The Legend of Darklore Manor and Other Tales of Terror by Joseph Vargo, Joseph Iorillo Page A

Logan tried to quell his slowly mounting anxiety at the initiation ritual to come. He took a long drink of the pinot noir and tried not to think about the Ritual of the Crossing. That had been more than a year ago, and he still occasionally had nightmares about it.
     "This is a monumental night for you, Mr. Logan," Yardley said, beaming. "Tonight, all your years of fellowship in the Brotherhood will crystallize into your official rebirth as a Perfected Master, and you too will be able to wear the Ring of Seventeen." He held up his right hand. On the ring finger was the familiar silver band encrusted with seventeen small sapphires. The chandeliers' light glinted off similar rings on the hands of the other Masters. "A petty material token, to be sure, but one that symbolizes your spiritual evolution under our care. You have traveled from the shadows, from the ordinary human realm of mistrust, self-interest and fear and arrived, finally, at the light. During the Ritual of the Final Secret, you will have in your hands the ultimate truth to which we are all privy. The one you have heard whispers about all these years. The secret that has undoubtedly been a source of much speculation within you."
     Logan said nothing, even though the eyes of the Masters seemed to study him more keenly than before.
     "It's all right," Yardley said. "The promise of the secret is a key motivator for many in the lower degrees. Everyone wants the revelation and the power it holds. But, really, your tenure here in the Brotherhood and your spiritual progress through the ranks has revealed the secret to you already. You have learned all the lessons we had to teach, and our knowledge is now your knowledge, whether you realize it consciously or not. Nevertheless, you will hold in your hands the Final Secret. And once the ritual is complete, we shall toast your rebirth and have a proper celebration."
     "Do you still have that bottle of thirty-year-old scotch?" Mansfield asked. "The single-malt?"
     Yardley laughed. "I most certainly do, and we'll all have a taste. No better way to celebrate a rebirthday, eh?" The Grand Master nodded to the others, and almost simultaneously they begin donning their scarlet robes, which the small platoon of footmen and underbutlers had begun distributing.
     Logan was the only member of the group not given a robe. He felt curiously naked in his business suit. He was startled when one of the Masters began patting him down and removing the contents of Logan's various pockets.
     "What are you doing?"
     The Master did not answer but merely smiled.
     Yardley clapped Logan reassuringly on the shoulder. "Not feeling nervous, are you?"
     "No," Logan said, clearing his throat.
     "Of course he's not," Mansfield said. "He's not one of those dreadful First or Second Degreers. He's made of stronger stuff than that."
     "One hour and it will all be over," Yardley said. "Not a thing to worry about."
     "The irony is that it's the easiest ritual of all of them," someone said as they moved to the back stairwell that led down to the cellar. There was a small antique service elevator, but Logan had explained that he would rather take the stairs; his mild claustrophobia made even roomy limousines seem like coffins. Yardley's mansion was overwhelmingly large, and the winding stone stairwell corkscrewed into the earth for what seemed like half a mile. Finally, they reached the dank wine cellar, which was lit by several medieval wall sconces that held flaming torches.
     The Masters of the Seventeenth Degree, laughing and chatting about recent rare vintages up for auction, led Logan through the rows of dusty bottles until they came to what appeared to be an oblong altar covered with a black sheet.
     Logan's heart pounded. He tried to steady his breathing.
     The Masters fanned out around the altar. Yardley stood behind it, in the