Behind the Walls

by Merry Jones

  Three faces watched her in firelight, not laughing.

  ‘Then the lights flickered and suddenly – they went off. I stood, ready to run, but I smelled the thing in the dark. I couldn’t see it, so I turned, feeling for it, and then something brushed my face – something furry. It was right up next to me – it growled right into my ear, so close that I felt its breath on my neck. I smelled it, like raw meat. I don’t know what happened next. I ran – flew out of the room and down the steps, out of the house and into my car. Before I knew it, I was speeding back to town. On the way, I saw your lights were on . . .’ She looked at Harper, then Hank, then Vicki. Back at Harper. ‘You all think I’m nuts, don’t you?’

  Everyone shook their heads, no. Politely. Even sympathetically.

  ‘Of course we don’t.’ Harper knew all about panic, wasn’t about to label it ‘nuts’. She put a hand on Zina’s shoulder. ‘Whatever happened, real or imagined, you’re safe. It’s good you stopped here.’

  ‘I did not imagine it.’ She sat up straight, panting again.

  ‘Breathe,’ Harper ordered. ‘Take deep slow breaths.’

  Zina gazed around the room. Met their eyes directly, one pair at a time. And she took deep breaths. ‘It was real,’ she insisted. ‘But they don’t know the significance, do they?’ She motioned at Vicki and Hank.

  ‘Significance of what?’ Vicki asked.

  ‘Of the animals that were there. The bat is a sign of death. The owl represents the underworld; it’s a messenger of the dead—’

  ‘Oh, come on, Zina,’ Harper interrupted. ‘That’s just mythology.’

  ‘And the large cat – the jaguar – is the most revered and powerful of all animals. A symbol of power.’

  ‘Since when? Sorry. That’s just—’ Vicki began.

  ‘It’s symbolism.’ Zina insisted. ‘Each of the animals has meaning. And I was surrounded by powerful symbols of death.’

  For a moment, nobody spoke.

  Finally, Hank stood. ‘Get drinks. All of. Us.’ He headed for the kitchen.

  ‘So? What do you think? It couldn’t really have been a Nahual. There is no such thing, right?’ Zina blinked at Harper.

  ‘No. Of course there isn’t,’ Harper tried to answer as if the question were rational. Obviously, Zina had been frightened. But was she seriously asking if she’d encountered a Nahual?

  ‘So how do you explain what happened? If not a Nahual, then what was it?’

  ‘Here’s what I think. You’ve been working alone in that spooky old mansion. The wind was howling, the boards were creaking, and the moon was full. You know about the house, what’s happened there, so your imagination was predisposed to think scary thoughts. In the dark, it took off—’

  ‘No, Harper. I swear to you. It was not my imagination.’

  Harper tilted her head. ‘Zina. Are you seriously saying that a bat or an owl changed into a jaguar and growled at you?’

  ‘OK.’ Zina’s cheeks were ruddy from the warmth of the fire. ‘OK, no. I mean, I know better. Even so, what I told you was real. It happened.’

  ‘Zina.’ Harper’s voice was flat, definite. ‘Whatever happened, it wasn’t a Nahual. There is no such thing.’

  Vicki lowered herself on to the cushioned chair beside Harper, leaned over. ‘Will you please explain what you guys are talking about?’

  Harper turned toward Vicki. ‘Remember that research position I applied for – the one where the professor died, and they needed someone to document his collection of artifacts?’

  Vicki nodded. ‘Of course I remember. You were pissed that they passed you over and gave it to the bitch you think is sleeping w—’ She stopped short, her mouth forming an ‘oh’.

  Harper cleared her throat; Zina stared at the flames, handling her bracelet. She didn’t seem to have been listening. ‘Anyway, Zina got the position. She’s been working on the collection for a few weeks, all alone in the professor’s isolated old house.’

  ‘So the floors might creak by themselves,’ Vicki suggested. ‘And with nobody living there, animals might have moved in—’

  ‘How do you know there’s no such thing?’ Zina was still focused on Harper’s comment. ‘I mean, maybe there is. Because if it wasn’t a Nahual, then what was it? How else can you explain it? Wings flapping, a big cat growling, fur and claws – and that smell . . .’

  For a moment, Harper almost laughed; she thought Zina must be kidding. But no. Zina showed no signs of humor. ‘Zina. Shape-shifters are mythological creatures. They’re legends. Nothing more.’

  Zina looked away, back into the fire.

  ‘Shape-shifters?’ Vicki asked. ‘What?’

  ‘They called them Nahuals. Pre-Columbians believed in shaman-like creatures that could take almost any form they wanted. They could change into men, large cats, dogs, deer, bats. Owls. Whatever shape they needed to protect their people or defend their territory—’

  ‘Or their possessions.’ Zina’s voice was low. ‘Their artifacts.’

  ‘Seriously, Zina,’ Harper began. ‘Try to be—’

  ‘Hot. Rum. Buttered.’ Hank carried a tray of mugs and spice cookies.

  The fire crackled; the drinks were warm and boozy. And Zina, warmer and relaxed by the rum, repeated her story to Hank.

  ‘Ghost,’ he concluded. ‘Pro. Fessor. Haunting. House.’ His eyes twinkled playfully.

  Vicki grinned. ‘Of course – he’s probably changed his mind about donating his precious relics and wants to scare Zina away.’

  ‘Cut it out.’ Harper didn’t see humor in Zina’s fear. ‘Nobody’s haunting anybody. Nobody’s shifting shapes. It’s just – suggestion.’ Harper put down her mug, thinking of the best way to explain. ‘Look, Zina – it’s like I said before. All those stories about the house, the history of the place – that’s what’s haunting you, nothing else.’

  ‘Stories. What?’ Hank asked.

  Harper picked up a cookie and crossed her legs. She looked at Zina. ‘You want to tell them?’

  Zina emphatically shook her head, no.

  So Harper began. ‘In 1989, when Professor Langston first decided to will his collection to Cornell, he hired a young woman to catalogue it. One night, just before Halloween, the research assistant—’ Harper stopped as the wind screeched through the windows, interrupting, as if to prevent her from going on.

  ‘The research assistant got mauled to death,’ Zina finished when the wind subsided. ‘And the killer cut her heart out.’ She didn’t look at Harper. She set her bangle bracelet down on the table, picked up her mug and gulped hot buttered rum.

  ‘Well, we’re not sure about her heart. But, yes, she was killed.’

  ‘No. She was mauled. As if by a jaguar. Or a mountain lion. And her heart was dug out. Get your laptop,’ Zina insisted. ‘Let’s Google it and I’ll show you.’

  In moments, the four were huddled around the screen, reading newspaper accounts of a mystery over two decades old.

  Carla Prentiss had been found early Halloween morning, set out at the end of the professor’s long, wooded driveway, positioned as if on display under a tree. Her wounds were extensive, and there was a lot of blood, so much that at first police didn’t notice the hole in her chest where her heart should have been.

  ‘See that?’ Zina crossed her arms. ‘They took her heart, the same way Pre-Columbians took human hearts—’

  ‘But that’s my point,’ Harper interrupted. ‘You got spooked by that horrible old crime. It’s almost Halloween again – the anniversary of that murder. And you had that story in the back of your mind—’

  ‘Read on,’ Zina interrupted. ‘“Because of the missing heart, Professor Langston speculated that the murder was designed to resemble the work of a mythological shape-shifter who would sacrifice the hearts of enemies to the gods, or eat them to acquire their strength.”’

  ‘Yuck, they ate them?’ Vicki winced.

  ‘Read it for yourself.’ Zina went on. ‘Even Langston thought there was a Nahual—’


  ‘Bull. Shit,’ Hank interrupted. ‘No such. Thing.’

  Vicki was still reading. ‘Hmm. It says that, for a while, police suspected the professor’s Brazilian housekeeper. Oh, wow. He was having an affair with her, and she was jealous of the attention he paid to the dead girl. And there was another suspect – a kid who hung around with the professor’s sons. His family pulled him out of school and sent him abroad.’

  ‘OK, Vicki. We get it.’ Harper was watching Zina, saw her biting her lip, holding her stomach.

  ‘No.’ Vicki wasn’t finished. ‘Wait, listen. That house – wow.’ She looked up from the computer screen. ‘Did you know about the family that lived there before the professor? The dad killed his wife and kids. With an axe. And he slit his own throat.’

  Hank leaned over her shoulder, reading.

  ‘And before that, a silent film actress disappeared there. Wait – oh, man – did you know the house has hidden passageways—’

  ‘Vicki, enough. You’re not helping.’ Harper closed the lid of the laptop; the articles disappeared.

  Hank scowled. ‘Was reading.’

  Zina cowered.

  ‘OK,’ Vicki sighed. ‘I get why you’re scared, Zina. That house has some bad karma.’

  ‘Karma? Oh please, Vicki.’ Harper was dismissive. ‘It’s just an old house, like this one, just bigger. The professor raised his family there – three sons, right? A couple of them still live around here. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened there in what? Twenty years? More? Not since the murder.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because the professor locked the collection up. No one’s even looked at it since that assistant got killed.’ Zina curled herself into a ball. ‘Until now.’

  The fire crackled. Harper began to argue, but Zina cut her off. ‘No – now I’ve gone and messed with the relics again. So that shape-shifter thing that killed the last researcher is back. And, I swear, whether you believe me or not – if I hadn’t run out of that house tonight, they’d have found my body tomorrow with my heart cut out, just like hers.’

  The fire crackled, but for a while nobody spoke.

  Then Vicki tried to help. ‘But Zina. Think about it – that murder was so long ago. The killer would be an old man by now – if he’s even still alive.’

  ‘A Nahual doesn’t age—’ Zina began, but the wind moaned again, drowning out her voice.

  When it stopped, Hank stood. ‘Get. More rum.’ He collected their cups and went to refill them.

  ‘Actually, Vicki’s right.’ Harper chewed another cookie, ‘Carla’s murder might not have had anything to do with the relics. Someone might have just made it look that way.’

  ‘Come on, Harper. Why would they do that? Who would follow ancient rituals and cut out someone’s heart, just for fun? It has to be about the artifacts. They’re cursed – lots of relics are. That’s a known fact.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Vicki agreed. ‘Remember that story about Montezuma’s gold? Trent and Hank told us about it. The gold was cursed, too.’

  Harper scowled. ‘Vicki, that’s ridiculous. That’s just a legend.’

  But Vicki ignored her, turning to Zina. ‘Back in 1910 or so, divers found a skeleton, deep in a lake. The thing was sitting up at the entrance to a cave, as if he were guarding it – I think it was somewhere in Mexico.’

  ‘No, it was in Three Lakes Canyon,’ Harper corrected. ‘In Utah. And that story is bull, besides which it has absolutely nothing to do with the professor’s collection.’

  ‘Yes, it does. It’s an example of how stuff can be cursed, Harper. People thought the skeleton was guarding gold, so they dug a tunnel to excavate it, but they all came down with a mysterious fever and died.’

  ‘No, Vicki.’ Harper closed her eyes, sighing. ‘The only fever that those people got was gold fever. Nobody died.’

  ‘Yes, they did.’ Vicki sat up straight, eyes wide; her voice husky and low. The room was in shadows except for the fire, and its light flickered, dancing ghostlike on her skin. ‘Then, divers went down to look but came up, terrified, refusing to go back. They said they’d been chased away by translucent figures without oxygen or diving gear. Spirits, protecting the gold. One diver swore that a figure had tried to choke him, and when he took his gear off, they saw hand marks on his neck—’

  ‘More rum!’ Hank bellowed.

  Harper jumped; Zina gasped. Vicki let out a shrill yelp. Startled, Hank juggled the tray, trying not to spill the drinks as the women dissolved into bouts of laughter.

  ‘What?’ He steadied himself. ‘Scared crap. Out of me.’

  ‘Sorry, Hank,’ Vicki caught her breath. ‘There’s a lot of that going around.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Harper insisted. ‘Zina, pay no attention to Vicki’s story. Gold is just a metal; relics are just old things. And whatever happened to you tonight, there’s a logical explanation. No curse or spirit or Nahual was involved.’ She grabbed another mug of rum and took a drink.

  By the time Harper walked Zina to her car, the wind had died down. The night was quiet. Music no longer blared from the fraternity house next door.

  ‘You’re sure you want to go with me?’ Zina asked. ‘You don’t really have to. The professor’s sons usually come around in the daytime, and I’ll be sure to leave before dark.’

  ‘No. I’d love to come. I’ve been dying to see his collection.’

  An awkward silence reflected that Zina had gotten the position that Harper had wanted.

  ‘You know, you should have gotten the position. They only gave it to me because of my family. The business.’

  ‘Business?’

  ‘My family trades antiquities, so Professor Wiggins thought I’d have more experience handling relics. I mean, I’ve worked with them since I was a child.’

  Oh really? ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. I’d just like to see it.’

  ‘You realize that nothing is actually on display. All the pieces are packed up. I go box by box, identifying things, piece by piece. And half of the items aren’t where they’re supposed to be.’

  ‘But Zina, maybe being there together, we’ll be able to figure out what happened tonight.’ Harper was sure that something tangible – maybe just the noise of the wind or a flicker of a shadow – had frightened Zina. That her imagination had taken over only after some real event had triggered it. ‘Look, I’ve had a lot of experience with fear—’

  ‘Oh, right. With Iraq and all.’

  Harper nodded. Yes. With Iraq and all.

  ‘But this is different. It’s not a war – it was something unearthly. Unnatural.’

  And war was earthly and natural? ‘The point is that fear sets off reactions that aren’t always appropriate or rational. If we explain what frightened you, you might not be afraid of it any more.’ Lord, she sounded like Leslie, her shrink.

  Zina looked away, into the night. Unconvinced. ‘I know you don’t believe me. But it was there. It was real.’ She turned to get into her car, but Harper stopped her.

  ‘Look, Zina. We don’t know each other very well. But I’ve had my share of scare. And I can tell you that perceptions – what we think is happening – can be misleading.’ Harper recalled a white flash, a blast, the feeling of flying through the air. Closed her eyes to shove the memory away. ‘Just because something flies like a bat and has fur like a cat doesn’t mean that it’s a Nahual.’

  Zina met her eyes, seemed defeated. ‘Thanks for tonight, Harper. I know you mean well. And I’ll be glad for your company tomorrow. But please don’t try to convince me that I imagined everything. I was there. You weren’t. I know what I know.’

  With that, she opened the door of her electric-blue Smart Car, got in and drove away. Harper watched until the tail lights faded into the night. Then she went back to the house, finished clearing up. And noticed Zina’s silver bangle bracelet on the coffee table.

  Oh well. Harper popped it into her bag. She’d see Zina in the morning; she’d give it back to her then.

  Vicki left afte
r the dishes were done. And a while later, Harper finally crawled into bed, curling up against Hank.

  ‘Think?’ he asked.

  Think? Harper considered the question.

  ‘Zina.’ Hank clarified.

  Oh. ‘I’m not sure. But clearly, something spooked her.’

  ‘But bat. Cat. Man? Nuts.’

  He was right. Zina’s story sounded nuts. Then again, Harper, suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, had seen ambushes, explosions and suicide bombers, had smelled gunfire and heard shots fired where there had been none, and her flashbacks had seemed real, as real as the bed she was lying in. As real as the silence of her reply. Hank’s dismissal of Zina’s perceptions felt personal, as if he were somehow dismissing hers, as well.

  ‘What. Say. Your mind.’

  ‘Just because you don’t perceive something, Hank, doesn’t mean it’s not there.’

  In the lamplight, she saw his eyebrow raise. ‘Nahual? Hoppa. Really.’ His eyes danced, laughing. Mocking?

  ‘No. I don’t mean a Nahual. But something.’

  ‘Shadows.’ Hank chuckled. ‘Hallow. Ween. Ghosts. Nerves. Stories. Just.’ He put his arm around her, kissed her forehead.

  ‘It seemed real to her. She was terrified.’

  ‘Nothing. Her mind. Weak. Zina.’

  Wait, Zina was weak? Because she’d been frightened by her own mind?

  ‘Sleep. Love.’

  Harper leaned up, returned his goodnight kiss. And lay there, not sleeping, not moving. Cuddling against Hank, she tried to disregard both the weight of his judgments and the heaviness of his arm.

  By morning, Zina was mortified. Goodness. Had she really gone running to, of all people, Harper Jennings, the person who probably disliked her more than anyone else in the entire Archeology Department, and told her – admitted to her out loud – that she’d been scared off the Langston property? That she’d thought she’d encountered a Nahual? Really? Oh my. If that got back to her family, they’d kill her. And, if it got around the department, she’d never get over it. The gossip would ruin her career before she even started it. Rumors would fly. She’d be the brunt of countless pathetic not-even-funny jokes. She imagined them. ‘What “shape” are you in today, Zina?’ Or ‘The Jaguar agency called; your Nahual’s ready.’ Stupid, stupid jokes.