The Zombie Stone

by K. G. Campbell

  She gave the knocker a hearty rap, smacked aside a butterfly, and fished for something in her purse.

  “Do you have your card ready, child? All, I say all the best people leave their calling cards on the entry table.”

  August was trying to explain that he was only twelve years old and never called on anyone, when the door opened, and he and Claudette were swept helplessly by the Guild of Weepy Widows into the House of Zombies.

  Attendees had been filling the Malveaus’ salon for several minutes now, and the DuPont children, pressed against heavy satin draperies by the windows, had become increasingly concealed behind the swelling crush of sniffling, weepy people.

  The only indication of their presence was a solitary butterfly perched contentedly on August’s dented helmet. August was forced to crane his neck to get a glimpse of the room beyond the many black-clad backs and shoulders stacked in front of him.

  The house at 591 Funeral Street, being a city dwelling, was obviously smaller than Château Malveau, but was every bit as opulent. Important-looking artwork adorned the walls. Plush rugs were soft underfoot. Greek heroes carved from creamy marble were poised on slender stands. The ornate moldings flickered with the scattered shadows thrown by candlelight. Gleaming mahogany furniture had been stacked in the corners to accommodate the visitors and to leave a space for the circular table with four chairs at the center of the room.

  One of these chairs was occupied by Orchid Malveau, who wore a long-suffering expression as Champagne Fontaine, who sat beside her, gushed enthusiastically.

  “You are an invaluable addition to the guild, Orchid!” Champagne clutched Orchid’s wrist. “The most miserable of us all, the jewel in our crown. We can’t thank you enough for hosting tonight, and in”—she fluttered her tiny, gloved hand through the air—“such splendid circumstances.”

  A third chair held a thin-nosed man in a silk top hat, who repeatedly checked his pocket watch. The fourth chair remained empty.

  Directly opposite, through a peephole in the crowd, August could see Beauregard lounging carelessly against a column. Langley’s face popped briefly into view as he nudged August’s cousin. The friends glanced in the same direction. Beauregard smiled in a mean-spirited way, clearly in response to Langley’s comment. Langley smothered silent laughter. The pair appeared to be amusing themselves at someone else’s expense.

  “At least,” thought August, “it’s not mine.”

  The salon was now filled to capacity and buzzed with whispers and fidgeting and a general air of electric anticipation.

  “Have you heard who is coming?”

  “Is it true? Champagne says he’s the very best!”

  “Ow!” whispered August resentfully as one of the weepy widows stepped on his foot.

  With a frosty smile, Orchid removed Champagne’s hand from her wrist and stood.

  “Ladies,” she said, then a little louder, to attract their attention. “Ladies! And of course”—she nodded at the thin-nosed man—“gentleman. My fellow members of the Guild of Weepy Widows.” She swept her palmetto fan around the gathering. “I know you are all excited to meet our special guest tonight, of whom our dear friend Champagne Fontaine speaks so highly. You are no doubt anxious to communicate with your loved ones on the other side, but I must ask you to exercise patience and decorum and permit the readings to proceed in an orderly fashion.”

  There was a sudden and decisive rap at the front door, and the assembly went deathly silent.

  “It’s him!” a woman in front of August whispered excitedly into the ear of another.

  Orchid looked expectantly toward the foyer.

  “Is that the gentleman, Escargot?”

  August caught a glimpse of Escargot, the Malveau’s toad-like butler, near the front door. Orchid nodded at his inaudible response.

  “All right, then,” Orchid declared. “Friends, please make way for esteemed medium and clairvoyant, Professor Tiberius Leech!”

  Bodies parted to create a path, and from it emerged a man in a thin tie and rumpled linen suit, who paid little heed to the wide-eyed, breathless congregation.

  Professor Tiberius Leech was of an indeterminate age, somewhere, August figured, between thirty and sixty years old. Bulbous, pug-like eyes filled the lenses of thick black spectacles perched on a face that had the soft, round quality of a baby’s and shone with a misting of perspiration.

  Both fists were held before his chest, gripping the iron handle of an exotic-looking drum-shaped box. Its leather casing was tooled with sinister symbols and was so ancient that in places it had flaked away to reveal the wood beneath.

  “Why, Professor Leech, how delightful that we should meet again,” prattled Champagne Fontaine in hushed tones, stretching over to awkwardly pat his arm as he placed himself beside the table before the vacant chair. “You honor us indeed with your presence. The Guild of…”

  She was interrupted by a sharp smack from Orchid’s fan.

  “On behalf,” Orchid said sharply, throwing Champagne a look, “of the Guild of Weepy Widows, I welcome you to my home.”

  “Hmm.” An apparently unimpressed Professor Leech glanced briefly at Orchid with a polite smile, while drawing gray gloves onto his hands and flexing his fingers.

  He unlatched and opened the box, revealing an interior lined with crimson satin, which, unlike the exterior, looked new and pristine. From inside the lid, Professor Leech drew a circular plinth of dark, polished wood and placed it upon the table.

  Both hands slid into the main compartment of the box.

  “The Oraculum,” announced Professor Leech, “is as old as history itself.” His voice was not loud, but such was the breathless stillness of the room, it filled the space. “The Oraculum has seen empires rise from dirt and fall back into the ocean.” His elbows were moving upward as he lifted something—something with some heft—from the box. “The Oraculum never lies.”

  There was an audible collective gasp as the crystal ball appeared. It was about the size of a small watermelon, but perfectly, perfectly spherical, and of a glass so lustrous and clear, it was mesmerizing. Sparkling candlelight revealed its surface, but its center seemed endless, impossible to define.

  Gazing into its depths, August felt a dizziness akin to vertigo. He became aware of a faint whispering, very close to his right ear. But he was wedged against the wall; there was no one behind him.

  It was joined by a second whisper. And a third.

  August looked around, but everyone near him stood engrossed, in spellbound silence. The boy was reminded of a day long ago, when he ventured into an overgrown cemetery and heard a voice that was difficult to place, that seemed almost to originate from inside himself.

  With the ball cradled in its stand and the box deposited on the floor, the professor sat, removed his gloves, and pushed his glasses up his nose. He bowed his head and placed his naked palms inches from the orb on either side.

  August felt a sudden surge of energy from the table, like the shockwaves of a small explosion, and he was physically forced backward into the draperies and the window behind them.

  The professor frowned, paused, then darted a quick, suspicious look around the room.

  “The spirits are close tonight,” he said, almost accusingly. “Very close. Someone here has an unusually strong connection to the dead.”

  “Oh,” Champagne laughed, “it’s probably me. My Henri and I were so very devoted, as you know, Professor. Is he here? Will he finally divulge the secret ingredient of his mother’s gumbo recipe? I know you’ve asked him before, Professor, but do ask again!”

  “Enough!” Orchid slapped her fan on the table and a startled Champagne was immediately silenced. “Professor Leech”—Orchid recovered her composure and genteel manner—“is here as my guest…at my expense.” She was now, pointedly, addressing the professor. “Professor Leech will
make time for all”—Orchid glanced around with a small smile—“after he has attended to my reading.”

  The professor was left in no doubt as to who was in charge here. He nodded and resumed his position, and again August felt a rising swell of something he could not explain: a great presence of…of what? He was not sure.

  Whisper, whisper.

  A hundred whispers.

  August’s head swam.

  “The Oraculum,” said Leech, glancing up at Orchid, “perceives that you are in search of something. Something of enormous importance to you.”

  The rings on her fingers glinted as Orchid clenched her fists and raised her chin defiantly. But she remained silent.

  “You care,” continued Leech, darkly, “about nothing else. Nothing.”

  “Can you…” Orchid’s voice was thick and she faltered. She cleared her throat. “Can you locate this thing? Can you show me where it is?”

  Leech bowed his head farther. His hands began to shake. Moisture upon his brow gathered into beads of sweat. He muttered something impossible to decipher.

  August’s knees grew weak. The whispers increased in number and volume to a deafening babble. August grabbed the fabric of the draperies behind him, afraid that he might faint.

  The audience suddenly reacted. There were numerous gasps and small cries.

  Vapors had suddenly appeared, swirling in the crystal ball.

  “What is that?”

  “There’s something there!”

  Leech was trembling all over. His eyes bulged. The miasma began to collect into something more solid, a shape. Orchid leaned in, her wild stare reflecting the light. There was a look of manic greed in her expression.

  “It’s a head,” cried the sharp-nosed, top-hatted man. “No, a face.”

  “Well, bless my soul,” cried Champagne Fontaine. “I am acquainted with that tragic little face. Now, that is the young man I encountered on the step outside this very house tonight.

  “That boy…is standing right over there!”

  “What, dear nephew,” said Orchid with a smile, sweet yet frosty like strawberry ice cream, “are you doing here?”

  “Yeah!” agreed Beauregard less sweetly.

  The DuPonts and Malveaus were gathered in the chamber of music. At least, this is how the room had been styled by Escargot the butler as he had bustled August and Claudette into it. The only visible instrument, however, was an enormous gilded harp rising before a tall mirror.

  The space seemed, in fact, to act more as an annex of Orchid’s gemstone collection, which August had first encountered at the Malveaus’ mansion, near Pepperville. Every available surface was populated by glass cloches displaying colorful rocks.

  August speculated that these perhaps represented the most valuable of his aunt’s specimens, for unlike the selection at Château Malveau, none were dull or unremarkable. All sparkled intensely with clear and vivid hues: deep ocean blue, bright grass green, sunny primrose yellow. He wondered if a brilliantly scarlet, many-faceted stone the size of a chicken’s egg could possibly be a ruby.

  The chamber of music was in reality an extension of the salon, the transition between the two marked by four square fluted pillars. In the front room, the weepy widows remained largely absorbed by Leech’s readings, but from the corner of his eye, August was aware of an occasional curious face twisting around to observe the family drama unfolding behind them.

  “How, dear nephew,” continued Orchid, “did you even arrive at this place?” She paused with a sudden thought. “That nitwit…rather, my sister Hydrangea has not accompanied you…has she?”

  August shook his head.

  “I left her a note so she wouldn’t worry,” he explained. “And mostly, we rowed here. Well, Claudette did.” Claudette grinned sheepishly, waggling her dismembered arm from side to side.

  Orchid’s smile was not really a smile.

  August noticed that over his aunt’s shoulder was a second Orchid.

  Looming above the fireplace was a grandly framed oil painting, a Malveau family portrait. August concluded that it must have been painted several years ago, as Beauregard and his twin sister, Belladonna, were clearly much younger, maybe five or so years old.

  At the rear stood a handsome man, which August assumed was Orchid’s late husband, holding the young Belladonna in his arms. Beauregard leaned against the arm of a chair, in which lounged a woman instantly recognizable as August’s aunt.

  But the painted Orchid provided a stark contrast to the living one. She wore a breezy floral dress and was arranged in a carefree pose, one hand limply draped, holding her fan, the other resting on Beauregard’s arm.

  August marveled at how relaxed and happy the family looked and was struck by the realization that they must have suffered greatly to arrive at their present mournful state. But his brow creased. There was something about the painting that felt a little off. Something that felt contradictory. But before he could consider the matter further, his attention was again demanded by his immediate circumstances.

  “You and your filthy DuPont zombie,” growled Beauregard, “are not welcome here.”

  August glanced at his cousin nervously but addressed his aunt.

  “You haven’t found it yet, have you? Orfeo’s Cadaverite, the Zombie Stone. That’s what you wanted Professor Leech to locate for you.”

  Orchid regarded her nephew with pursed lips.

  “I have not,” she confirmed reluctantly. “Belladonna stubbornly refuses to remember the name of the gallery that acquired it. I’ve had the children, Escargot, even private detectives scour the city, but of gallery or stone, no one has found any sign. Now the twins are busy with school, fencing lessons. Escargot has no neck to speak of…” Orchid trailed off with a vague flap of her fan.

  August failed to see the significance of Escargot’s anatomy but recognized an opportunity.

  “We could help you look, ma’am,” he suggested quietly.

  Orchid sighed with strained composure.

  “If paid professionals have failed in the task, what could two bedraggled children, one of them, by the way, quite dead, possibly hope to achieve?”

  “What harm could it do?” August gently pushed back. “I’m not in school. Claudette has nothing but time.”

  Orchid observed the zombie. August could see her begin to consider the suggestion. He was suddenly aware of his aunt’s distinctive perfume. Gardenias. The lady tilted her head; calculation showed in her expression.

  “You,” said Orchid, curious. “I recognize you. From that old photograph in the parlor of Locust Hole.”

  “She’s your great-aunt,” explained August. “Claudette DuPont.”

  Orchid nodded, deep in thought.

  “Who would credit it?” she muttered, more to herself than anyone present. “A relative of mine, risen clear up from the dead. How…unexpected. If there was ever anyone”—she paused, thinking—“qualified to find the Zombie Stone, I suppose it would be a zombie.”

  She decided.

  “Very well.”

  “What?” cried Beauregard so loudly that he drew glances from several weepy widows.

  “You and this…Aunt Claudette”—Orchid flapped at the zombie—“may stay here. Perhaps, August, you might redeem yourself after your last, let’s say, misadventure.”

  August felt small when reminded of his previous failure to acquire the Zombie Stone for his aunt. He did not especially like Orchid. He certainly did not trust her; her interest in the Cadaverite, rare as it might have been, seemed excessive for an amateur collector of minerals.

  Hydrangea had assured August that her sister was motivated by greed, or bitterness deriving from a family feud. Perhaps both. But August recognized desperation in his aunt’s obsession.

  He recognized it because it rivaled his own.

 
“There is something,” August thought, “that Aunt Orchid is not revealing.”

  “But, Mama!” Beauregard was horrified by his mother’s invitation. “The butterflies! The zombie! It’s violent; it pushed me! In front of everyone! I was humiliated!”

  Without looking at him, Orchid pointed her fan at her son.

  “Had you and your sister located the thing,” she said coldly, “this conversation would hardly be necessary. Stop whining and go play with your little sword. Escargot! For the time being, it seems the DuPonts will be our guests; ensure my nephew gets a set of house keys.”

  Beauregard’s face darkened with fury.

  “Your luggage?” Orchid inquired of August.

  “Our boat sank, ma’am.”

  Orchid rolled her eyes.

  “That sounds about right,” she said. “And some pajamas, Escargot. And toothbrushes.” She briefly studied Claudette. “Well, one toothbrush. Now, let me see. With Beauregard’s friends here, all of the bedrooms are occupied tonight.” Orchid flapped her fan toward the rear windows flanking the harp.

  “Kindly settle my nephew and great-aunt in the carriage house. And, August, let’s try keeping the butterflies to a minimum, hmm?”

  Escargot, arms laden with bedding, wore an expression that suggested he was about as thrilled by the DuPonts’ arrival as Beauregard.

  Ushered through a back door, August found himself in a compact subtropical oasis contained within the courtyard behind the house. Gravel paths wound past planters crowded with lush, flowering plants. Mossy stone cupids peeked through leaves the size of serving platters. The fronds of towering palm trees swished overhead. At the courtyard’s center lay a low-walled pond, where exotic black-specked fish lurked beneath lily pads.

  On the left, a narrow wing of the house flanked the closed space. On the right loomed a tall brick wall, sooty stains and numerous patches marking its age. High above, painted letters faded to shadows read “Theatre Français.”