Deathwalker 1.3

             There was no need to touch this grave to check the age. The years rolled off of it in a powerful aura. Whoever was buried here, he was no ordinary dead person. As I opened the gate, I was careful to use the edge of my jacket. No need to wake anyone up before I was ready.
            Instead of creaking and groaning like I expected, the heavy metal swung apart silently and easily. Not a good sign. Either the deceased’s descendants still remembered to oil them, or the deceased took care of it himself. I started to step into the dark chamber, then set my foot back down without crossing the threshold. The chamber was too dark. Staring into it, I took out the paper I’d been given along with the job.
            It said simply, “Tomas,” but it was written in a language even older than the grave. One I knew but not well. I considered the dark interior. Something told me it would not be wise to enter without an invitation.
            “Your pardon, Mr. Tomas,” I said respectfully in the old tongue. “May I speak with you?”
            A wind rushed up from the ancient stones and chilled me as it passed. Then, there was only silence.

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