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

showed him a tantalizing glimpse of the Secret: a circle of dozens of indecipherable symbols on an otherwise empty piece of canvas. The stream of symbols spiraled inward to the center of the scroll like a serpent's tail.
     The match burned down close to his fingertips and he shook it out. In those few seconds, however, Logan saw the carved symbols on the underside of the sarcophagus' lid. He struck another match and peered at them more closely, running his fingers over the strange sigils. They comprised the familiar pictographic code that Dechambeau and his early followers used to communicate with one another without the Church learning their secrets. The symbols were arranged in neat rows, with English equivalents next to each character. The coffin's lid had been imprinted with a miniature dictionary of complete words—like air, fire, water and earth—while the sides of the sarcophagus had been chiseled with translations of individual letters and numbers. Although the stuffy air and lack of ventilation had made Logan sodden with perspiration, he smiled. He had been an attentive student of the Brotherhood's history and knew many parts of the code by heart. But time was running out; he estimated that he had about forty-five minutes before the Masters of the Seventeenth Degree fetched him.
     Using a pencil stub he dug out of another jacket pocket, he jotted down the translation of the spiral of symbols on the interior of one of the matchbooks. Logan was a methodical, consistent man; he would begin at the beginning and work his way toward the center of the spiral. The matches, however, were a source of frustration. They burned only for a few seconds, a painfully short window for him to scan the interior of the stone casket.
     Those who crave… His sweaty fingers were trembling, and sweat stung his eyes as he wrote the words. He mustn't lose his head. Each matchbook contained about twenty matches. He couldn't afford to waste their light. Logan had to make sure each burst of flame allowed him to translate some portion of the Secret. But his breathing was becoming more and more labored and he felt dizzy. One of the matches became so moist with sweat that he was unable to light it. When he finally got another flame going, his bleary eyes had difficulty focusing and the fire burned out before he could translate the next chunk of the message.
     Get control of yourself, he told himself. Solve the problem.
     He took in a deep, gasping breath and carefully struck another match. Instead of translating the message in order and risk being stumped on a word or letter, he decided to simply translate whatever section of the Secret seemed easiest, so long as he made progress with every matchstrike.
     Those who crave… deserve… forty… air… here… accomplished master…
     Coughing and trying to shake off an ever-strengthening wave of fatigue that was tugging at him, Logan nevertheless couldn't keep himself from smiling. Much of the message was falling into place. He might actually translate the entire Secret before the Masters came.
     … power the most… least… cubic… slightly more than sixty…
     His heart felt a surge of adrenaline. The numbers could signify longitude and latitude—perhaps the location of some artifact, some treasure? The lower degrees of the Brotherhood were awash with rumors about some unimaginably enormous hidden source of wealth.
     Those who crave power the most… lies…degree…
     Logan coughed, striking another match. He translated a few more pieces of the puzzle: every… minute… The flame burned down to his fingertips and he shook it out. He was in darkness again. The air in the sarcophagus was as muggy as a sauna. He undid the top button of his shirt. He went to tear another match from the matchbook but it was empty. He had one matchbook left.
     Logan flexed his fingers and carefully lit another match.