The Eighth Gate

2 | Bloody Grave

A faint click sounded from behind Mary and Tamara, succeeded by the subtle creaking of a door hinge and a gust of cold air. Mary turned around to witness a familiar face step into her foyer, with cheeks and nose rosy from the cold.

Noah, dressed in a colorful ugly Christmas sweater and dark jeans tucked into black boots, jerked his sweeping brown hair out of his chestnut eyes and let out a grunt of protest in response to the heavy weight he was currently hauling in. Encircled in his arms was a large cardboard box nearly twice his size; his gloved hands could hardly grip its slippery edges and his knees were bent in order to better bear the brunt of its mighty load.

Icy cold air continued to stream through the opened doorway, quickly contaminating the comfortable warmth of the nearby dining room, where Mary and Tamara stood. Noah met their gazes with a turn of his head, his chapped lips parting to allow for an obvious, yet seemingly necessary declaration:

“I’ve got the stuff.”

“I don’t think Mary appreciates you talking as if you were smuggling drugs into her home,” Tamara said, hugging her elbows. “And please shut that door before you give us all pneumonia.”

“I think Mary should speak for herself on the matter,” Noah answered, gently setting the box down on the wooden floor. He swung the door shut and turned to Mary. “Right, Mary?”

“Nah,” Mary replied, smiling playfully. “I think Tamara’s got it.”

Noah frowned in that sort of adorable way that Mary knew could make any girl’s heart skip a beat. Tamara giggled and neared the box, getting down on her knees and pulling its two rectangular flaps aside in order to reveal its contents.

“Wow,” she murmured into its depths, surprise coloring her voice. “This is all of it?”

“Three gallons of Holy Water, night vision goggles, and a new tripod stand for the video camera since I sort of kind of broke the last one,” Noah said sheepishly, peering down at the box with his hands dug deep into his pockets.

“You did not,” Tamara disagreed fervently, glancing up at him. Then she hesitated. “Well… okay, you did. But it wasn’t like you meant to. Mr. Wrigley’s ghost just spooked you and you fell; it happens to the best of us.”

Noah smiled. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, don’t bother. I didn’t buy any of that stuff, anyway.”

“Noah,” Mary began chidingly, “please don’t tell me you’re back to stealing from the church again.”

“Fine, I won’t,” he told her; Mary thought she saw a brief look of hurt flash across his face. “But if you must know, I bought the goggles with Tamara’s money and found the tripod, good as new, lying around in my basement.”

“And the water?”

Noah turned his head away from Mary’s with a “hmph”, his nose high in the air. “You told me not to tell you, so I won’t.”

“Okay, children,” Tamara interjected, rising from where she was knelt on the floor. “Enough. It’ll be nightfall soon; we have to get going.”

“Fine,” Noah and Mary answered in complete simultaneity; the two exchanged sharp glances before making way for the door.

“By the way, Noah,” Tamara started, “I really like your sweater.”

Seemingly surprised, Noah glanced down at his thick green Christmas sweater, the festive design on its front appearing as if a rainbow had vomited all over it, splattering it with a wide array of colors.