Goodnight Irene

by James Scott Byrnside

  The flame, so timid and fragile, struggled in defiance of the black maw. It offered sallow murmurs of light to combat the strangling, charcoal-etched space. At the farthest point of illumination, the images turned indistinct like an oil painting, suggesting rather than showing and finally fading into utter black.

  He moved the candle next to the stone side of the passage. At various points the wall took the shape of a bubbled caul, but it showed no cracks or markings of any kind. The wet gray glistened with illusory movement. The fire began wobbling at the wick from the intensity of his breath. He raised the candle high.

  Is this where Irene is buried? The light of my courage shall not be swayed by the shadows surrounding me.

  Rowan turned his right ear forward and listened to the refrigerated echo of silence. The whole world could have been gone.

  The gravel crackled under his shoe with his first step.

  “If anyone is in here, I recommend you reveal yourself.” His voice carried an authoritarian tenor but even he could recognize the undertone of trailing fear.

  The candlelight inched forward with his movement, leaving more blackness behind him to go along with the seemingly endless amount in front.

  “Mr. Daniels? Are you here?”

  The best swimmers drown. Perhaps this is your tomb.

  He clenched the knife tighter and held it trembling in front of him.

  The tip of the candle made contact with a cobweb and it erupted in a brief burst of flame. Rowan gasped as a shape on the floor outlined on his retina.

  What was that? I saw it. Something. I do not know what.

  Walter’s disembodied voice called out like a ghost. “What was that?”

  Rowan clutched at his chest. “Nothing. It was—”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said it was nothing!”

  Rowan fidgeted with the remains of cobweb in his hair and dropped the knife. It pinged and rattled on the gravel. “Christ!” Panic stirred.

  “This is your last warning, Mr. Daniels. Come forward. We are not leaving this ridge for a few days, so we may as well make the best of our situation. There is no need for more senseless murder.”

  His voice faded down the passage into nothingness. He retrieved the knife from the floor and looked back toward the library. Where was it? How far had he walked?

  Am I gone from reality? Is this really happening or is it just another episode?

  With panting breath and a quickening heartbeat, he yelled out. “Is everything okay, Williams?”

  No answer came.

  “Williams.”

  Again.

  “Walter!”

  “What is it, Manory? Did you find Bernice?”

  Rowan breathed easier and let out a nervous laugh. “Not yet. I just wanted to make sure you were still with me.”

  “No worries, old man. I’m here. Shall I come in?”

  “No. Stay with Willie.”

  Rowan stared at the spot ten feet ahead where he had seen the shape. He tried to reconstruct it.

  If zis house is searched, vat vill zey find? I vonder.

  He moved forward at the same pace as before until a familiar odor hit his nostrils. It was the triggering vestigial scent of copper. The vibrating light shimmering on the moisture of the walls turned from gray to a membranous red. The stone began to pulse in and out as he circled within the corridor. The walls were covered in blood. A piercing trill rang out from the tip of his shoe and Rowan lowered the candle.

  The object lay in a soupy mixture of blood and gravel.

  Rowan called out to Walter. “I have located the ax!”

  “Is the armor there too?”

  “No. They did not go together anyway. Williams, do you—”

  A shaft of light at the back end of the passage stalled Rowan’s question. He blew out the candle. A shadow entered the far end and closed the entrance, returning the passage to black.

  Rowan knelt and silently placed the extinguished candle on the floor. His arm extended forward with the knife and he stood up.

  Two separate plops came from the ground.

  Galoshes.

  “Do I what?” asked Walter.

  Shut up, Williams.

  The revolver’s hammer clicked ever so faintly. It was followed by slow, steady, scraping steps forward.

  Rowan dared not speak. His feet moved in reverse. The gravelly sound on the floor seemed to echo a thousand times louder than before as the thumping in his chest began once again. The now invisible walls closed in and his diaphanous hold on reality let go completely. He collapsed backward. Paralyzing pain in his chest choked the air from his throat. He lay helpless and alone in the tenebrous space, his limbs turtle-like and flailing.

  No.

  Rowan’s arm slammed against the stone wall and his back slid along the floor, moving the gravel bits against one another. The sounds slowly dissipated and entered his ear as the same homogenous hum.

  A foot bumped into his leg and with his twitching left arm, he felt the ax brush up against him as it was being lifted off the ground.

  This is my tomb.

  The detective tried to make out the face of his soon-to-be killer, but saw only phosphenes in the dark. They began as small strips but grew in thickness and shot forward toward the killer.

  He managed one last, breathless word. “Irene.”

  Images from his life appeared in panorama. He fell from the tree and along with the pain of a broken arm he felt the guilt of childhood. Terror enveloped him as he watched his father strike his mother. His dog lay dying in the street and he desperately wanted the animal to fathom the depths of his sorrow. Agatha Brent slumped back on her couch. He somehow saw every hair of the fly landing on her body. Even the unearthly awareness of this life review could not decipher the emotions of that event, so deeply had Rowan suppressed them.

  The images in his head went black. For a long time, there was nothing.

  Is this death?

  A quivering pocket of breath ripped from Rowan’s chest. He inhaled and the horrible scent came again.

  It is not. I am still tucked away in a narrow passage on a ridge in the middle of a storm. Thank God.

  A tiny flicker of light appeared above him and became more and more intense until he made out the shape of Walter’s face.

  “Manory, what happened?”

  Rowan’s voice sputtered. “The killer…”

  “Steady, old man. Wait here.”

  Walter ran to the end of the passage. Rowan tried to stop him, but his arms disobeyed. He was left alone again in the darkness.

  A familiar thud came from behind him. Two giant hands tucked under his arms and lifted him. The musk of Willie Aikes was instantly recognizable through the copper.

  “Come on, detective. Let’s get you back to the library.”

  Rowan leaned on Willie as his heels dragged along the gravel. He was pulled around the bend and temporarily blinded from the light of the library.

  “Thank you, Willie.”

  “Hey, you got my name right.”

  Willie lowered Rowan onto the sofa. “Just take it easy now. I’ll get you a drink.”

  “No panther piss, please.”

  Willie unlocked the door and ran to the kitchen.

  Walter came in, soaking, with knife in hand. He rushed to Manory’s side. “It was Daniels, wasn’t it?”

  “I could not see him. Where does the passage lead?”

  “The dining room.”

  “I knew that cabinet was abnormally thick.”

  “Yeah, the side springs open. He ran out the back door. I tried to find him but he must have run into the woods.”

  Willie brought a glass of water and handed it to Rowan. He chugged it. “Williams, was there anything else in the passage?”

  “As a matter of fact, there was. I don’t know quite what to make of it but there were shelves at the back. They had lots of raincoats, several pairs of galoshes, and this.” Walter held out a tiny cylindrical case.


  Rowan flexed his legs and forced himself off the sofa. He paced gingerly around the room.

  Blood had tracked all through the library. Splotchy red patches covered the sofas.

  The longer this weekend at Lasciva Manor, the more it resembles some hellish puzzle with no interlocking edges. Salvation has become perdition and it is perfect hell. The ill-timed clues, the lack of resources, the ungodly weather, and my failing body are all conspiring against me. How long until I crack under the strain?

  Willie, Rowan, and Walter stood in front of the phonograph. The detective opened the canister and stuck two fingers inside of the wax cylinder. He placed it on the mandrel and turned the hand crank.

  An audible, empty hiss played through the pavillon, but it was quickly taken over by a susurrous moaning. The unearthly sound then morphed into a painful screech like nails being dragged over rock. Rowan quickened the pace as screaming sounds took over. For three minutes it continued until finally the original empty hiss played out and the cylinder came to its end.

  “I hope to God that isn’t the new craze in music,” said Williams.

  “What did that sound like to you, Willie?” asked Rowan.

  Willie said, “Like ghosts.”

  “That is exactly what it sounded like.”

  Two beams of light rolled through the French windows and came to a halt. The Fiat settled along the drive and the lights shut off.

  Rowan tensed his muscles so hard that they shook.

  Walter said, “Another episode?”

  “Marauding little worm.” He grabbed Walter’s knife from the table.

  “Manory?”

  Suddenly galvanized into action, Rowan ran outside into the rain. The car doors opened. Charles and Margaret stepped out.

  Charles said, “Mr. Manory, what happened to you?”

  “Gone for a joy ride?”

  “Charles!” screamed Margaret.

  The detective held the knife to Charles’s side and his barely controlled rage showed in his hoarse, unforgiving voice. “I am no longer responsible for your safety.”

  Walter rushed out the door. “Manory, old man. Relax. It’s okay.”

  Charles said, “I’m sorry, I don’t follow. We haven’t done anything.”

  “I told you to stay in your room.”

  “We needed to make sure the bridge was truly disabled,” said Margaret. She turned to Willie. “My apologies, Mr. Aikes, but trust is not something that comes easily after what we have witnessed tonight.”

  Rowan’s head bobbed. “You said it, lady.”

  “Shall we go inside and discuss it like adults? I for one don’t want to stand here in the rain and—”

  The sound of a gunshot rang out in the night, causing Rowan to jump back. Two more came in quick succession. They all looked toward the manor.

  “It came from the river,” said Willie.

  “Where’s Ruth?” asked Charles.

  “Everyone inside. We will cut through the manor and go out the back door.” Rowan pointed a nicotine-stained fingernail toward Margaret. “No more games.”

  chapter 14

  fire and rain

  Bernice Lasciva… Robert had a history with you. Jack drove you from Ashland. Daniels knew you. Willie and Ruth despised you. Where did you go? Walter saw Daniels at the river. Whose body was in the bag? There is only one possibility and it is not possible. I have done everything correctly.

  The party cut through the manor and wallowed into what was left of the garden. The weight of their saturated clothes pulled down like an extra dose of gravity. All about them, the trees bent and moaned as the gale whipped the rain into their eyes.

  Rowan pointed and screamed above the wind. “Willie and Charles, cut through the right side of the forest.” He pulled Walter and Margaret close. “Go straight through the path and wait at the river. I will go through the left side.” He held out his hands and brought them together. “We meet at the center.”

  The partygoers scattered helter-skelter. In between the thunder, a distant sound of dislodging rock joined the general turmoil.

  As Rowan neared the obliterated demarcation of land and creek, Ruth’s desperate and directionless gurgled cries became detectable. He passed the last tree and debris hurled past his head, forcing him to his knees.

  Focus, Rowan. Where is she?

  He scanned the river bit by bit trying to distinguish hallucination from truth.

  There.

  Ruth was desperately clutching a tree branch. There was a splatter of blood across her arm. The top of her lace slip stuck to her shoulders. The rapids slammed against her head, rendering her body as limp as a ragdoll.

  Rowan ran toward the embankment and his entirety immediately plunged under the water. In the murk, his body flipped while moving forward at rapid speed. Left utterly prostrate, his tired limbs fought against the superior tide as he flowed downstream in pounding spurts.

  He felt a tug against his collar followed by a tight snap at his neck. Ruth had grabbed him with her free arm. The bullet wound along her bicep flared, causing her to screech. The fabric of his shirt ripped and he clutched at her body. She grabbed the mealy bark with both hands as Rowan wrapped his arms around her torso.

  The other four spotted them from the pathway to the river. They got as close as they could and formed a chain of bodies. Williams stood at the end. He pulled Ruth’s good arm, and the group kinetically lifted the imperiled out of the water and onto the sludge.

  Walter draped his sodden suit coat over Ruth as she coughed up ingested rainwater.

  She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “It was Daniels. Daniels.”

  “We know. Let’s get you inside.”

  Rowan’s head rose from the mud. He eyed the manor between the foliage. Resplendent golden flames danced in front of an upstairs window.

  We forgot to blow out the candles.

  He began to wordlessly mouth instructions when the first monolithic boulder leavened the density of the trees, its crash mocking the thunder in the sky and leaving everyone in stunned disarray. Muddy water engulfed the entire forest. Rowan bobbed like the coffins. His ears alternated between the subaqueous, deafening silence and the chaos of the known world. There was no control. His awareness slackened and then was swallowed whole by circumstance. The slight connection to the here and now vanished completely. He was gone.

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  The aridity of the room covered him like a mother’s blanket. Rowan spread his arms wide to garner as much of the warmth as possible. He lit an inevitable cigarette and felt the smoke curl along his tongue before entering his throat. It came out of his mouth in rolling billows.

  The tawny clay of the walls and ceiling seemed to bake in the heat. The structure could have been made that very morning or thousands of years ago. His eyes drifted along the cracks in the wall before settling on Robert Lasciva at the head of the table.

  The sound of flowing water began as a quiet murmur, but soon became a rushing noise.

  Lasciva stood and held up a glass. He screamed over the pounding waves. “A toast to the world’s finest detective.”

  Agatha stood next to him, gently rocking her dead baby. “Manory couldn’t help us either.”

  Then they were all there, standing up and toasting him behind a table that stretched to infinity.

  Jack Tellum coughed and took a swig from his flask. “Yeah, well, this will put some hair on your liver.”

  Daniels giggled. “I think he needs his mommy, the poor dear.”

  Rowan puffed on his cigarette.

  “There must be an explanation.”

  Margaret raised Charles’s right hand and waved it like a marionette. Charles’s mouth moved, but her voice came out. “Fancy a game of cricket?”

  “Where is Williams?”

  Ruth leaned close to Rowan and he felt her breath on his ear. “You and I have a lot in common, Mr. Manory. I can help yo
u solve this case if you just listen to me. Everything happens for a reason.”

  He swallowed.

  “Williams?”

  Willie spread out his arms. “You keep calling people by their wrong name. Don’t ask me who. I just work here. Have you seen my brother?”

  Rowan tried to run but he felt the force of a crowd of people pouncing on his back. He fell to his knees as the noise of the rushing water faded and was replaced by the horrible scratching moans from the cylinder.

  Daniels pulled Rowan’s thin hair and directed his head toward an empty chair. “Now watch, Manory. Watch very carefully.”

  Walter appeared from the corner of Rowan’s vision and sat at the chair.

  “Williams.”

  A spider monkey leapt onto Walter’s head and raised an ax high into the air.

  Rowan stopped breathing. The scratching ceased and a dead silence took over.

  Walter grinned. “You know, in Morocco, they train monkeys to do just about anything.”

  The ax came down and tore into Walter’s neck. Again and again the monkey swung as arterial blood spurted indiscriminately about the room. Finally, Walter’s body fell forward and the head rolled under the table. The monkey leapt off the chair to fetch it.

  Daniels whispered in Rowan’s ear. “Do you see?”

  “See what?”

  The monkey crawled to Rowan and held Walter’s head to the side. The mouth and eyes were wide open.

  “Do I see what?”

  The monkey slowly moved Walter’s head in front of its own.

  Walter’s head said, “It’s just a parlor trick, Manory.”

  The invisible crazed mob let go of Rowan and he stumbled to his feet. The partygoers pointed at him and jeered. The detective stood, scarlet with mortification. He puffed at the completed cigarette and held out his hands as the building and his body vanished. Only his hands remained, floating in total black.

  The noise of water returned.