They crept to the back. Deem pushed open the kitchen door, and Winn followed her inside, turning on a flashlight.
The house looked and smelled exactly the same as Winn remembered it. He recalled Deem’s descriptions of the altered version of the duplicate houses, so he took note of the details he saw in the kitchen as they walked through it. He wanted to compare each version of the house as they began their quest to find Lorenzo.
They sat in the living room, cross-legged on the dirty floor. Deem sat her backpack in front of her and removed Lorenzo’s journal. Winn watched as she opened it to the page of the mirror.
“I don’t know if this will matter or not,” Deem said, “but this was how I had it last time.”
“Alright,” Winn replied. “So we enter the River and follow the sequence. And we drop out at the first sign of the Creepsis.”
He watched as Deem closed her eyes. He did the same, and jumped into the flow.
Five times through the front door, Deem said. Winn was closest to the door, and he led the way. He reached for the knob and pulled the front door open, exposing the kitchen.
A copy of the kitchen, he reminded himself. The first copy.
He walked through, looking at the state of the walls and floors. It seemed much the same as the original, but a few things were slightly different. He doubted he would have noticed if he hadn’t paid so much attention when they first entered the house.
He walked through the house quickly, Deem right behind him. Within seconds he’d reached the front door, and he opened it again.
Second copy, he thought. The differences in the kitchen were more noticeable this time; less debris on the floor, more plaster on the walls.
Come on, Deem said, walking past him and leading to the front of the house. They passed through the front door again, and repeated the process twice more, each time Winn noticing the improvements.
When they stepped into the kitchen after the fifth time and began moving through the house, Deem’s route veered into the central hallway and walked to the door at its end, passing bedrooms with closed doors. The hallway was tall and wide, and Winn listened carefully as they passed down it, wondering if anything was behind the doors, straining to detect any other presence in the house with them. Everything seemed quiet and silent except for the sound of their steps.
The door at the end of the hallway opened into the kitchen again, and Deem routed through the house once more, passing through the hallway door a second time, and coming to stop in the middle of the kitchen.
Now nine times through the kitchen door, Winn said. Aren’t we passing back through the last house? Could we have skipped that last one and just gone back through the kitchen door?
I’m not skipping any of Lorenzo’s instructions, Deem replied. Who knows what shifts whenever we cross a threshold.
Deem turned and walked back out the kitchen door, stepping into the entry hall.
See, it doesn’t go back to the central hallway, Deem said. We have to follow the pattern Lorenzo gave us exactly, or we’d get hopelessly lost.
Alright, Winn replied. Let’s just get the next nine over with.
Deem counted off each time they passed from the kitchen to the front hall, each time the house improving dramatically in condition, with entire rooms appearing whole and decorated. In each case there was new furniture that they had to take care to go around. When they reached number seven, Winn stopped her just as they entered the living room.
Listen, he said, raising a finger to his lips. They both paused.
The solitary creak of a board reached their ears, then the sound of a foot hitting the floor. It thumped again, and was followed by a scraping sound.
It’s on the other side of the house, Winn whispered. It might have just come through the hallway door on that side. We either drop out or make a run for the kitchen.
Run! Deem replied, taking off. Winn followed her, and within moments they were in the kitchen, ready to pass through to the front entryway of the eighth house. They paused and listened again. The thump still came from behind them, then it stopped.
Maybe it went out the front door? Deem asked.
We can hope, Winn replied.
They walked together into the eighth house.
Whoa, Deem said. Every time we go into the next house, it feels like we’re going back in time.
It was filled with luxurious details; fine moldings, carved furniture, rich upholsteries. Not the house of a poor pioneer who worked the land.
Blackham had money, that’s for sure, Winn said as they passed through the rooms. I wonder how he made it. What did Cloward say? Coal?
In the central room, for the first time, appeared a table. It was large and round, and could accommodate eight people.
Séance table? Deem asked.
That’s what I’m thinking, Winn replied.
They walked to the kitchen. Pots and pans lined shelves, and food appeared on counters. Deem ran to the door and grabbed the handle to the ninth house. She turned to look at Winn, who nodded an assent, and she turned the knob.
Inside was another front entryway. Standing in the entryway was Lorenzo Lyman. He was handsomely dressed in a long coat, and had a long, dark beard similar in style to the pioneers of 1880. There were no boils on his face.
Deem stepped forward, but Lorenzo held out a hand. Don’t try, he said. You won’t be able to come in. No one can come in or out, I’m afraid.
Lorenzo walked closer until he was within a few feet of them. He held up a hand and placed it against the doorway. Winn could see his flesh flattening out against some invisible barrier. He’s so young, Winn thought. I was expecting someone older. He must be in his thirties — not much older than I.
Lorenzo pulled his hand away and smiled at them.
You made it, he said, tears beginning to form in his eyes. I didn’t know if you would actually come. It’s been a long, long time…
We’ve got a lot of questions, Deem said. Foremost is how we can save our friend.
What happened to him? Lorenzo asked.
We came to this house a couple of days ago, Deem replied. He got hurt somehow. He was transported back home, fifty miles away, with no recollection of what happened. As his memories returned, he said he’d been stabbed. Now he’s getting worse, as though he’s been poisoned.
Lorenzo looked puzzled. He’s not dead?
No! Deem replied. You expect him to be?
He should be, Lorenzo replied. He should be dead and strung up in the house built for him.
Well, he’s not, Deem replied. He’s at home, very ill. We need to understand what happened to him.
What is that thing, creeping through the houses? Winn asked. We heard it a couple houses back.
Keep an ear out for it while we talk, Lorenzo said. If it appears, you must both leave the River immediately, and come back to talk with me again after a while, after it wanders off.
You didn’t answer the question, Winn said. What is it?
It’s what’s left of Willard Bingham, Lorenzo answered. He used to be a man like you or I, except he is a criminal who kills and butchers people. In life, he killed in the real world. In death, he does it here. Over the years I have seen him walking around, when I watch through one of the doors. Long ago he was frustrated that he couldn’t get into this house, with me. He was stopped at the door, just as you are. Stood where you stand now, raving, cursing and threatening me, unable to enter and fulfill his threats. Once he learned he couldn’t get to me, he just ignored me, but I watched him. He’s always on the prowl, hunting for new victims. I heard him kill several, before they became too far away for me to hear.
Something changed him a while back. He doesn’t look human anymore. He walks on all fours now, and his head sits in the middle of his back. His face is twisted and mangled. He has something on his underside that is sharp and extends out, like the stinger on a scorpion. One day, he drug a body to where you’re standing now, and watched me as he stabbed it, over and over. Th
en he slowly sucked the life out of it. He wanted me to watch. It entertained him. He doesn’t have any other way of getting to me. When he’d had enough, I saw him wrap the corpse’s head in some kind of rope and drag it away.
Jesus Christ! Winn replied, stunned at the story.
Did he change around fifty, sixty years ago? Deem asked.
I have no idea, Lorenzo said, his face betraying his honesty. I can’t measure time in here very well. I’ve lost track of it for a long while now.
Are we the first people you’ve seen since you were trapped here? Deem asked.
Yes, he replied. I drew the mirror in my journal and connected it before I came in, just in case something happened. I thought I could at least speak with a relative through it and tell them what happened. I was hoping it might save me somehow.
I found it, Deem said. It was lost in a mine that trapped gifteds, probably not long after you disappeared. It had been there for a quite a while, Lorenzo.
That would explain why no one came, Lorenzo replied, giving Deem a slight smile.
A lot of time went by, Deem said. It’s 2015. She watched as the shock of the news hit him. He stepped back from the door. About sixty years ago, they began testing a bomb in the Nevada desert, she continued. It’s a huge bomb, capable of destroying an entire town. The tests emitted a poison into the air that drifted over where we are now and infected things in the River. Normal ghosts changed, became much more violent. If you saw Bingham change around that time, it was probably due to the radiation.
Radiation? Lorenzo repeated, looking lost.
It’s what they call the poison in the air from the bombs, Winn replied. It fell over Utah, Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico. Killed a lot of people.
Who would do such a thing? Lorenzo asked, horrified.
The government, Deem replied. We were in a war with another country, and they wanted a way to test out the bombs they were building.
This is why we should never join the Union, Lorenzo muttered, appearing to drift off. We must remain the State of Deseret.
The fallout explains the boils, too, Deem said. When we saw you in the mirror, Lorenzo, your face was covered in sores. I expect that was due to the poison in the River. It altered you, just like it changed Bingham.
But, I have no boils, Lorenzo said, reaching up to examine his skin with his fingers.
You did in the mirror, Deem replied.
How long ago did you say the bombs happened? Lorenzo asked.
Listen, Lorenzo, Winn said, we don’t have time to bring you up to speed on a hundred and fifty years of history. We need to find a way to save our friend. We need to know what you know about this place. We’ve got the Creepsis lurking around behind us and we might have to go any second.
Creepsis? Lorenzo repeated.
It’s the name the locals have given to it, Deem replied.
Ah, the good people of Paragonah, Lorenzo replied. They were never very happy about Henry building his house here, and they grew more and more displeased with our séances. I suppose it’s as good a name as any. Whatever it is, it isn’t Willard Bingham any more, that’s for certain. I want to help you. I’ll do whatever I can. Just promise me you’ll try to release me from here, and I’ll help you in whatever way I’m able. Don’t abandon me. I’ve been in here so long, it’s unbearable.
We’ll try, Deem said. We’ve been told if we kill the Creepsis, it’ll kill off whatever is inside our friend, too. Do you think that’s true?
I have no idea, Lorenzo replied. It might work.
Do you know how to kill it? Deem asked.
I’ve dreamt of taking an axe to it, but since we’re in the River that obviously won’t work, Lorenzo said.
How are you safe, in there? Winn asked. Why are you trapped?
Lorenzo sighed. That’s a story I’ve repeated in my head so many times I’m sick to the throat of it. But I’ll tell it again for you.
Chapter Eight
Lorenzo arrived at Henry Blackham’s mansion just after eight, the appointed time for their gathering. A light rain, badly needed, had begun to fall as he walked to the house. Emma’s handiwork, he thought as he passed through the beautifully landscaped front yard, adorned with dozens of rose bushes, expertly manicured. She’s kept this all going, even with the drought.
Emma was an eminent hostess, and he knew when he reached the door she’d be there to welcome him in, enthusiastic and genuine in her delight at his arrival. Then she’d escort him through the living room and into the central room where they held their séances, and politely excuse herself while he mingled with the others. Emma wasn’t a Spiritualism enthusiast like the rest of them, but you wouldn’t know it from some display of displeasure. She supported her husband’s rabid interest in the subject but didn’t participate, preferring to retire upstairs to her room and the children rather than sit around the table while the spirits were summoned.
Lorenzo wasn’t disappointed when, after knocking, Emma appeared and things played out as expected. He was the last to arrive that night, and the others seemed impatient.
“You’re finally here!” said Mary Pingree, grabbing him by the arm and leading him to the large round table.
“Let him get his coat off!” said Jacob, Lorenzo’s brother-in-law. “We’re not in such a rush we can’t let the man have a minute to settle.”
Lorenzo slipped off his jacket and walked to a freestanding coatrack in the living room near the entry. The majority of hooks were already taken, but he found an empty one underneath the other coats.
Most of the group was already seated around the table. Many were old-timers, people who joined the group just after Sonja Harriman’s tour stop in Salt Lake City four years ago, where she stunned the crowd with her ability to summon spirits and communicate with the dead. It had been at that performance that Lorenzo met Henry, and their acquaintance had quickly developed into a friendship and desire to continue Spiritualism pursuits. Just after Henry married Emma, rich iron ore had been discovered on a parcel of land owned by his ailing uncle, and before the mine had been completed, his uncle passed, leaving the enterprise to Henry. The mine had proved lucrative, and with the proceeds Henry had built the house they now met in, large and spacious, ornately adorned, and situated with his enthusiasms in mind: the chief one being the thrill of communing with the deceased.
As Lorenzo sat at the table and placed his hand on the fine silk tablecloth, he looked around at the others, chairs spaced tightly together. Almost a full dozen tonight, he thought to himself, seeing Mary sit directly across from him, Abraham Stoddard at her left and Jonas Orton at her right. Jonas’ brother, Langford, was sitting to Lorenzo’s left, and he could overhear him talking to the person on his left, Althea Rowley, about the recent interment of ‘the killer.’ Willard Bingham, the subject of their discussion, was now residing six feet under and a hundred yards to the west, in the city cemetery. The group had managed to contact several souls from the nearby graveyard over the years, and having a notorious executed murderer now in their number was an invigorating subject, with several of the group wondering if it might impact the séance in some negative way.
“Is everyone positioned comfortably?” he heard Henry ask, standing by the room’s gas switch. Lorenzo had heard him ask it many times; he always said it the same way and with the same cadence, ever since the first séance in his home a couple of years back. The group knew it as the unofficial start of the session, and the conversations came to an end, with the room dropping into silence except for the occasional readjustment in a chair.
With the lights down, only a thin streak of moonlight from the east windows lit the room, and everyone calmed themselves and took several deep breaths to prepare for the session. They’d met so many times in the past that no one needed to offer instruction or direction; they all knew the process, and the first steps were to clear the mind of all thought, so that communication with the dead might occur unabated. On their unsuccessful nights, the lack of phenomena was often blamed on on
e of the party blocking contact due to cerebral anxiety or an unrelaxed state of mental acuity. No one wanted to fail the group and be singled out, so they all took long, deep breaths, letting the day’s worries blow away as they exhaled, and freeing their minds.
After they sat in the dark for several minutes, Lorenzo began to feel a tingle in his back. He recognized it as the signal he often felt as the sessions began, the indication to him that no blockages would impede their contact with spirits this night, and he felt relieved. He disliked the nights where they sat for a good hour with nothing happening. Tonight wouldn’t be one of those nights.
He knew the others around the table might not have received the same signal. As he was gifted, he often felt physical triggers when unusual phenomena occurred, or were about to occur. The others in their group, with the exception of his brother-in-law, Jacob, were not gifted, and experienced a much reduced level of stimulation from the séance, although what they did experience was significant and enough to keep their interest in Spiritualism high and their commitment to the group solid.
As Henry began to speak, Lorenzo realized it would be another general session, just as most of their séances had been. They would open themselves up to communication with whatever person or force was willing to converse, in the interest of learning more about the other side, and thereby obtain wisdom to use in their normal lives. Lorenzo found the aims and purpose of Spiritualism to mesh perfectly with his Mormon beliefs, even though the church had begun to preach against the practice recently. The members of the Paragonah ward had expressed displeasure with Henry’s sessions, telling Emma at church that they considered what Henry was doing to be evil and perhaps even satanic. Emma had relayed these concerns to Henry and Henry had informed the group, along with a suggestion that they continue their practice but keep things low-key, hoping to convince others in the ward that they were not something to be concerned about.
“Let all who can hear my voice, hear my voice,” Henry began, the house completely silent. Even the breathing of the participants was quiet, and the combination of the stillness and the darkness began to feel like a substance around them, something that could be moved through and penetrated by their minds.
The Blackham Mansion Haunting (The Downwinders Book 4) Page 8
