People who really know her aren’t the sort I would want to spend time with. Some were there at her book signing. They were all possessed, only I didn’t know it then. Even they didn’t get invited inside the house. Séances and black masses were held elsewhere. I didn’t care where, and I didn’t go with her.
12
Mason had an amusing look on his face, one that had morphed over the course of my story from disbelief, to amusement, then utter horror, followed by more disbelief. His face had come full circle.
He sat silently, digesting everything I had told him. “Sounds like something from a Stephen King novel,” Mason said.
“I’m sure it does,” I said.
My chest began to throb. The necklace pushed against my skin, and I felt its magnet at work. The girl and the house wanted me home.
“I never found a record of marriage to anyone other than Lindsey,” he said.
“No,” I said. “You wouldn’t. I’m sure it doesn’t exist. I was told Edward married Ehvleen at a black mass.”
Mason raised his eyebrows.
“It was never officially recognized,” I said. “No record. Of course.”
“A black mass? As in, a satanic ritual?”
I nodded.
“Who told you?” he asked.
“Eva did.”
“Then how did Edward legally inherit anything from her?”
“She had a great lawyer.”
The book slid off Mason’s lap and fell to the ground with a loud clap.
“Allow me,” I said, and lifted it with ease.
He lurched for it. “Give it back.”
“Here,” I said, holding it out like a peace offering.
“You’re wondering why the book is so heavy for you but not me,” I said.
“You some trickster?” Mason asked. “Want me to believe you’re some mind reader? I met people like you. You’re no mind reader. You’re a good guesser. Course I’m wondering why this book is so heavy.”
“When you acquired this book,” I explained, “it was filled with hundreds of demons waiting to enter you. All you had to do was open and start reading. You’ve already read some of it; I can tell by your green eyes.”
“My eyes are brown,” Mason said.
“They’re green. The book is possessed. So are you. Demons enter you after each page you read. Slowly, so you don’t realize what’s happening. The change in eye colour has nothing to do with pigment; it has everything to do with light’s interaction within her atmosphere. The optical phenomenon is closely related to Rayleigh scattering—the scattering of atoms and molecules through light. If you read even one word, her atmosphere will surround you. You now breathe in her air.
“As the demons abandon the book for you, the book gets lighter. You get heavier. At first, the added weight tires you out. As you become acclimated to your new inhabitants, you’ll find yourself stronger.
“Don’t believe me? Follow me to her house. You’re sure to witness something convincing. And I’ll refill the envelope inside your book with more seeds.”
“He’ll follow,” Granger said. “Start walking.”
I stood. I started walking, and Mason followed.
13—Mason, the Reporter
I parked my rental car, a 2012 hybrid, alongside a mass of overgrown green and blue pines. I couldn’t stop staring at my eyes in the rearview mirror. They were green, just like Jeffrey said. I kept turning my head, staring at my irises from different angles. I’d never heard of Rayleigh scattering, but I understood the change in color had to do with the sunlight. It was dusk, and the sun shone bright above while the mountain cast a shadow over the car. I wondered if my eyes would still look green at night.
I heard an explosion across the road and I nearly jumped out of my seat. Waves. We had traveled Victoria Road and the road ran along the sea. The explosion was waves crashing on the beach. Shit. My ears rang and my car felt like it was still shaking. And where the hell am I, exactly?
We made so many turns, and my mind wandered too many times to the book and to everything Jeffrey had said, that I wasn’t sure I’d find this place again. I thought I’d better jot down the directions as best as I remembered, if I wanted to come back and observe, alone.
I couldn’t see a single thing to use as a marker for the return trip I already planned to make. I reached onto the passenger-side floor and picked up a soda can, then tossed it out the window onto the ground in front of the bushes. “Might work,” I said to myself. I began scribbling facts while Jeffrey’s Rolls idled outside the gate, waiting, I presumed, for it to open.
Basic facts on Eva van Hollinsworth: 1) She has lived for centuries, but is arguably not immortal. Will have to question Jeffrey more. 2) Jeffrey is without a doubt under her spell, but in complete denial. 3) Jeffrey and Eva had a daughter. Still living? If so, how old? 4) Jeffrey claims the house shifts, and it defies architectural laws. Will try to photograph.
I didn’t want to tell Jeffrey I had come to South Africa to expose the author as a fraud. Eva had come across as a secret only the privileged were allowed in on. She was probably charging them an arm and a leg for her mumbo-jumbo. But was it mumbo-jumbo, I wondered as I took another look at my green eyes and glanced at the book resting in a deep groove on my passenger seat, its leather cover turned tin.
The iron gates opened with a clank and grind. Jeffrey’s car rolled through. Jeffrey turned, waving me through. He had a strange look on his face, the same look I saw about a year ago while doing a story on a drug cartel in Mexico.
What a cluster-fuck that story turned into. My cameraman and best friend, George Browning, was killed, decapitated by strung-out, bloodthirsty scum. TV depicted those savages quite accurately. I used an alias while in Mexico. I had a fake driver’s license and passport and lived beneath long, tinted hair, a sticky beard, and weighed about forty pounds lighter. After the story ran, my editor disappeared. The publisher was threatened. Any kudos, atta-boys, or other such awards were bequeathed onto “anonymous.”
As I drove onto the worn path, I was surprised by the perfectly aligned, numerous, thick, massive trees. And the quiet. I hadn’t even heard the gate close. There were no squirrels, birds. Leaves didn’t rustle. Not a single one dropped to the ground.
Suddenly, the path took a sharp descent. Her house was on a cliff. Shouldn’t we be driving up?
The hybrid’s tires slid, and I gripped the wheel, righting the car. In the rearview mirror, dirt shot out from under the spinning tires. The path turned again, and I drove up, up. My ears popped.
Jeffrey’s Rolls took another sharp curve and disappeared. I followed. An opening in the trees revealed a green lawn. Once I cleared the trees, there, centered on the green lawn with mountains sprawling behind, sat a white mansion.
I pulled up to the circular drive. With eyes fixed on the windows of the Dutch colonial, an uncomfortable image flooded my mind: I saw myself wrapped in darkness; I saw myself suffocating and liking it.
I stepped out of the car. My mouth went dry. I coughed and coughed and then held my breath, hoping to stifle the fire in my throat.
The mountain loomed above the mansion. “That’s the famous Table Mountain behind the house,” I said, unable to refrain from calling out the obvious.
“Welcome,” Jeffrey said. He waved his arm toward the house, his chest inflated. He had made the house sound like the scariest manse in the world, yet he gazed up at it looking awfully proud.
14
My notebook sat on the hybrid’s front seat. I was tempted to grab it, but it never looked good when a reporter whipped out a notebook. People didn’t like that; they clammed up and watched the pencil suspiciously. I had learned to rely on my good memory and jot down things later.
Mental note: House is big, but not as big as Jeffrey made it sound. Surroundings are quiet. High-pitched whine heard, source undetected. No power line or towers within sight. No birds or insects sighted, either. No smells, such as grass or perfume from the flowers on disp
lay in front of the house.
“You live here with her?” I asked.
“Yes,” Jeffrey said. “I’ve walked the property line, during the day, from cliff to mountain. It stretched about a half kilometer, corner to corner. Formed a square. But at night … it’s all different at night. I walked two kilometers and never reached the cliff’s edge. Never reached the mountain back there.”
Mental note: Mountain only looks like it’s about a few feet away from the back of the house. Will have to investigate.
“Tell me more about Eva,” I said, wiping a layer of sweat off my brow, coughing into my fist.
“She’s dead,” Jeffrey said.
“Yeah, but if she gave birth to herself as your daughter, then she’s here, right? I mean, that is what you said, isn’t it? I thought you said I might meet her.”
“You might,” Jeffrey said. “Did any of your research mention her reincarnation or anything about who she claims to be?”
I shook my head. “You said she was the anti-Christ.”
“Her original name was Lilith,” Jeffrey said. “She refers to herself as the Lamia, daughters of Lilith.”
Mental note: Research Lamia.
I took a long breath, and exhaled dramatically. “I really want to write a story about her, but I don’t like conjecture.”
I patted myself down for my cell phone to record our conversation, and a couple photos always added a touch of authenticity to any story. I felt my phone sticking out of my back pocket.
“Your phone is dead,” Jeffrey said with conviction.
I pressed the power button and received no response. “Yeah, I think it is.” I had charged it right before I left my hotel. Hadn’t I?
“Well,” I said, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “I guess I won’t be taking any pictures, will I?” I coughed.
“You will choke on your cough if you don’t take something,” Jeffrey said.
“It’s only a cough,” I said, insistent, clearing my throat.
I thought about leaving the book inside the car. Instead, I tucked the book inside my elbow.
15
There was a figure in the upstairs window, a dark outline of a woman. I thought I heard someone call my name, and saw the front door was open.
“Would you like to come inside?” Jeffrey asked.
I looked back up to the window, and the figure was gone. The front door was closed.
“No,” I said. “Not yet.”
I was already having second thoughts about my visit. The area was remote, quiet. The grass under my feet was stiff and hard, like Astroturf. Bushes surrounding the house were shaped too perfectly. Tall yellow flowers growing between the bushes leaned against the foundation waving in a breeze that did not exist. Their hypnotic movement bid me closer, and I found myself standing in their midst, staring. It wasn’t the flowers moving. I took a couple steps closer, parting the waxy petals and stiff bushes aside, exposing the house’s foundation.
Deep etchings in the cement foundation swirled in a blur of movement. I made out long cylindrical contours and diamond shapes with a small line below two dots. Tails and heads. Snakes. They were shifting, coming to life, and I quickly backed out of the flowers and bushes, away from the wall.
“Hey!” I called out to Jeffrey. He walked behind the house. I jogged to catch up. “Hey!”
I followed him behind the house and stopped.
“Whoa,” I whispered under my breath, staring at a vast field of flowers. As Jeffrey had said from his own account, the field stretched as far as my eye could see. “This is not at all what I expected.” It was strange; surreal. I had the sinking feeling I was walking into an ambush. I turned, looking back toward the house.
“The hell?” I was stunned. The house. How could the house be so far behind? All I’d done was walk a few feet behind the house. But it stood at least a few hundred feet away.
“What did I tell you? Now do you believe me? The seeds are in the barn up ahead, just beyond the koppie.”
“The what?”
“Koppie. The grassy hill. See it? Follow me.”
You’re here, at the author’s house, I reminded myself. This is the story, as crazy as it seems. Mental note: The book exists—I had held it in my hands. Check. The house exists—I was still staring over my shoulder at it. Check. There had been little info about the author on the Internet. Jeffrey had filled me in on some. Most of it sounded like schizoid ramblings, but interesting. Check.
I squeezed my book. “Fuck it,” I said. I came all this way to get seeds. Shit, no. I came for a story. But I’d be damned if I left without either. It would soon be dark. I’d walk to the barn, get my seeds, and leave.
I followed Jeffrey through the flowers, trying not to stomp the masses of yellows and blues as we marched. And marched. And marched. It was getting harder for me to breath in the heat. Damn book was big, a pain to carry. Should’ve left it in the car. The heat was tiring. I felt like crawling.
The grassy hill was footsteps away, and what should have only taken minutes to reach, had to have been at least an hour. I nearly collapsed from exhaustion when I reached it.
My throat was dry. I sucked the spit from my cheeks and rolled my fattened tongue around my mouth, thirsty. I lapped up the drops of sweat running down my face.
I stood on the hill top. The mountain was far off in the distance. “Can’t be,” I said out loud, confused, knowing the mountain had been directly behind the house when I first stepped out of my car. The house was now about a mile behind me. Or was it? Alarm pinged in my head. “How long will it take to walk back?” I asked.
“Look,” Jeffrey said. I turned. He pointed to a black roofed structure at the bottom of the hill.
“The barn. There water inside?” I asked.
“There’s a hose, yes. And plenty of seeds. Her makeshift Garden of Eden grows in the barn. Inside is a lovely garden with items she plucked from the biblical one and cross bred with other plants, creating one-of-a-kind concoctions of mystical greenery. Alchemy and physics. All real, she said, but beyond human limitations.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“The tree of life. You know, like the one from the Bible.”
“Seriously? You setting me up?”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Jeffrey said.
16
The door to the barn was open. I should take my book and leave. No harm had befallen me, other than fatigue and fear. A cool, welcoming breeze blew out of the open door, hitting me in the face. In the breeze was a sickening smell of overripe fruit and heavily perfumed funeral flowers set out too long in stagnant water. I had attended many funerals within the past year—not only for Mexican acquaintances while working on my story, but for my editor and George, my best friend.
The door blew open wider.
I stepped inside.
17
Moss covered the ground inside the barn. I pivoted on my feet in a slow circle. The door was no longer behind me.
Hazy light filtered in through a canopy of vines and leaves overhead. A maintained jungle appeared like a mirage; fake and welcoming. The breeze turned warm and humid.
Trees grew in a pattern: tall and thin, tall and thick, short and thin, short and thick. Leaves as wide as my palm draped in my face. Yellow flowers with bright orange centers hung from the leaves. I leaned forward and inhaled the flower’s scent. The effect was dizzying, and I staggered, coughing.
“Jeffrey?” The shit hadn’t followed me in after all. I turned to leave, but I couldn’t find my way out. “Stupid,” I called myself. I switched arms with the book. The barn looked no bigger than a small hut from the outside. Has to be some way out of here.
A thud sounded off in the distance. The breeze must have knocked something over.
I held my breath and listened. “Jeffrey?” I called. “That you?”
No answer.
“Jeffrey?”
I wandered a few steps, then a few more, and after a while, everything began to lo
ok the same. For all I knew, I was walking in circles.
I slipped and fell to my knees. Both hands went to the ground, the book landing with a splat in tacky ooze.
“Yuck.”
The ooze smelled like shit. Its trail led under a thick, dense bush. Might be the way out, could be the way deeper in, but I was determined to find out where it went. I wiped my hands on the mossy ground, ooze stringing from my hands. I crawled under the bush, nudging the book along with my knees.
I hadn’t gotten very far when the ooze trail stopped in front of a tree trunk.
I stood and gently placed my palm against the hard knobbed trunk, feeling warmth and a continuous soft beat. Large, red, oval-shaped seeds hung from the tip of white flowering branches overhead. The seeds resembled mini footballs, only red instead of brown. Water dripped from the pods. I licked my shriveled lips, wheezed from my dry throat, and didn’t think twice about opening my mouth to catch a drop. One drop soothed my throat, but intensified my thirst.
I gripped the pod and pulled. It sucked like a kiss as it plucked free. The soft center caved under my fingers. I tilted my head back and squeezed the pod like a sponge, its bitter liquid running into my mouth. The flavor became sweeter with each swallow. Slurping at the red, broken skin, I squeezed and squeezed until I’d wrung it dry. The skin shriveled like a raison. I twisted it open to see what remained inside. The pod was filled with a multitude of tiny, black seeds. “Seeds from the book,” I said, glancing down at the book. Chapter four was all about the seeds. Thrown into the air, they produced rain. Added to water, they turned metal to gold.
There had to be hundreds of those pods hanging from the massive tree stretching higher than my neck could bend. I became filled with greed, and it gnawed at me, intense as my thirst.
I scraped the pod’s peppercorn-like seeds into my hand and into my pocket. “Your turn,” I said to the next pod I plucked. I repeated the process of wring juice into mouth, twist fruit to open, scrape seeds into pocket. My stomach bulged and ached from my gorging, but I didn’t want to stop.
The Bookseller's Secret Page 4
