by Sara Clancy
“Ya get all the torture without the unsightliness of having to look at the victim.”
Mihail took a few steps back. “Who would even think up something like that?”
“Oh, um,” he clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “This ancient Greek guy. Perillos – that was it. Although, all the people that have chatted to me about it weren’t there for its invention, so there’s a little hearsay in there.”
Folding his arms over his stomach like he could stop it from rolling, Mihail couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting back to the bull. “Did they ever say why he did it?”
“The way most stories go, he made it as a gift for a sadistic ruler named Phalaris, expecting some kind of reward.”
“Did he get one?”
“Not one he would have wanted,” Abe scoffed and finally met his eyes, “Phalaris threw him in there to see if it worked. I hope that bit’s true, but ya never really know."
“Well, I wasn’t hearing music or ...” Mihail puffed out his cheeks and let the sentence die. “Why are you so fascinated with it?”
“Just a feelin,’” Abe said.
Slowly, Abe stepped forward as if lured by something beyond his power to resist. His boots scuffed across the stones, the scraping noise making Mihail’s imagination run wild. It conjured up a thousand things that might happen, both if he intervened and if he didn’t. Caught in indecision, he could only watch as Abe reached out to stroke the length of the bull’s neck.
A bellowing scream coaxed a matching one from Mihail. He twisted around, trying to spot the attacking ghost before it reached them. It wasn't until Abe staggered back, gripping his wrist and gnashing his teeth that he realized the agonized scream had been his.
“Abe!” Mihail cried as he bolted to his friend.
Already, the scent of cooking meat polluted the air. Mihail had to duck and weave to get close to the still staggering Abe without receiving a stray elbow to his temple. Eventually, he got close enough to see the raw blisters that scattered across Abe’s fingers. Each one swelled as he watched, the pain making Abe tremble. In a small act of mercy, the damp wrap on the boxer’s hand had protected the majority of his palm from the damage.
“There's water over there,” he said, one hand on Abe’s back and the other pointing to the pool.
It wasn't until Abe was on his knees, injured hand submerged and the stench of cooking flesh joining the sour notes of rot, that it occurred to him the water might not have been the best option for the burn. A least when it came to the risk of infection. In time, Abe’s screams and snarls had reduced to muttered swearing. The rage never remained though, peeling his lips back to flash his fangs.
“Are you okay? This water is horrible. What was that? Ugh, I can still smell it. Why didn't I bring a first-aid kit? Stupid!”
“Mihail,” Abe hissed through his teeth. After a sobering breath, he continued. “I’m gonna need ya to take a deep breath and calm down. Because all this panic ain’t helping my mood.”
“Right. Sorry. It’s just–”
“Breathe!”
He cringed under Abe’s bellow. It did help to throw his mind off of its downward spiral, however, and he was able to relax enough to sit back on his knees. Flashlight clutched to his chest, he closed his eyes and sucked in a lungful of air. It helped somewhat, but he had to repeat it a few times before he could be of any use.
“Better?” Abe asked.
“Yes. You?”
“Perfectly fine,” Abe hissed through clenched teeth, somehow managing to smirk through his pain.
“That’s not helpful,” Mihail said, although he didn’t really mind. Anything that distracted his friend enough to keep him from making those awful screams was a wonderful thing. “I don’t think this water is good for your burn. You'll get sick.”
“I ain’t taking it out,” Abe said.
“You’ll have to eventually. It would take me too long to go back up and get the first-aid kit. And, honestly, I don't think I could find my way without you.”
“I am amazing.”
It astonished Mihail at how well Abe was handling the pain. Although, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking that the performance was for his benefit. An attempt to keep him from freaking out again. Determined to be somewhat useful, Mihail rolled his eyes, a display of how well he was handling everything. Personally, he didn’t think it was very convincing, but Abe grinned at him anyway.
“You’re insane,” Mihail mumbled.
“Just jumping on any distraction I can get.”
Each word carried a hint of pain that they both ignored. It didn’t matter how many times he looked around for something useful, or how he weighed out their options, Mihail couldn’t come up with something that even resembled a plan. The cold air wouldn't be enough to keep Abe's pain at bay. Even now, he suspected the only thing stopping his friend from crying was stubborn determination. Mihail could see it in the way his skin tightened around his eyes and his teeth clenched. The realization hit him then. Unless they were to put Abe through hell, they were effectively trapped. Stuck here until the ghosts came for them.
“I’m gonna need ya to do something for me.”
“Anything,” Mihail said as he whipped back around to face him.
He nodded towards the bull. “There's a latch on the neck and one on the hind leg. Go flick ‘em both for me, okay?”
“You want me touch that thing?”
“I want ya to open it.”
Mihail stared at him for a long moment. The pause didn't stop his voice from becoming a shrill shriek. “Why?”
After playing up a flinch, Abe replied, “Because something’s in there.”
“I don't want to see that!”
“So keep your eyes closed,” Abe said. Experimentally, he pulled his hand from the frigid water. Almost instantly, he hissed and shoved his hand back down. After a few careful breaths, he continued. “Don’t worry. It won’t be hot for you.”
“That’s not the part I’m worried about.”
Abe heaved a tense sigh, “Please?”
“I really don’t want to do this.”
“Duly noted.”
Mihail bounced like he was about to get up a dozen times over. Instead of stopping him, Abe just watched expectantly. Eventually, Mihail gave up and let his shoulders slump.
“They brought us down here for this,” Abe said. “So either you do it, or I have to.”
A low whine left his throat as he got to his feet. He couldn’t let Abe get up yet. Not when he was still in so much pain. That didn’t stop him from making each step as slow as possible. Despite his efforts, the distance between him and the torture device evaporated faster than he was ready for. Stopping about a foot away from the bull’s side, he didn’t dare to touch it, but couldn’t let himself back away. So he crouched down and attempted to find the latch. If he had any luck left, they would be big enough for him to open with the end of his flashlight.
The scent of soot was thick here. Mihail could almost feel it coating his throat with every breath. Placing one hand on the ground for balance, he ducked to the side and began his search. As he pulled himself into a lower angle, something within the ash caught his attention. It was a little hint of metal. But, unlike everything else in the room, time had ravaged it. A thin layer of rust covered the battered surface, barely visible under the ash that clung to it. Momentarily forgetting about his task, he lowered himself a little more and twisted it so he could pluck the item free without touching the bull’s underbelly.
He used his thumbs to try and clean off the surface as he sat back on his heels. Mihail's insides went cold. It was a button. Collecting them was his hobby, one that he loved despite its low appeal to anyone else. And one that the ghosts had already used against him before. Not that long ago, they had tricked him into taking a cursed button so they could follow him beyond the walls. If it hadn’t been for Abe's intervention, he was sure they would have driven him mad. Or killed him.
He was about to toss it b
ack down when his thumb felt the engraving.
“What have ya got there, Mihail?” Abe called, a hint of concern lingering on the edges of his voice.
Rubbing it against his still wet pants revealed the design that embossed the surface. It was a familiar one. A bear reared up onto its hind legs. Just like my lucky button. My grandfather's button. The thought brought a flood of emotions that knocked the breath from him. Mihail’s mother was only a child when her father had gone missing without a trace. The disappearance had wounded the family. They had never really recovered. Decades later, when Mihail was born, his memory still hovered like a black mass, something ever present that they all refused to speak of. Mihail knew that he had been named after the man. Knew that, as he grew, he had become almost identical. But he hadn’t known that his lucky button had belonged to the coat his grandfather had worn when he died.
Abe had been the one to tell him. On his first visit, Mihail senior had appeared to the medium and ripped the old wounds wide open. He had never left the castle. His body was still here, hidden away in the shadows, rotting while his family wept.
Sometime between his birth and when he was shipped off to his American boarding school, Mihail had found the corpse. And, too young to understand, he had taken the button. An identical twin to the one that rested in his palm now.
“Mihail,” Abe said sharply. “Don’t make me come over there.”
The metal circle toppled from his trembling hand. It clattered against the stone, a sound reminiscent of the sounds that had haunted him for days.
“Mihail!”
Something deep in his chest snapped. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. He lunged forward, crawling at the smooth surface, searching for buckles in the metal. Abe called for him repeatedly but it all sounded too far away from Mihail to care. His failure to find the latches brought him to the brink of madness. Lost in his wild panic, he didn’t feel the moment his fingertips found the latch. The bull’s side dropped open with no protest. It crashed down against the stone as Mihail threw himself back. A cloud of dust and ash gushed from the opening, forcing Mihail to scramble further back, terrified that it would touch him. When it cleared, the mangled, nearly mummified remains of a body could be seen twisted up within the cavity.
Mihail’s knees buckled. “Is it him?”
“Mihail–”
“Is that my grandfather?!”
The wild shriek bounced off the walls, splintering and echoing back to him as if the silver gargoyles were mocking him. Scorching tears blurred the corners of his vision as he waited for Abe to answer.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t know.”
Chapter 3
Mihail jolted. His chest heaved as he sucked in a deep breath, like a drowning man that had just broken through the water's surface. A brittle static filled his head. He knew that he had lost time. How much and why remained a mystery, but the disorientation he knew well. We were in the dungeon. We found something. The static grew louder until the white noise almost rang in his ears. It wouldn’t take much to shatter the haze and expose what he had forgotten, but he recoiled from doing so. The aftertaste of acid ate away at the base of his throat and the taste of vomit lingered on his lips. Proof enough that whatever had happened wasn't something he wanted to remember. At least, not yet.
So he carefully turned his attention to the present. The bare stone wall and roof of the kitchen were almost as comforting as the warmth. As the only room spared from the cold and chaos, the kitchen had become Mihail’s sanctuary. Everything he owned was here, along with a nest of old mattresses and blankets he had gathered in the corner. It left him little reason to go anywhere else in the castle. But I did go out today. I was looking for something. I found something.
An icy chill swept up his spine at the thought and he hunched his shoulders against it. The motion made him realize that he was sitting on his bed, propped up with his back against the wall and a blanket over his shoulders. His fingers were numb as he wrapped them around the edges of the soft material and dragged it closer. It pulled over his bare back and made him shiver anew. When did I take my shirt off? Mihail contemplated that as he shifted, suddenly uncomfortable in his damp pants. At least his wet socks had been replaced with his wool-lined slippers, so his toes didn’t ache.
As his mind emerged from its self-imposed darkness, he noticed that the oven was on. The bulbous metal drum radiated heat, making the air far more forgiving. Still, he clutched the thick blanket tightly as he struggled up to his feet. Between the fleece and his pants, there wasn't any hope of the motion being graceful. But he got up eventually and shuffled across the room to the cabinet he used as a wardrobe. He had donated all of the fine china and expensive silver that had filled it. Bunica Draciana had yet to notice either change.
The static in his head faltered as he changed his pants and pulled on a thick turtleneck sweater. His nose twitched as he smelled cooking meat. Phantom dust invaded his eyes, making them water and itch. And, as he rubbed his eyes, images played across the insides of his lids. A body. Withered. Blackened. Revolting and fragile. Mihail choked on his breath as he snapped his eyes back open, blinking them rapidly until the ghostly image faded. Abe will be hungry when he gets back, Mihail thought, scrambling for purpose and distraction. He bit his lips as he carefully sorted through the different compartments of his mind. Butterscotch profiteroles was the first recipe to make its way out of the mush, and he raced to the pantry.
Abe had once told him that a place like Castle Vaduva didn't happen by chance. That something had caused the unseen souls to be trapped here, hung on the walls and pushed into the mortar, and that such a massive construction would come with a hefty price tag. He never used the phrase ‘deal with the devil’ but wasn't afraid of heavily implying it. For Mihail, it was the pantry where this showed the most.
It had taken him a few weeks to notice that nothing ever rotted in the pantry. Nor did he ever have to refill it. As an experiment, he had emptied it out. The fresh produce, spices, dairy, meat. Every last piece had been packed into the back of Abe's truck and taken to the RuptTeren food bank. And when they had returned, the pantry had been brimming again. Everything fresh and perfect and neatly in place.
They had repeated the process once a week from then on and, so far, had the same results.
Refocusing on his task, he gathered the items needed and turned back to the room. He hadn't taken a step before he saw that someone was standing in the kitchen doorway. Someone with the same wide eyes as his own. With his thick and slightly curled black hair. His lithe frame and refined features. Mihail was looking at an exact replica of himself. A mirror image. There was only one person who matched him so perfectly. His mind couldn't say it, but his mouth did.
“Grandpa?”
The man in the doorway didn’t say a word. Only stared as the items slipped from Mihail’s hands and crashed to the floor. Thickened cream splashed around them, the smell a constant reminder that this was reality.
“Grandpa?” he asked again.
Face still a placid mask, the phantom turned and began to walk away.
“Wait!”
Mihail hurled himself forward, forgetting about the cream at his feet, causing him to slip and fall. Eggshells crunched under his palms as he braced against the floor and pushed away, awkwardly stumbling into a run. His carefully preserved haze imploded, allowing his memories to rush his mind so quickly that they knocked him off his feet. Hitting the doorframe, he clutched at it to keep upright.
“Grandpa!”
This fumbling had only slowed him down for a few seconds. Still, his grandfather had increased the distance enough that he was already at the far end of the attached corridor. With a silent, graceful glide, he slipped through the doorway and disappeared into the next room.
Mihail sprinted, endlessly calling out for his grandfather, begging him to stay. The last of his confusion seeped from his mind as he barreled down the hallway and into the dining room. A dozen candel
abras lined the long dining table, the glow of the small frames dancing across the lacquered wood. The only other exit was a double door at the far end of the table. It clicked back into place just as Mihail entered. He didn't hesitate to follow.
Lithe and agile, Mihail was a natural runner. And, after so many near-death experiences where fleeing had been his only salvation, he had dedicated himself to nurturing that talent. It didn’t help him now. By the time he pushed open the double doors, the man was no longer in sight.
Glancing around, Mihail searched the labyrinth of halls visible to him. The layout of the castle was devoid of any rhyme or reason. Hallways that overlapped each other, came to dead ends, or just dropped off into nothing. Thin bridges criss-crossed open spaces, connecting one side of the castle to the other, while hidden passageways added to the confusion. From where he stood, he knew of at least half a dozen different directions the man could have gone. And those were only the options that he knew of.
“Grandpa!” He strained to hear even the slightest trace of sound. At the same time, his mind whirled, trying to pull the corresponding Romanian word from his memory,
“Bunicul! Wait!”
Still unable to see or hear any trace of the man, Mihail held his breath and pressed his ear to the wall closest to the door. Nothing. Running across the elaborately decorated hallway, he did the same thing on the other side. The faintest traces of vibration played against his skin. Closing his eyes to better focus, he tried to conjure-up a mental image of the castle's layout, as well as he knew them to be.
The passageway in this wall ended with a staircase. He pictured the spiraling metal structure, the way it vibrated under the slightest bit of pressure. Feeling the tremble again, he knew that the stairs were the cause. He squeezed his eyes tight, struggling through his jumbling thoughts that were competing for his attention. The stairs go to the foyer. No, the library. Balling his fists, Mihail tried to focus, replaying the journey over and over in his head, trying to remember what lay at the top of the stairs. Mother’s painting! The one at the top of the main stairs! He pushed off the wall and bolted back down the length of the table, racing for the kitchen.
