A sudden sound drew Eugene’s attention—a jovial whistling. He thought with consternation of old Mr. Saunders, who liked to drink and might have stumbled in.
He called out: “Saunders, old boy, is that you?”
The whistling stopped. Satisfied, Eugene went back to his work. But a few moments later, there it was—an irritating ditty echoing through the empty lodge. More than irritating… uncomfortable. There was a telephone on the desk, and Eugene struggled with whether or not to call the police. How foolish would he feel if it turned out to be old Saunders after all? And how humiliating for Saunders, who was very close friends with the Grand Master himself. Why, Eugene might ruin his own standing in the Brotherhood and never rise above Junior Warden. No, he couldn’t risk the taint of shame or ridicule. He’d like to be Grand Master himself one day. Yes, better to handle this on his own. If he took care of this trouble with Saunders carefully, discreetly, the old man might take a shine to him. This was the sort of opportunity disguised as obstacle the inspirational books talked about! He would meet the challenge head-on. How proud Edward would be when he told him later.
Again he called out: “Saunders? Can you hear me?”
Nothing but that damned whistling.
Straightening his tie, Eugene Meriwether left the comfort of his desk and poked his head out of the office. At the far end of the darkened hall, golden, shimmering light spilled out from around the slightly open door of the Gothic Room. Curious, the Mason moved toward it, passing the framed portraits of departed Masonic brothers. As he walked the dim corridor, something in Eugene Meriwether’s belly sounded a silent alarm that pulsed through his blood. Something that snaked back to his primitive ancestors and their need to huddle in caves around fires, the kind of warning that no amount of civilization could ever completely eradicate. He almost wished he had called the police, but his ambition kept him moving forward, toward the glowing room. He grabbed the knob and pushed open the door.
Fire. The golden glow had come from a fire burning on the center altar. And as he tried to piece together what was happening—A fire? In the Gothic Room? How?—the door slammed shut behind him. He pulled on the doorknob, his mind whirring with logical explanations: It’s a prank. Some hooligans in need of a lesson. They’ll be very, very sorry for this. Holding this door shut from the outside, they are. Youth today—no respect. Hooligans, all.
The whistling stopped. A deep, resonant voice echoed in the room. “ ‘For they did not walk in the path of righteousness and lo, was the Lord’s anger sorely provoked.’ ”
A dark shadow passed across the wall. It seemed at first glance to be the long shadow of a man. But as the shadow drew closer, it became clear that whatever lurked behind Eugene Meriwether was far from human.