by Gregory Ashe
“So he built the house, but he’s dead. Who lives there now?”
“He didn’t just build the house. We’re pretty far out of Wahredua, but this is all still part of the city limits because Manly Newton wanted his house to be inside Wahredua. It had something to do with how he wanted the electricity run out to his house, I don’t really know. So now Wahredua has this weird tail of land that runs out to the house.”
Hazard frowned; the only light was the glow from the dash, and it uncovered only pieces of his face, leaving the rest buried in darkness. Then lightning cracked along the sky, flaring purple-white, and the following darkness was accompanied by thunder. Over the rumble, Hazard said, “What about Mrs. Ferrell’s property?”
“What about it?”
“Is it inside city limits?”
“I don’t know. Never really thought about it. Anyway, the next Newton--I think his name was Roger--sold the house. That was back in the fifties. It traded hands a bunch of times until it sold for a fraction of its price a couple of years ago. This time, it went to a marketing group, and they’ve fixed it up pretty well. They use it for corporate retreats, training events, team-building exercises.”
“Shooting guns is a team-building exercise? And will you take the wheel, already?”
“Shooting guns did a hell of a lot for us, didn’t it?”
Hazard just grunted. After another moment, he said, “How do you know all this?”
“About Windsor?”
“What the hell is Windsor?”
“That’s the name of the house. My parents were pretty good friends with Roger’s kids.”
“The Newtons?” Hazard frowned. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“Newton Mortuary, where they’ve got the ME set up.”
Hazard grunted, but the furrow between his eyes didn’t disappear.
“And,” Somers said with a sigh, “because the current mayor of Wahredua is Sherman Newton. Roger’s oldest son. He and his family were over enough to tell plenty of stories about the place. Lots of ghost stories, you know. It’s one of those American-Victorian monstrosities, kind of something you’d imagine in a Lovecraft story.”
The silence was so long that Hazard’s voice, when he spoke, sparked a small shock at the base of Somers’s spine. “You’ve read Lovecraft?”
“Jesus Christ. I went to college, all right? Could you try to remember that?”
All Somers got, though, was a grunt and then, “Take the wheel.”
“Why? You’re doing a great job.”
“Take the damn wheel.”
“My hands are still a little chilly.”
“If you don’t grab the wheel right now, I’m going to break every one of your fingers, and then you’ll be wishing they were just cold.”
With a laugh, Somers grabbed Hazard’s hand. The flesh was slightly colder than his own, the fine black hairs on the back of the hand tickling Somers’s palm. He peeled Hazard’s fingers away from the wheel and held onto the other man’s hand, his thumb making small circles on the cool flesh, until Hazard, with a string of swears, jerked his hand free. Somers laughed again, taking hold of the wheel and guiding them down the bumpy road.
“You’re an asshole.”
“So we’re going to talk to whoever’s using the house.”
“You’re a real asshole.”
“And I’ll call up the marketing firm and let them know we’ve had some more problems.”
Hazard was shaking out his hand, as though Somers’s touch had physically hurt him, and seemed ready to remind Somers, again, about his quality of being an asshole. Instead, he asked, “Someone’s there over Thanksgiving?”
“Could be an executive’s retreat. Could be some marketing big whig just brought his family out here.” Another roll of thunder filled the car, and Somers glanced up at the darkness. If it rained, Hazard might very well kill him. If it snowed--well, Hazard would figure out something even worse than murder. “We’ll make it fast, see if anyone was near Mrs. Ferrell’s house, remind them about keeping all the firearms inside the range, and jet back to town. You’ll get back fast enough to eat tacos or spaghetti or grilled cheese, whatever Nico made you.”
“He’s not making grilled cheese, he’s making--” Hazard cut off.
“Come on.”
“Screw you.”
“You aren’t going to tell me anything? The only things I know about you two are what I see firsthand in the apartment. And,” Somers added, a suggestive smirk growing on his face, “what I hear firsthand in the apartment.”
It was hard to tell in the darkness, but Somers was pretty sure that Hazard was blushing. Furiously.
“Most guys talk about their girlfriends. They talk about their dates. They even talk about the ones that aren’t so serious.”
Hazard didn’t reply. He had turned his gaze to the darkened glass, as though studying something in the bluish reflection generated by the dash’s light.
“Nothing?”
When no response came, Somers shrugged and let it drop. There would be another time. And another. And eventually, no matter how many tries it took, Somers would gain Hazard’s confidence about something that didn’t have to do with a dead body.
Thunder boomed, rattling the windows in the car, but still no rain fell. The road began to even out, and Somers pressed lightly on the accelerator. As they hurried down a smoother stretch of gravel, the headlight cut cups of light out of the darkness. On both sides, the growth was thick; choked with shadows, the dense forest looked more like a jungle, alien and forbidding. This would not be a good place to get stranded, Somers thought, easing up slightly on the accelerator. Or, for that matter, to get lost.
Getting lost, though, was not much of a possibility so long as he remained on the road. There was only one turn before the reached the main highway, and that turn led to Windsor. The gravel turned to brick--honest-to-God red brick, although crumbling at the edges and choked with weeds in places--and a moment later, the Impala’s tires clattered over a bridge.
Hazard, who was glancing out the window, said, “Running high.”
Somers spared the river a quick glance. The Petty Philadelph, which in a hot summer might not be more than a foot deep, now ran so full and so fast that it brushed the bottom of the bridge. The structure vibrated under the force of the water, causing the Impala to shiver as they drove across. It was a short stretch of water, but it was bad enough that Somers was already dreading the return crossing.
The brick drive ran through fields of autumn grass on either side, high enough to block their sight, the long stalks hissing against the glass. After what felt like an eternity, the bricks split, heading in two directions. Somers kept to the right; he’d never been here before, and he ought to have told Hazard that, but Hazard had been a dick about the Lovecraft reference, and the sting hadn’t faded. It was one thing to accept that Hazard was quite a bit smarter than Somers--it was another thing entirely, Somers thought, to rub it every chance he got.
And then the Impala shot past an invisible line, and the fields of autumn grass dropped away to be replaced by a trimmed, dormant lawn. Windsor sprang into view, floating spotlight clouds: turrets and towers, sharply pitched roof with a row of dormers, skinny windows of leaded glass, all of it rising, clutching at the moon with black fingers like a castle built on a distant cliff.
“Holy shit,” Hazard muttered.
“Holy shit,” Somers agreed, forgetting his initial plan to pretend he had been here.
The brick drive curled to the front of the house, and Somers pulled to a stop. As the two men emerged from the Impala, thunder crackled again; Somers squinted up at the sky, blinded by Windsor’s lights. He couldn’t see a thing, but a moment later, a fat raindrop struck him right in the eye. Blinking it away, Somers took the lead, trotting up the steps towards Windsor’s double doors. If he didn’t hurry, if it started raining--well, he’d rather not die tonight.
Up close, Windsor’s details were even more stunning, a
lthough shadows cast by the spotlights still hid much of the work. The leaded windows were ornately detailed with flowers--Hazard would probably know what they were--and geometric designs. On the door, more of the big flowers were carved into the wood--delicately detailed carvings that must have cost a fortune. Somers hesitated, surprised to hear the hiss of gas, and realized that the lamps at the door were genuine gaslights.
“What are you waiting for?” Hazard said, pounding on the doors with one fist.
Somers leaned forward, studying the doors with greater attention. Around the flowers, in a cramped margin, men and women paraded: some wearing dresses, some wearing what Somers took for turn-of-the-century suits. Then the gaslights flickered, and the shadows changed, and then Somers had lost track, and it seemed like the men weren’t where they’d been before, and he couldn’t seem to tell where the dresses ended and the suits began.
Before he could study the carving further, the doors swung open. A stunning red-headed woman stood there, wearing a gown. Not a dress. Not a skirt. A gown, like something that had been meant to be worn at a ball or a gala or an opera box: lace and gold-thread embroidery and a square of stunning opal buttons that looked like rainbow fire in the gaslights.
The woman screamed, hands going to her cheeks. “He’s dead, he’s dead. He’s in the house and we’ll all be killed.”
Then, without further ado, she fainted.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Learn more about Gregory Ashe and forthcoming works at www.gregoryashe.com.
