The Lost Level Read Free

touched one end of the paper to the flame
and let the ashes fall into the oil, holding it there even as my thumb and
index finger burned. I winced, clenching my teeth and resolving to feel no
pain. When the paper had been consumed, I sat down cross–legged in front of the
incense burner and faced north again. Finally, with my left hand, I pulled out
my final item—a pocketknife my father had given me for my tenth birthday—and
sliced the ball of my right thumb.
    “I have fasted according to the Nomos,” I said. “The Nomos is the
Law. I have eaten nothing unclean. I have drunk only water. I have avoided
spilling my seed and have abstained from worshipping at the temples of Ishtar
or Lilith. Thus, I have kept my essence and remained pure. My candles are of
the appropriate and required color and were lit at the appropriate time. With
them, I cast light upon the four Gates of the Earth, even as I face the
Northern Gate. There is no roof over my head, except for the sky. I have done
these things in accordance with the Nomos, which is the Law, and thus, I
command your attention.”
    I held my bleeding thumb over the burning oil and squeezed out three
drops of blood. As I did this, I repeated the incantation three times. “Ia unay
vobism Huitzilopochtli. Ia dom tergo Hathor.”
    Finished, I paused for a moment, sucking at the cut. The taste of
my own blood made me feel queasy, but I shrugged that sensation off. I pressed
the wound against my jeans and waited for it to stop bleeding. When it did, I
continued.
    “I sit in the appropriate and required manner, and am safe inside
my circle of protection. You cannot harm me. I come here with respect to open a
gate. I come seeking passage. And so, I call upon the Gatekeeper, who gave to
us the Nomos, which is the Law. I call upon the Doorman, who is the Burning
Bush and the Hand That Writes and the Watchman and the Sleepwalker. I call upon
he who is named Huitzilopochtli and Ahtu. He who is named Nephrit–ansa and
Sopdu. He who is named Hathor and Nyarlathotep. I call upon him whose real name
is Amun. And thus, by naming you and offering my blood three times, I command
an opening.”
    Nothing happened. I held my breath, waiting. My heart beat once.
Twice. Three times. Then, the oil began to smoke. Wisps curled from the incense
burner and rose into the air. The smoke seemed to be meeting resistance from
something, even though there was nothing there. The wind was still. There wasn’t
even the faintest hint of a breeze. I glanced down at my thumb, and when I
looked up again, a doorway floated in front of me, hovering just a few inches
from the ground. On both sides of the doorway was my world, but inside the door
was another level. Through it, I glimpsed a scene very similar to the one I
stood in—a forested lakeside after dark. Steeling myself, I stepped through
into that other world. Sure enough, it was an almost exact duplicate of my own
level, except for one telling difference. When I looked up at that other
reality’s sky, the constellations were very different than my own. Indeed, they
were different than anything I had ever seen from my Earth. Most telling was a
long, crooked scar running across the face of the moon, a shadow that had no
counterpart on my own moon.
    I only stayed on the other level for a few minutes that first
time, and when I emerged back through the doorway into my world, I was scared
and shaken and didn’t sleep for two days. I had no appetite and ended up
struggling with an unexpected and deep melancholy. But that didn’t stop me from
trying again. If anything, it just encouraged me. The depression passed, and my
hunger returned—and with it, a thirst for more.
    On my second attempt, the doorway opened into another alternate
reality. This time, I found myself looking at a city. At first, I wasn’t sure
which one. They have always looked alike to me, especially American cities,
where the architecture is usually the same, and the streets are filled