They ran and shouted and reveled in the fact of being eight years old with a yet endless summer stretching away before the harsh reality of school intruded. At first they had missed the Valley and friends, but the kids in Pittsville seemed okay and they played ball all the time, which was great. They all missed Little League, but the kids said there’d be a new one next year. It was shaping up to be a wonderful summer.
Then, before they knew where they were, they found themselves crossing the bald hill, the one Jack called Erl King Hill. Both boys grinned nervously and shared a secret thrill at the idea of mystery and things of magic. A sudden, wordless communication passed, and an impromptu game of follow-the-leader commenced. Patrick ran in circles around the top of the hill, while Sean duplicated his movements. Bad Luck tried to play, but couldn’t resist running alongside first one brother, then the other. They yelled for the joy of it. Then they were sprinting back into the trees. They dashed through the woods with the endless supply of energy given to children, laughing at the simple pleasure of being alive. Then they reached the bridge.
Both boys halted. Bad Luck stood with hackles rising, a low growl issuing from his throat. Panting, the twins silently understood that the bridge was once again a scary place. Many times since they had first met Jack they had crossed the Troll Bridge, and while it was never a comfortable experience, the bridge had lacked the solid sense of menace they had felt upon first viewing it. But now the feeling of danger had returned, if anything stronger than ever. Patrick rolled the Louisville Slugger off his shoulder and held it before him as if it were a club. Fingering the stone Barney had given him, Sean softly said, “It’s back.”
Neither knew what it was, but both knew there was a malignant presence hiding in the dark place beneath the bridge. Bad Luck snarled and began to move forward. Sean snapped, “Heel!” and the canine reluctantly fell in at Sean’s side. He whimpered and growled, but seemed willing to obey. Patrick nodded and they stepped forward, putting foot upon the stones of the Troll Bridge.
Suddenly evil swept up from below, swirling around them like a fetid wind. Both boys moved quickly, eyes wide with fright as they walked purposefully across the bridge. They instinctively knew the rules of crossing. They couldn’t look down or back. They couldn’t speak. They couldn’t run. And they couldn’t stop. To do any of those things would allow the thing below the bridge to come rushing up, to grab the boys and drag them back to its lair. The boys didn’t make the rules, they just knew them and abided by them.
At the midpoint of the bridge, Sean felt an overwhelming urge to run and shot a glance at Patrick. Patrick returned the glance with one of dark warning. To run was to be lost. With steady steps, he led his more timid brother across the bridge, until they were free of the confines of the ancient dark arch. Bad Luck hesitated, and Sean’s hand shot down to grab his collar, forcing the dog to come along at the proper pace. As soon as their feet were off the stones and back on the path, the boys leaped forward as one and were off at a dead run. Bad Luck hesitated an instant, indulging in a defiant bark at the bridge, before he dashed after the boys.
Sean shot a glance rearward, not sure if the rule about looking back held now they were finished with the bridge. As the bridge vanished behind the trees they fled through, he glimpsed the dark presence. It had seen him! Fighting down panic, Sean overtook his brother. Patrick saw Sean pass him, and the race was on.
By the time they reached home, all thoughts of the black presence under the Troll Bridge were forgotten and the only concern was who would be first to reach the screen door. As usual, it was Patrick by a step, with Bad Luck at his side.
Gloria stood in the kitchen, finishing the last preparations for dinner. “Cutting it a little fine, fellows,” she said dryly, her eyes upon the clock. They dined at seven during the summer, six during school. “You have just enough time for washing up—and don’t simply wipe your hands on the towels!” she shouted after them as they vanished in the direction of the bathroom. Gloria returned to getting dinner ready.
7
“Look at this,” said Gary, handing a book to Mark. Mark opened it and read, then grinned.
“What?” asked Phil as he poked around his desk.
“Dirty German poetry,” said Gary. “Old Herman had a few vices.”
Mark put the book down. “Not very good.” To Phil he said, “Look, if we’re in the way, let us know.”
Phil waved away the comment. “I’ve finished the first draft and Gloria’s reading it upstairs. I’m taking the boys fishing. One of the reasons I left L.A. was so I could spend time with my kids. Being at the studios fifteen hours a day makes for strangers, not families.” He put away some papers and moved toward the door. “Gabbie’s out with Jack, so you can have the library to yourself.”
Mark Blackman regarded the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and shook his head. “This may take longer than I thought.”
Phil turned at the door. “There’re more in the basement and attic. Have fun.”
“Catch a big one,” said Gary with a grin.
Phil stuck his head into the parlor, which was now the family TV room. Sean and Patrick were on the floor before the new big-screen television Phil had ordered the week before. Gloria had said nothing about the purchase—they could afford it—but she couldn’t understand why her husband and sons needed to see double plays and touchdowns life size.
“Come on, kids,” said Phil.
Sean leaped up and flipped off the ball game. The live feed from Chicago on WGN had begun an hour before, two in the afternoon, local time. The boys loved the idea of being able to point the dish at different satellites and get signals from all over the world, but most especially the superstation baseball broadcasts from Atlanta, New York, and Chicago. Sean grabbed his pole from where it leaned against the wall and happily said, “Padres are ahead by four.”
Patrick shook his head in disgust. “Sandberg booted one. Two unearned runs in the first!” He had maintained his allegiance to the Angels, but had decided to be a Cubs fan in the National League. Sean was taking double delight that his favorite team was on the verge of sweeping a three-game series with the Cubbies to the consternation of his brother.
Phil opened the front door and was confronted by Hemingway, who had chosen the middle of the doorway to lie. The cat opened his eyes and regarded three of the people whom he tolerated in his house. Phil looked down and, when it was apparent the old torn wasn’t about to move, stepped over him.
As Sean closed the door behind his brother, he said, “Wish us luck, Ernie. Maybe we’ll catch you a fish.”
The cat’s expression showed a less than optimistic attitude toward that outcome.
Gloria heard them leave and smiled to herself. She put the manuscript down on the bed beside her and thought about the chapter she had just finished. Phil’s work was good, but the narrative wandered about at this point of the story. She knew that Phil would catch it and tighten it up when he rewrote. But she also knew he’d expect her to point it out to him.
When she heard the car start up, she picked up the phone beside the bed and dialed. It was answered on the second ring. “Aggie?” The voice at the other end answered. “Tell Jack and Gabbie now.”
She hung up, a secret, conspiratorial smile on her face. Jumping up from the bed, she padded across the floor on bare feet and headed down the stairs. Reaching the landing, she glanced into the den and stepped back. Gary Thieus was in the fireplace.
Mark Blackman stood with his back to the door, looking over Gary’s shoulder while the younger man investigated something in the rear wall. Gloria quietly entered and said, “I don’t think you’ll find a lot of books in there, guys.”
Mark turned, seemingly unsurprised by her entrance. “Look here.” He pointed, but she saw only an empty shelf.
“The depth of the bookcase next to the fireplace doesn’t match all the others. There’s some unaccounted-for space behind the shelves.”
From inside the fireplace, Gary said, “G
ot something.”
Gary came out of the fireplace and passed a key over. “A lot of these old houses have little hidey-holes, like behind bricks in fireplaces or under false floorboards, and secret basements. Sometimes two or three different ones in the same house. There’s a little hollow on the side of the hearth, covered by a false stone.”
She took the key, noticing it was covered in soot, and said, “What is it?”
Mark said, “I don’t know. Have you a door that you can’t unlock?”
Gloria said, “No, unless there’s something in the basement I’ve missed. I haven’t spent a lot of time down there.” She absently tapped her cheek with the key, leaving a small smudge. “Mark, just what are you after?”
Blackman said, “I’m not sure. If I were, I’d know better how to go about finding it.” He pointed at Gloria’s cheek and the key.
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense,” she said, wiping away the spot of soot.
Mark moved around to lean back against Phil’s desk while Gary sat on a stack of books. “Gloria, have you read any of my books?”
“No,” she said without embarrassment.
“That’s not surprising. Most of them are still in print, but they tend to be in libraries or on the shelves of some pretty strange little stores—you know, next to the books by people who’ve been to Venus in flying saucers or know where Atlantis is. Most of my work is devoted to finding the underlying truth in myth and legend, especially in the area of the occult and in magic. If there’s a real story behind a myth, I want to find out about it. I wrote a long work devoted to the idea that the mystic visions of peyote rites were actually deep racial memories induced by the hallucinogens in peyote. My theory is that the Native American cultures in the Southwest had a different psychological set from European ones, which let those ‘primitive’ people reach places in their genetic memory, places most ‘civilized’ people don’t know exist within their heads.”
Gloria said, “Sounds pretty Jungian to me.” Mark smiled and Gary grinned. “It’s very Jungian,” said Gary.
“But what’s that got to do with your digging around in my fireplace?”
“Look, I don’t like to talk about my work before I show it to my editor. Only Gary knows what we’re doing, but you do deserve an explanation. But believe me when I say we’re up to nothing nefarious. It’s just I didn’t want to talk about my current work.” He paused. “Remember at Aggie’s, I told you I was after information about Fredrick Kessler?” She indicated she did. “He’s one of a few men I’ve been able to track who were involved, somehow, in some pretty strange occurrences that I’m interested in.”
“Like what?”
Mark said, “Like a lot of things I’m still trying to figure out. But what I know so far is that just after the turn of the century in what is now southern Germany—Bavaria, and parts of Württemberg—there was a sudden return to more primitive attitudes, as if the peasantry were going back to the beliefs of their ancestors of centuries earlier, superficially Christian, but only a Christian patina over a deep, abiding pagan belief system. And doing it in droves. Tales of magic and sorcery ran rampant.”
Gloria said, “Great. Now you’re telling me Old Man Kessler’s father hung out with pagan priests?”
“No,” corrected Mark. “I’m telling you Old Man Kessler’s father was a mystery man, known beyond what his status as a minor merchant entitled him, at a time when all hell was breaking loose in southern Germany among the peasantry. There were a full half-dozen references to Fredrick Kessler and some other people whom he was known to associate with. But the maddening thing is … I’m looking at a black box. Something’s in there, I just don’t know what.” He crossed his arms and obvious frustration showed on his face. “Something odd, and pretty mysterious, happened eighty, eighty-five years ago in southern Germany, and it was very important, but just exactly what it was is not yet clear. And Fredrick Kessler was involved. I wanted to talk to the son, but he was already in Europe when I got here, last year. I tried getting permission from his lawyer to poke around, but he wouldn’t allow it. So I snuck out here and checked out the grounds. I didn’t break into the house. But the lawyer got wind of it somehow and threatened to call the sheriff if I set foot on the property again. So I spent some time doing whatever research I could in the local newspaper morgue and the area libraries, and even interviewed people who knew the elder Kessler—though there were only a few of them. When Herman died I was down in Washington, checking old banking records. By the time I got back, you and Phil had made an offer on the house.
“What I’ve pieced together is that Fredrick Kessler and his associates were somehow central to this reversion to pagan beliefs, and it was unprecedented historically. Turn-of-the-century Germany was not exactly the place for such an event. This isn’t a case of the peasants in Transylvania suddenly concerned that Dracul had risen again from the grave, or aborigines in the outback believing in the spirits of animals. It was as if most every inhabitant of Connecticut in 1905 suddenly believed in spirits, elves, and the older gods again. Then, most surprising of all, the heads of the Protestant and Catholic churches, even the leaders of the Jewish community, which was persecuted by them, all joined with the local authorities to stamp out the sudden reversion to paganism. It was, in a literal sense, a witch-hunt. A lot of people were arrested, some were relocated out of their villages and towns, and not a few simply disappeared—I expect they were executed. It’s been hushed up over the years—even a century ago there was concern over P.R.—but it was a regular little inquisition.”
“Well, it’s a hell of a story,” said Gloria. “But why the mystery? Why not tell us up front?”
Mark shrugged. “I don’t like talking about my research, like I said. That’s part of it. Also there’s the question of religion. The established churches don’t like to be publicly reminded of some of their past actions. And some people get tense when you bring up the subject of ancient pagan beliefs, even these days.”
“Especially these days,” added Gary. “The fundamentalists can generate a lot of noise if they want to.”
Mark nodded. “And there’s the stories about the treasure.”
“You mentioned it at Aggie’s and laughed it off.”
“Well, it may not be a joke. Whatever the cause—involvement with this pagan thing or some other reason—the elder Kessler and his cronies left Germany in haste about that time and showed up in Canada, the States, and South Africa. There were about a dozen of them. All of them were traveling light, but all of them were prosperous businessmen within two years of reaching their new homes. Where did the money come from? If you check records, Kessler would have had to have twenty or thirty grand to get started, and it seemed he had more than that.”
Gary said, “That’s like a quarter million today.”
Gloria couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more here than Mark was revealing. But before she could comment, the front door opened and Gabbie called out, “We’ve got it!”
Jack staggered in carrying a large box, put it on the floor by the desk, and hurried outside. Gloria said to Mark, “We’ll talk more later.”
Jack and Gabbie both brought in several more boxes and quickly opened them.
“What goes on?” inquired Mark.
“It’s Dad’s birthday,” announced Gabbie, removing what looked to be a television from a box. “We’ve bought him a word processor.” With a grin, she said, “It’s self-defense. Dad’s a lousy typist. At the studios they had people who would type the scripts. Without this, Gloria or I will end up retyping his manuscripts.” Inside a half hour, a complete home computer took form on Phil’s desk. A printer was hooked up to it, and Jack quickly ran a few tests. “Everything’s perfect,” he announced.
Mark said, “Well, if you’re going to have a party for Phil, I guess we should take off. We’ll come back tomorrow.”
Gloria said, “No, stick around. Look, Phil’s as bad as you are for not talking about what he’s workin
g on, but now you’ve spilled the beans he’ll be fascinated. And Gabbie’s going into Pittsville for Chinese, so there’s no problem with a few extra mouths.”
“Okay,” answered Mark. “I assume Aggie’s going to join us?”
“Of course.”
“What do you mean I’m going to get dinner?” said Gabbie.
“You’ve been elected,” answered her stepmother. “Besides, I had a call from Mr. Laudermilch and he said it’s okay to board My Dandelion here for the rest of the summer now that our barn is fixed. He says you’re a pretty good horsewoman.”
Gabbie’s eyes widened. She turned to Jack. “You creep! You didn’t say a thing.”
He laughed. “It was supposed to be a surprise. Besides, it was your folks’ idea.”
Gabbie threw her arms around Gloria’s neck. “Thanks, Gloria. She’s a terrific horse. I like her almost as much as Bumper. I’ll take good care of her.”
“You’re welcome, Gabbie.” Gloria squeezed back. “Phil also got him to let us keep John Adams. But you’ve got to work them, and teaching the boys to ride is part of the deal.”
With mock distaste, Gabbie said, “So now I’ll have to put up with him every day, I guess,” indicating Jack.
“Hey!” protested the object of her bogus scorn.
“Go get the animals, then when Phil and the boys are back, dinner. Okay?”
“Okay!” she said with enthusiasm as she grabbed Jack’s hand, and half led, half dragged him from the den.
Gloria watched them exit, then said, “Why don’t you go on with what you’re doing, and I’ll get back to reading Phil’s manuscript. We can start over with Kessler’s treasure or whatever after dinner. All right?”
“Fine,” said Mark.
He and Gary returned to inspecting the books and making a catalog, while Gloria went upstairs. She was not unmindful of the key that rested in her jeans pocket, and she was certain Mark hadn’t forgotten it either.
In the small storage space under the stairs a black thing listened, hanging to the underside of the steps. It made a satisfied sighing sound and judged it time to leave. It moved like some giant black spider, its long arms and legs seeming to stick to whatever surface it touched. Next to the baseboard, it halted, regarding the narrow crack between boards. The creature somehow seemed to shrink in upon itself, compressing bones and joints, until it could slither through the crack. In an almost silent whisper it hissed, “The key. The key.” Then with a chuckle it vanished through the crack.
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