Harrow: Three Novels (Nightmare House, Mischief, The Infinite)

by Douglas Clegg

  18

  “What’s different?” Jack asked.

  Frost looked at him, and then at Cali. “I guess nothing. I guess it’s nothing,” he said. “I thought the curtains were closed before. Now they’re open.”

  “Well,” Jack said, “if it’s a spirit moment, it’ll be captured on camera. Let’s hope it is. If not, then probably Ivy has been in here.”

  “That’s probably all it is,” Frost said, mild irritation in his voice.

  “Yes, she wanders. I don’t want to unnerve any of you, but she goes where she pleases here, and as much as I’d like to limit her, she is the money here, and none of us would be here without her.” Then, more mildly, Jack added, “We’d prefer that all the rooms remained unlocked, but if a door is closed, rest assured someone will knock before entering.”

  “Good to know,” Cali said. She turned and went back out into the hallway. The corridor was a long one. At the end of it were double doors that no doubt led to other parts of the house. She went down to the end of the hall and pulled back the left door. It was completely dark on the other side, but she saw wisps of plastic sheets and plywood boards leaning. An icy breeze came through, and she stood there, wondering why she felt as if someone might be there, in the darkness, waiting for her to step into the other side.

  Jack called down to her. “That’s the off-limits area. Nothing exciting there—just the mess the contractor left in late September.”

  Cali glanced back at him. Jack had begun walking toward her. “This the east wing?”

  She noticed that Frost had not reemerged from his bedroom. When Jack reached her, he shook his head, chuckling. “That Frost. He’s a character.”

  “What’s up with him? He’s acting all nervous and guilty.”

  “It’s his basic nature.” Jack said. ‘We had him over as a guest for several months a while back, and he has a strong streak of paranoia running through him. I know for a fact that the curtains of that room were open—I think he’s trying to draw attention to himself by pretending that something supernatural has already happened to him. He’s a bit of a showman.”

  “Lovely,” Cali said.

  “He’s not a bad guy.” Jack said. Then he turned to the left and reached for the knob of a narrow door. Cali had assumed it was a closet or a bathroom. “Let’s go up now that we’re here.”

  “What’s this one?”

  “It’s the stairs up to the turret room in back. The one you can see from out in the statue garden. It was completely closed off

  from students by Alfred Barrow, the founder of the school. It’s a special place.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s where Justin Gravesend bricked his daughter up alive,” Jack said.

  19

  The stairway was winding and narrow, and Cali had to keep putting her hand against the wall to steady herself. There was very little light on the stairs themselves, so Jack’s flashlight came in handy. Above, a dim but warm glow of light descended as they rose, and by the time they reached the landing of the tower, the room was well lit with several floor lamps all connected to one socket with an extension cord. The room was chilly, and there was nothing terribly interesting about it—it was curved as a tower room would be—and the stones were not covered over with plaster or wood, so it felt more like being in a medieval castle than did the rest of the house. Cali noticed the ever-present video camera above one of the lamps; an EMF meter sat in a corner of the room, also.

  The room was bisected by a wall and a doorway through the wall—but there was no door.

  “She died here.” Jack said, motioning with his flashlight into the other half of the turret. Cali glanced in the room. The light shone across the far wall. Scratches and unusual symbols covered the stones. “She had lived most of her life within Harrow itself. It was a terrible monstrosity, but in those days insanity was little understood.”

  “Oh my God,” Cali said. “She was insane and this is what he did to her?”

  “The story goes,” Jack said, “that she was just a child when her psi talent began showing, and manifesting itself in presumably dangerous ways. Nobody has the details, but from what I understand, there was even an exorcism to remove the demons from her—when she was barely eight years old.”

  “Jesus.” Cali shook her head.

  “And then she died.”

  “In here? At eight?”

  “No, she was much older. Supposedly she died of some childhood ailment and was interred in the family crypt, but that must’ve just been the word that got out. She had not died at all, but, in fact, was alive and living in the house into middle age. Her father, in his madness, built a house within Harrow—walls behind walls—and it became her asylum. She lived within the house without ever entering the house proper again. We don’t know much about her, but we have found some of the passages through the house. The fire last year exposed them,” Jack added.

  “That’s awful. Just... terrible,” Cali said.

  “Maybe. But bear in mind the state of mental institutions in the late 1800s. They were nightmarish places. What father would’ve been able to bear to put a young daughter in one of them? Particularly Gravesend, who had watched his mother go insane in her thirties and spend the next thirty years of her life in the dungeon of an institution farther up the river—a place that would mildly be called a torture chamber by today’s standards? I would guess, sadly, that Gravesend was doing the best he knew how, given the difficulties he had in the world.”

  “Why not just keep her in the house? Why build another world for her?”

  Jack shrugged. “Could be she was violent. Could be that the shame of her insanity was too much. But I suspect something more, because you see, Gravesend belonged to an occult society. It was called the Chymera Magick, and it has been claimed that they committed atrocities and were devil-worshippers, among other wonderful but probably misguided notions. They were a secret group that may have been around since at least the thirteenth century, although it may have gone even farther back in history. Gravesend, in his youth, watching his mother’s insanity, had sought them out and performed feats for them—presumably of a magical nature—that impressed them enough to induct him at the age of twenty-three, which made him their youngest member. He amassed great wealth in his life, too—and this was something the Chymera Magick sorely needed, because some members had squandered what treasures they’d built up.

  “Gravesend began an international trade—on a small but significant scale—of antiquities and religious artifacts, and, in effect, raided the Chymera’s storehouse by buying sacred objects from its membership and their heirs. Ancient books, objects d’art, even an abbey from a then-isolated part of France. And he built this house as a museum, and he built the house within the house to hide his museum of the sacred and the profane. Relics of saints; dinosaur bones that were then thought to be the bones of ancient dragons; demonic vessels—it was rumored that Gravesend owned some of the most legendary objects of the holy and unholy world. Why? My guess is, he wanted to help his daughter. I think he believed in these objects. He believed they would cure his daughter’s soul of the madness and release the demons within her, and protect her from the evil that surrounded her. He didn’t understand that she had Ability X. She also very well may have had multiple personality disorder, as well as violent mood swings, all of which would’ve contributed to the effect of terror. And worst of all,” Jack said, almost sadly, “Gravesend had some tremendous guilt for the early acts of his life—and his guilt fed into the darkness to which he consigned his only daughter.”

  All Cali could think to say to this was: “Holy shit.” It was as much for the story as it was for the darkness within the other room. She thought she saw something moving—a shadow at the edge of the beam of light. A large shadow. A woman’s shadow.

  20

  Stepping into the flashlight’s beam: a woman who looked only slightly older than Cali, tall and slender, with hair barely brushed, nearly straw like. The woman’s
eyes were encircled with purple smudges of what could only be sleeplessness, and her face seemed quite drawn. “It’s terrible what he did,” the woman said. “But probably worse than that, what he created here.”

  Cali nearly jumped, and felt goose bumps along her arms and neck. Her heart pounded, and she quickly glanced at Jack, who observed her expression.

  He had a twinkle in his eye. “Cali Nytbird, meet Ivy Martin.”

  21

  Ivy Martin was a vision of failed beauty, and Cali could not help but feel sorry for her in some way, although she wasn’t quite sure why. She was young, probably in her early thirties, which surprised Cali, who had thought Ivy would be much older, given her wealth. She seemed entirely self-possessed, and that must have been the money and drive, because Cali knew few people who seemed this together. And still, an air of sorrow and dust accompanied her, as if she, herself, were a ghost.

  “Holy shit,” Cali repeated, feeling a whoosh of air escape her lungs. “Holy, holy shit.”

  “Hello,” Ivy said, extending her hand in greeting. Cali took it and gave it a brief but firm shake.

  “Hi. Christ, you scared me.”

  “Oops,” Ivy said. “I didn’t mean to.” Then she glared at Jack. “You could’ve told them all I was around.”

  “I did,” Jack said sheepishly. “Honest.”

  Back to Cali, Ivy offered a weary grin. “Sorry about that. I’ve been exploring, and I lost my flashlight down the stairs somewhere.” She indicated the other room with a wave of her hand. “It’s filthy down there, and I think there are rats.”

  “Down there?”

  “It’s one of the entrances to the inside part of the house,” Ivy said. “Jack? Have you told her nothing?”

  “No, he told me. I just didn’t know this was a way in,” Cali said.

  “Well, I’d give you a tour, but it’s a little rickety down there. And look.” She held a hand up to Jack, who took it in his. “I cut myself. I think I need a booster shot now. Damn it.”

  Cali noticed that Jack held her hand a bit tenderly, and then felt right away their connection. Jack was in love with Ivy Martin. It was right there in his eyes when he watched her, in the way he became a little boy, a boy in love.

  “Damn it,” Ivy said. Then, “So, you’re the psychometric one, right?”

  Cali nodded.

  “Good,” Ivy said in a businesslike manner. “Here, try this.” She reached into her pocket with her free hand and brought out what looked like a small shiny rock. “It’s from a piece of jewelry. I think it’s alexandrite.”

  Cali went over and put her hand out; Ivy set the stone into her hand; Cali closed her fingers around it and then closed her eyes.

  This is why they pay me the big bucks, she thought, as she tried to clear her mind.

  But in the night of her mind, nothing came to her. She stood there for several minutes; Ivy and Jack were silent; they’re watching me; clear your mind; clear your mind; think: nothing.

  Finally, she opened her eyes. “I’m sorry,” Cali said.

  “You’re exhausted,” Jack said. “Maybe tomorrow, after you’ve had some rest.”

  “Not even a spark of something,” Cali said. “Maybe you’re right. Sleep might be good.”

  Ivy looked skeptical. “Interesting,” was all she said. Then, “Well, get some sleep. Tomorrow we’ll see how it goes.”

  But Cali worried, as she went to her room, wondering if something within the house itself had shut down her abilities.

  CHAPTER NINE

  1

  Morning pissed rain; that was how Mira felt about it as she got out of bed and already knew a cold was coining on within her—she sneezed twice on the way to the bathroom. Her back hurt (this better not be my period), and the bottoms of her feet were freezing from the icy floor as she went to get her bathrobe: she felt chilly from just seeing the rain coming down outside her window. She glanced out across the yard and saw some vaguely human form running around in what looked like shorts and a sweatshirt and a dumbass baseball cap turned around backward so he looked like a genuine goofball.

  He’s out there. In the rain. Freezing his ass off.

  It was Chet.

  Behind him, Conan also ran, barking at his heels like he was Chefs own dog.

  2

  By the time Mira had made it out to the kitchen door, she was already well into her baggy jeans and the only clean T-shirt she could find, which, unfortunately, was purple and too large and made her look boxy. She had slipped into a pair of Nikes and managed to quickly brush the stickies of night out of her hair so that she felt fairly presentable.

  “Hey!” she called, as Chet was jogging by again. It was a nearly frosty morning; a few more degrees and it would’ve been sleet.

  “Hey!” Chet called out, his hand shooting up in a wave as he jogged by.

  She whistled, and Chet glanced back with a confused look.

  “Just calling my dog!” she shouted. Then she clapped her hands for Conan, who pretended not to hear her and ran alongside Chet as he tried to avoid stumbling through a stubble of rocks and a tree stump that was low to the ground. He glanced back again at her, and she pretended to be looking off in the distance. Then she looked back at him, but he and Conan both were just rounding the bend by the stone arches.

  “Shit,” Mira said, and went back into the kitchen. He’s a dumb jock and you’re in lust. This is just plain dumb.

  3

  Cali had gone through three volumes in the library by nine A.M.—mainly skimming. The books, mostly from the PSI Vista collection, were reproductions of older books that Jack had told her were locked away in safe places. “They’re worth thousands, at the very least,” he told her.

  She had skimmed The Aegyptian Book of Darkness, which was mainly ramblings of some disturbed writer sandwiched between hieroglyphs, the main content of which seemed to be incantations and exhortations to Horus and Isis for passage to the underworld; another book was called The Grand Grimoire of Judas Magnus, which purported to have been held in safekeeping by the Knights Templar (all of this Cali got a good chuckle over, since she very much doubted the Knights Templar possessed heretical grimoires); but the third book held her interest completely. It was called The Infinite Ones by Isis Claviger.

  The book had a picture of the oddly named Claviger (and the name reminded Cali of something—some word she had once heard somewhere, perhaps in school)—the author was beautiful and mysterious all at once, and the first thing that struck Cali was that she reminded her a bit of Ivy Martin herself. No, she didn’t look like a beautiful Thoroughbred (which the exhausted Ivy had seemed to Cali the previous midnight), but there was something in the in the mysterious pools of those eyes that was the same in both women, and something about—/ know what it is. They’re both mesmerized by something. They have a look of hunger. Fair-haired, obsessed Nordic goddesses, that’s what they are.

  And although there were chapter headings that looked fascinating, dealing with spiritualism, hauntings, and even “ectoplasmic manifestations,” Cali flipped to the various Post-It Notes that Jack had placed around the book.

  The first one had to do with Harrow itself.

  4

  From The Infinite Ones by Isis Claviger

  ... I had been at Harrow six nights when I knew that it had become more than merely a house. Justin had, through his interests and intrigues, created a locus for hauntings. Not just the haunting that would no doubt befall all of us who stayed there, the creature we only saw fleetingly when looking in the mirror or the shadow at dusk that moved away from us as we moved toward it. The meaning of the house became clear when Justin began to show me the artifacts he’d been collecting his whole life, and then I asked to see the original design of the house, and he drew papers from his study and tossed them on the floor. The house was built as a gate into another world. It was built to break the barrier to the Other Side, and this aroused my curiosity to no end.

  How could I leave such a place? I still had a
ppointments in other parts of the country, including an evening in Boston with Mrs. Grace, the famous Widow of Commonwealth Avenue, who wanted to contact her late husband again and again. And I was asked to go to Washington, D.C., by my friend Verena Standish to experience something of the place she believed to be infested with spirits. But I had to turn down these invitations, for I began an inquiry into the spirit world at Harrow, and only my dear friend in London could draw me from this unlikely palace of night along the muddy Hudson River, at the edge of one of the most dreadful little villages in existence.

  For, the night of my first séance at Harrow, I felt the presence of elementals. These are spirits, if you will, in the form of energies, and the salamander of fire was present, I felt, as were the goblins of the earth and the water sylphs. I do not mean fairy folk at all, but the energies of the elements were there, within that house, and something even more frightening to me existed there, as well:

  A magus of such power, which he would not even recognize. Yes, Mr. Gravesend has power beyond dream, the kind of psychic energy that few in any generation possess. But it is ineffective in Harrow. It may take several of us who possess psychic talents to sweep Harrow of its shadows and dark recesses, for it is even more powerful than the two of us together. Nothing was meant to flourish in this house. Yet, I have found it seductive and entrancing, and I believe that my greatest understanding of the Other Side will come within the sacred walls of that house.

  Dear Reader, allow me to describe this place. Upon arrival in a carriage, one is first struck by the desolation of the landscape. The estate is far from the village of Watch Point, and the road through the woods is narrow and grows dark even at midday. Yet the woods are sparse, and the hedges grow wild along the outer stone wall. It is a romantic feel, as the novels of the Bronte sisters would have the world. It is indeed its own Wuthering Heights, for there is great beauty and a stark grandeur about the place, and nothing invites and everything invites. There is a stone guard house before a clutch of trees. The birdsong here at twilight is endless, and in the summer the locusts make sounds like shh-shh-shh, and I have seen, in the spring, flocks of white doves that roost high in the towers of Harrow. Deer feed along the sedge by the outer ponds. As one passes through the gates of Harrow, the desolation comes at one swiftly. It is like a breath of still air, while a storm rages beyond the treetops. The trees as one goes up the path to the house are few and far between, and the sloping hillside to the back of Harrow and to the right of the carriage gives an almost romantic and old-world feeling to the place. For, even in its separation from the world, and the bent trees along its drive, Harrow is magnificent. It is a European chateau, but with the stern American touches of arrow-sharp gables that give it a puritanical atmosphere. Its towers are long and tall, and one half expects soldiers wearing mail and armor to walk the battlements. The front door is crowned with a carving from a foreign land to the south. It looks like a creature’s head with flared nostrils and an empty gaze in its eyes. The door itself is exquisitely carved oak, with arcane symbols of some secret society, Masonic perhaps? I do not know to this day, but they are beautiful and intricate.