“Beaufort”
“Beaufort, and anywhere else we want and have a grand old time. So. We’ll have something to do instead of just sitting behind closed doors in this mausoleum, reading and swooning from the vapors. What do you think of that?”
Willadee’s face clearly showed what she thought of that, and the profound shock registering on her pretty features made Randy chuckle. “Oooh, yeah. Won’t we have fun. I opt for a convertible.” Willadee only nodded, still speechless. Randy laughed again then sobered. “Oh, jeez.”
“What?” Willadee’s eyebrows rose.
“It just occurred to me…”
“What just occurred to you?”
“Something’s fishy in Denmark.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Something stinks.”
“Miranda…”
“No, listen. Why all this fuss, in the first place, over a never used, stuffy room at the top of the house? I mean, Aunt Amanda never goes up there. She told me herself. I realize there’s probably some psychological reason for keeping the place a shrine to the memory of her lost sister, but...well...big deal. Miranda’s been gone for over forty years. Enough already.”
“I agree, but, it’s just the way things are. And it’s really none of our business. She’s eccentric. We both know that. My parents know that. We just humor her, give her a little slack. You understand. It’s her house. Or, at least, she thinks of it as her house. It’s the way it’s always been. I’m just grateful for the tremendous changes made since your arrival. You’ve worked miracles, Randy. Let’s just thank dear Uncle Arthur for thinking of such a wonderful treat for us. I, in my wildest imagination, would never have thought of it.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right, but…”
“No buts. Uncle Arthur is so sweet. He usually hates to spend money on what he considers frivolous things, and he’d never do anything that would be considered a confrontation with Auntie.” Willadee shrugged. “Actually, I’m surprised she’d go along with it...renting a car, I mean. Yet, he is the eldest, and one thing Auntie knows is position and protocol. She practically worships at the altar of convention.”
Randy made a face, unfolded her legs and stood up. “Okay. I’ll let you rest some more. Hope you can shake that headache. I’m really sorry you don’t feel well.”
“Thanks. It’s better. I’ll be down for dinner.”
Randy nodded and returned to her room. Rumbles of thunder somewhere off shore heralded the approaching storm.
TWENTY-TWO
Back in her bedroom, Randy sat on the bed and stared blankly at the swirling pattern in the rug. A car? Uncle Arthur—without even discussing it with Her Highness—was going to rent a car for her. For her. So that she and Willadee could have a diversion. A diversion. A diversion from what exactly? Just what was up in that room that was so sacred to everybody—besides the morbid memory of a missing sister?
She had to go back to that room.
Grabbing a flashlight, Randy sneaked down the hallway for the second time—eyes darting this way and that in case someone was nearby. She sprinted up the narrow stairs, paused again to listen, then entered the playroom. If she hurried, she could delve into the nooks and crannies and see what was up here. See if anything gave the secret away.
She began by searching a small dresser, poring through its three drawers. There were bottles of nail polish—dried and useless—combs and curlers and more cosmetics than you could shake a stick at—also dried up and useless. There was a scrapbook, several colorful scarves, and a dozen other impractical things.
She examined the floor, going over it inch by inch with her flashlight. Plenty of curled up carcasses of bugs and numerous clumps of dust, but nothing remotely resembling a viable clue. She even went so far as to lift up the throw rugs and overturn chairs. Nothing.
The next thing Randy examined was a corner of the room that, for some reason, bothered her. The walls were panels of wood, stained a dark cherry, but when she’d first glanced in their direction, an anomaly had grabbed her attention. There was something different about the wood panels. But when she looked directly at them, there wasn’t anything out of place.
With her flashlight, Randy inspected the corner wall, but nothing screamed out at her. She played the light up and down the wall, feeling the cracks and seams in the wood with her hand. She knocked on the wall and was rewarded with a hollow sound, a definitive echo, just a foot from the outside wall. She moved a foot and knocked again. The sound was different. Solid. No hollow echo.
“Hmm, what’s going on here,” she muttered.
Randy examined the wall, inch by inch, running her hands up and down its surface. She was about to give it up as futile when her hand felt a tiny protuberance right under the molding close to the ceiling. Standing on tiptoes, she gave the knob a good twist.
An audible clicking sound invited her to push harder at the tiny button. Without warning, a section of the wall opened outward, disclosing a steep, narrow stairway that disappeared into utter darkness. Randy caught her breath and stared at the scene before her. “Now we’re talking,” she breathed.
Gripping her flashlight, Randy stepped through the small square opening and went down two steps to see what her light could pick out. Without warning, the section of wall closed behind her with a decisive bang. She was so startled that she lost her footing and slipped down half a dozen more steps before stopping herself with both hands. She landed hard on her tailbone, and the backs of her legs were rubbed raw. Her left wrist hurt from breaking the fall, and, if that weren’t enough, the flashlight had gone off.
Randy found herself in absolute darkness—a darkness not often experienced by human beings. Total, unbelievable blackness. She couldn’t even see her hand in front of her face. She sat—her back rigid—on the narrow step, and felt the panic start to simmer.
“Oh, hells bells.” She sucked in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then strained to hear something. Anything. Even a scuttling mouse would be preferable to this deathly silence. There was nothing—no noise whatsoever, except…yes. The faint sound of dripping water. She sat for an eternity of heartbeats…and listened.
Drip…drip…drip…drip…until it became deafening.
“Oh, Susannah, oh, don’t you cry for me. I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee…” She sang a little off-key, but the sound of her own voice was better than listening to the slow, tedious dripping of water.
Her flashlight clutched in a death-grip, she flicked the switch—praying that it would work. It did, and the contrast from total darkness seemed as bright as direct sunlight. She had to wait a minute, squinting and blinking, until her eyes adjusted to the light. Yet even with its strong beam, the flashlight couldn’t penetrate the ink in front of her.
Playing the light on the walls on either side, she searched for markings or indentations of any kind. Nothing to write home about. She stood up—her balance a little off—turned around, and being very careful, climbed back to where the moving panel had been. For several minutes, she searched for a knob—something—to open the door. She felt nothing but the uneven surface of the wall. With growing fervor, she banged against the barricade until perspiration dripped into her eyes. She had to stop to wipe her face with her shirt.
“Okay,” she said aloud. “Okay, I can do this. I can stay calm...someone will find me...I’m not alone. God is watching...I hope….” Her mouth tasted like dirty socks.
For several minutes, she groped up and down the wall in front of her, and the walls on either side, but there was nothing to spring the mechanism and open the door. Exhausted and with arms aching, she sat down on a step to think.
“Okay...I’m locked in...but I feel a breeze so there’s air in here, and that means I won’t suffocate. If there’s air in here, it’s coming from somewhere. So maybe there’s another way out. I can do this...I can do this.” Her voice sounded loud to her sensitive ears.
Randy made her decision. She’d descend the narrow, wooden st
aircase, playing the light on the steps in front of her, and see what she could find. But I’ll be careful—take my time—don’t want to fall. A fall down here could be—well, deadly. Jeez, this staircase is so narrow a person weighing any more’n a hundred, fifty pounds wouldn’t make it. Her elbows scraped both sides.
Down, down, down—she took one slow, faltering step at a time. Where’s the ground floor, for crying out loud. Has to be a cellar of some kind. She glanced around in perplexity. Where the heck was she? Looking up for a second was a mistake. The next step was rotten clear away. She caught herself just in time, convinced she would’ve broken her leg for sure. Or worse. Jeez, be careful, you idiot.
After what seemed an eternity, Randy reached the bottom. Shining her light on the floor, she was surprised to find hard-packed dirt. She took a few tentative steps forward, keeping the light in front of her. To her dismay, she spied yet another set of narrow steps—this time crudely cut out of stone. After playing her flashlight on the walls around her, up and down, and seeing nothing, she knew she had to keep going.
One baby step at a time, she descended into the black void. Her heart pounded as though it’d burst. Taking great gulps of air, she willed herself to calm down, but it was no use. She was scared, and there was no way she could talk herself out of it.
As Randy made her way down the crumbling stone steps, she noticed how much cooler it’d become, with a decided pungency in the air. It smelled like Mr. Weiss’ woodshed back in Seattle. And his woodshed had damp rot and was moldy and covered in green moss and lichen. She shivered and reached out to touch the walls that were so close—so confining. They felt damp and slimy and she recoiled in revulsion.
She was underground. This was alarming, to say the least. She tried calling out again. “Hello. Can anyone hear me? Hello. I’m in a cellar. Can you hear me?” Desperate for a response, she held her breath. Silence enveloped her like a dark shroud. It was unbelievable, this incomprehensible nothingness.
Pointing her flashlight to the ground in front of her, Randy caught a glimpse of something lying against the wall. She inched toward it and moved it a fraction with one foot. It was a scarf—or, rather, the remnants of a scarf. Bending down, she picked it up and was surprised when it crumbled in her hands.
“A scarf? Down here? How did a scarf get down here...unless…” she hesitated as a horrible thought sent icicles down her back.
For a minute, fear took over and threatened to destroy what little composure she had left. Uncontrollable shaking wracked her body, and her teeth sounded like castanets. Oh, jeez. It can’t be. It can’t be. That would be insane.
TWENTY-THREE
Randy wasn’t sure how long she stood there shaking like a bowl of Jell-O in an earthquake, but suddenly, a rush of adrenaline allowed her to regain some semblance of common sense. No time for hysterics. She had to move on. But her head was pounding in time with her heart, and she was thirsty. Visions of ice-cold Cokes taunted her. Get a grip. Count to ten, for crying out loud, and get a grip. Don’t let your imagination go bonkers.
She dropped the decomposing bits of cloth and continued down the narrow passageway, letting her flashlight illuminate with its anemic beam, different sections of the walls that lined the tunnel, creating grotesque shadows that leaped and cavorted like frenzied creatures from the nether world.
Bricks and cement and a crumbly substance that she vaguely remembered was called tabby had replaced the wooden walls. In some places, the mortar disintegrated to mere dust, and Randy had a new fear of walls giving way and burying her alive. The panic rose up again. She felt like running. Running until she either found the way out or rammed into a wall. At least the ordeal would be over.
“Don’t be stupid. Think this through. Use your head. Stay calm. Don’t be an idiot.” She paused, forcing herself to take in a deep breath, willing her racing heart to slow down.
It was weird to feel so out of breath when she hadn’t been doing any strenuous exercise. She panted like she’d run the track at school. And then she was aware of something even more debilitating. Her flashlight didn’t seem as bright as it’d been. No doubt it’d been growing weaker for some time, but she hadn’t noticed. She looked at her watch. The crystal was covered in a spider web of infinitesimal cracks. She couldn’t make out the time.
Sighing, Randy pushed on. If her light went out while down here, she was pretty sure she’d lose it. Common sense was one thing—abject fear, another. She wasn’t sure she could handle total darkness. She had to find the end of this tunnel, maze—whatever it was—and soon.
Up ahead, her light revealed another narrow passage breaking off from the first. Undecided which way to go, she stood for a minute and prayed for inspiration. On a whim, she picked the left corridor and headed in that direction. One short step at a time, Randy shuffled down the now twisting tunnel. The ceiling was so low, she had to stoop just to continue.
The dark mound in front of her made her stop short and hold her breath. When it didn’t move even after several minutes, Randy inched forward to get a better look. Not relishing a nest of rodents, she raised her flashlight and directed its beam onto the small heap. What she saw caused her to drop the flashlight, sink weakly to her knees, and wrap both arms around her head. She screamed as she sank into a yawning pit that cradled her in merciful oblivion.
* * * *
When Randy opened her eyes, there was only impenetrable blackness. Sitting up with a start, she thrust both arms in front of her, flailing and groping for something familiar. Was she blind? Why couldn’t she see? Before the panic could erupt into fresh hysterics, she remembered.
“Oh, God...Oh, God, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. It can’t be. It’s too horrible...too horrible…” she moaned aloud.
For another minute, she sat there, arms wrapped around her head, rocking back and forth. Then, overcome with a fresh wave of panic, she slithered back toward the wall and pressed her face against its clammy coldness. The moldy smell made her sneeze, but she didn’t turn away. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Please, help me. Make it go away.”
Randy moaned for several minutes, curling into a tight ball, pressing against the chill of the stone wall. When she thought she couldn’t take another minute of this horrific nightmare, an unexpected calm flooded over her. She lifted her head and wiped her face with the back of a hand. The realization that she wasn’t going to lose it after all was like a soothing balm.
She groped around her for her flashlight, biting her lip until one hand brushed it. She grabbed it and held it against her for a moment. This cheap plastic flashlight was her lifesaver, her sanity. She switched it on, but was rewarded with only a pallid beam. Shaking it, she toggled the switch, praying for a brighter light. It was no use. Either the batteries were failing, or it’d been damaged when she’d dropped it. She’d have to make do.
Taking a deep breath and reciting a quick, but fervent prayer, Randy again aimed the light on the still mound in front of her. The light played over the white skull and bones like a dancing sprite, but the feeble, yellow light softened the horror, so, although still very grim and macabre, Randy was able to keep her wits and remain calm.
She crawled toward the skeleton with trepidation and stared at the remains of what was once a living, breathing human being—someone that’d loved and laughed, sang and played. A young girl, who’d had dreams of the future, loved the ocean beach. Her mother’s beloved big sister.
A few strands of long, black hair, mixed with white lay in a clump by the bare skull. Some of the clothes were discernible, and Randy could tell that the corpse had been wearing an emerald green sweater. Around the neck, a gold chain attached to an oddly shaped pendant lay indifferent to its surroundings.
Randy reached out to touch the necklace. Although this one was coated with forty years of grime and no longer bright and shiny, she recognized it as the other half of Aunt Amanda’s pendant. “Oh, Miranda...poor, poor Miranda. You couldn’t get out, could you? You were trapped down here, and n
o one ever knew that all the while you were here...still in the house.” The tears rolled unchecked down Randy’s cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away.
Carefully removing the pendant, Randy put it in her pocket. She had the surreal feeling she wasn’t a participant in this nightmare. Someone else discovered the skeleton of Miranda Bainbridge. Someone else had enough self-possession to gaze on her fleshless skull with its inhuman, leering grin. Someone else had the temerity to reach out and touch the remains in order to retrieve a necklace. Certainly she, Randy Smith, didn’t have that kind of courage; wouldn’t do those things—couldn’t do those things.
For some time, Randy knelt there, mesmerized by the grisly scene in front of her. She stared in fascination mixed with extreme sorrow at what was left of her Aunt Miranda. The skeleton was lying in a fetal position, indicating the way she’d lain when she’d died. Like she just fell asleep, Randy mused. She just gave up and went to sleep. She must’ve been so scared—so alone.
A full ten minutes later, Randy stood. Her fear and abhorrence of the thing before her, gone. She was numb. She felt neither pain nor terror—nothing. Turning away from the remains, she retraced her steps to the main tunnel and began the slow process of feeling her way back up its narrow passage. Her flashlight grew feebler by the minute. Just a few heartbeats from now it would be out.
TWENTY-FOUR
Her flashlight started flickering, and Randy knew it was about to go out. She turned it off, deciding to save what weak charge was left for when she needed it. Trouble was, she needed it now. She’d always hated the dark. Ever since she was a little kid, she’d hated the dark.
Randy took one step at a time, hands touching the wall on either side. Although clammy and covered with growing things, she used the walls as a guide and as an illusion of support. Now and then she’d touch something soft, moist and squishy and have to bite her lip from screaming and losing it. Each time it seemed too much for her—overwhelmed her to the point of giving up—then she’d picture the other Miranda lying in her curled up position. Dead.
Shade and Shadow Page 14
