it and showed it to him.

He peered down at it. “Well, I haven’t seen that for a while.”

“You know what those symbols mean?”

“Sumerian, an ancient written language, cuneiform. It is actually the oldest form of writing known to man.”

“But how?”

“It’s ancient pre-biblical text,” he replied.

“Have you any idea what it says?” I was hopeful.

“I’m afraid not. The symbols are complex.”

“I see.”

“And for a minute there, I thought the Stone Masons were alive and well.”

“What did you just say?” I asked.

“That once-secret fraternity. They are one of the few who still use this writing to communicate, in code.”

My heart pounded. “Stone Masons?”

“An ancient society. An interesting history, really. Hundreds, no thousands, of years ago, there was a band of men, men who called themselves Masters of the Stones.”

I knew he meant the Stone Masters, yet I dared not voice their name, not only to conceal my knowledge, but because it would have been sacrilege to as I now was, despite my birth as the son of the last Stone Master.

I nodded. “Go on.”

“Well, history books reflect an ancient heritage led by lords of vast areas of land, hundreds of miles. These men believed in what we understand as legends and myths today—witches, trolls, vampires, and the like. They burned the suspected villains. Terrible way to die, don’t you think? The rituals were carried out at Stonehenge. They were called blood rituals, sacrifices to God. They took these poor mortals and burned them. One day, they made a fatal mistake, around about 1700, I believe.”

“Mistake?”

“They performed a blood ritual on the bride of one of their own—Jacob Roch, a newlywed and a seasoned member of the Keepers of the Stones. He was away, abroad on business. On his return he learned that his wife had been accused of witchcraft and taken to Stonehenge for her final punishment. He never forgave them and sought revenge. Their activities were documented and published by one F. A. Snowstorm.”

“Snowstrom?” I corrected.

“Perhaps that was it. You’re familiar with his writings?”

“Well, I might have come across some text once⁠—”

“Anyway, they reportedly had the most spectacular rituals, and it was recorded in his memoirs how they separated the ashes of their victims and poured them into the tops of the stones. They held the belief that if the ashes of the evil ones were given time to merge—or should we say converge—they would return to their former selves.

“Jacob was sly, taking his revenge upon the secret society he had once been a loyal member of.”

“What happened?”