Borgin Keep

by Ron Ripley

“What’s that for?” Genevieve asked with a laugh. “Are you planning on eating me? While you may have come to the right home for that, I’m not exactly an appealing meal anymore.”

  “Sure you are,” he replied. “You just have to be basted.”

  With a flick of his hand he opened the lighter fluid and sprayed the liquid onto her remains.

  “And will you cook me?” she asked, her voice filled with humor. “Even then I won’t make much of a meal.”

  “No,” he agreed, “you won’t.”

  He flicked the lighter, watched the flame burst into life, and then tossed it onto the bed.

  The result was instantaneous.

  A deep blue fire engulfed the bed and illuminated the room. Across from him, on the other side of the burning bed stood Genevieve. In life, she had been a stunning woman, her features pale and powerful, her cheekbones standing out.

  Yet even as he admired her, Frank watched as the flames devoured her form.

  He took a step back, the fire on the bed growing hotter. A quick glance around the room showed an old blanket crumpled on the floor and he snatched it up. The old fabric was harsh and sharp in his hands, but he clenched it in his fists as he waited.

  With a final scream Genevieve vanished and Frank leaped forward. He threw the blanket onto the burning bed. While smoke caused his eyes to water and his throat to burn, he extinguished the flames, smothering them with the blanket.

  When he was finished, Frank staggered back from the bed, picking up his gear before turning his attention to the door.

  It was locked.

  His booted foot served as an effective lock pick as he kicked the door out of its frame. Rotten wood sprayed out into a bright, circular room where decrepit chairs were positioned against the walls. Two other closed doors offered a passage out, or perhaps into another room.

  Or nowhere, he thought.

  Frank took off his backpack, opened it and removed his shotgun. He double-checked that it was loaded, flicked off the safety, and then stuffed his pockets with shells before he put the backpack on again. A glance up showed the room’s illumination came from a glass ceiling. Steel lines formed a spider’s web with panes of dirty glass in each.

  Frank brought the shotgun up and fired both rounds of rock salt into the ceiling.

  Whether it was due to the age of the glass, or the force of the blasts, Frank didn’t know, but several of the panes shattered. Fresh air raced into the room and helped him to focus.

  As he took deep breaths, Frank reloaded the weapon and looked at the two doors.

  He discovered an urge to try them both, and he knew that neither was what he wanted.

  Yet they were the only way out of the circular room, except for the door he had entered from.

  Frank half turned and looked at the room he had exited and saw that it wasn’t the same.

  Instead of the boudoir he had left, Frank found a set of stairs.

  That’s not right, he thought, a prickling sensation racing along his spine. He knew the room shouldn’t have changed. And as his instinct had urged him to try the doors, so too did it scream that he should ignore the newly revealed stairs.

  “Oh, Hell,” he murmured, and he turned and entered the small stairwell.

  The air smelled of cedar wood as if he had stepped into a closet, and he shivered, remembering the closet he had recently left. In front of him, the stairs descended into darkness, the lack of light further down raising the hackles on his neck.

  Clutching his shotgun, Frank fought his fear and walked down the stairs. Old boards creaked beneath his feet, and a faint noise reached his ears. The farther he traveled, the darker the stairwell grew, and the louder the strange sound became.

  Soon, Frank realized the noise was a voice, and that person was speaking. He hesitated, tried to decipher the words and found he couldn’t. Frank moved down a few more steps and discovered the unseen speaker was engaged in a discussion in a foreign language, although Frank didn’t understand it.

  He stepped down and the stair gave way beneath his feet. With a curse, he stumbled and crashed into a wall. His face slammed into something hard, and he felt a hot rush down his left cheek. He threw out an arm to catch himself but it twisted, and he felt his forearm break. Frank ground his teeth together to keep back a shout of pain and curled in to brace himself for the rest of the fall.

  He bounced from stair to stair, cradling his broken arm against his chest and trying to protect it. After a few seconds, he slammed into another wall and came to a stop. His broken bone throbbed relentlessly, and his head roared with pain. Frank's right hand still held onto the shotgun, and while he may have lost a few shells, he could feel the remainder in his pockets.

  Get up, he commanded. Get up and get moving.

  Frank pushed himself up, and a cold, driving force struck him in the stomach. He spun, crashed into the wall with his broken arm first, and fought to maintain his balance.

  Using the wall as a support, Frank managed to stop himself from another fall, but whatever had hit him, did so again.

  This time the blow was aimed at his right arm and landed on his forearm. The muscle went numb, his fingers relaxed, and the shotgun clattered onto the floor. Before he could bend down and try to find it, he heard it kicked away.

  An unseen fist drove into the side of Frank’s head and sent him to the floor with a thud.

  Stretched out prone in the darkness, Frank struggled and failed to get to his feet.

  “Now,” a man said, “let’s see how strong you are without your weapon, shall we?”

  Before Frank could answer, a cold hand wrapped around his broken forearm and squeezed.

  The pain was enough to thrust him into madness.

  Chapter 52: Not Stopping

  Shane walked into a dining room. It was almost fifty feet in length, and at the far end was a tall white door. A long table, smeared with dust, occupied the center of the room. The walls on the left and right were lined with built-in china cabinets and behind the glass were hundreds of pieces of dinnerware.

  By the time Shane had taken a dozen steps into the room, he noticed there were no chairs around the table. Part of him wanted to know why, and he hesitated a split second to think about it.

  When he did, the door behind him slammed closed.

  Centered in the tin ceiling above him was a huge chandelier. Cut crystals hung from the arms and they rattled as the dishes in the cabinets did the same.

  On the far wall, a mirror shimmied on its hook and then fell to the floor. It bounced, spun, and landed on its back, the glass facing up.

  The white door opened, and Emmanuel Borgin entered.

  Shane watched as the dead man went to the head of the table and sat down as if in a chair. Emmanuel gestured, and the dark light fixtures on the walls burst into life, causing Shane to blink and resist taking a step back.

  Emmanuel grinned at Shane, a great, toothy gesture which revealed the man’s teeth. Each was a disturbing yellow, and each had been filed down to a fine point.

  “Would you care to join me?” Emmanuel asked.

  Shane shook his head.

  Emmanuel shrugged and mimed the act of removing a napkin from the table and placing it on his lap.

  "I have been assured by my cook," Emmanuel continued, "that this evening's meal will be exceptional. We have a leg of lamb that has been allowed to season, and she informs me that it couldn't be a finer piece. Aged just right, you know."

  Shane stepped up to the table, took his backpack off and set it down on dusty wood. He opened the pack, made certain the shotgun’s handle was accessible and looked at Emmanuel.

  “Where are your bones?” he asked.

  Emmanuel was caught off guard by the question and let out a delighted laugh.

  “Oh, you’re a forward one,” the dead man said, nodding with pleasure. “Oh, you are, you are. I must admit, I was surprised when you made it up and out of the wine cellar. When you slipped away from Abigail, it wasn't unsuspected. She'
s rather new you see, to this whole death business. David did her in, which I suppose was a kindness in the end. To the both of them. She didn't need to squirm around anymore and, well, David did need to eat after all."

  When Shane didn’t react to the hint at cannibalism, Emmanuel clapped his hands and laughed.

  “I know who you are!” the dead man crooned.

  “You do?” Shane asked, managing to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  Emmanuel nodded. "You're trouble. My mother always told me to watch out for trouble, but you are entirely too appealing to ignore. And my goodness, your scars! You look, if you will forgive me, as if someone has staked you down in the road and ridden over you a few times."

  “Feels that way,” Shane admitted.

  “Now,” Emmanuel said, “what was your question again?”

  “Your bones,” Shane said. “I want to know where they are.”

  “And what would you do with my bones?” Emmanuel asked, and then he pouted. “Nothing pleasant, I suppose.”

  “You’d be right,” Shane agreed. “I’m going to salt them down and burn them.”

  “Ah,” Emmanuel said. “That would explain why the Shaws let you out of the wine cellar. They wouldn't have, you know if they thought you didn't mean it."

  “It’s good that I do mean it then,” Shane said.

  Emmanuel snickered. “It is. Now, how about a riddle?”

  “Sure,” Shane said. “Why not.”

  Again Emmanuel looked surprised, and again the dead man laughed. “You know, I don’t really have a riddle? So often when I’ve offered a guest that they’ve hemmed and hawed and chosen the alternative.”

  Shane didn’t ask what the alternative was, so Emmanuel sighed and offered it.

  “Well, the alternative,” the dead man said, “is to go and speak with the cook.”

  Shane looked at Emmanuel’s sharpened teeth, remembered the casual reference to cannibalism, and smiled. “And they ended up as your meal.”

  “Oh,” the dead man whispered. “You’re so very pleasant to speak with. I’m almost tempted to let you have my bones. But then that would rather spoil the evening.”

  “It would,” Shane said. “I can guarantee that.”

  “Well,” Emmanuel said. “I won’t give you the bones, but I will tell you this. You can find them where an old friend hid them, although he didn’t know they would be there when he made the wall.”

  “That,” Shane said, “was exactly less than helpful.”

  “Then I’m afraid you won’t appreciate this either,” Emmanuel said.

  The doors to the china cabinets exploded open, and hundreds of dishes sped towards Shane.

  He snatched his pack off the table and raced for the door as cups and saucers, bowls and plates smashed into him. Some broke against him, and others shattered against his knuckle-dusters. More still bounced off him to spin away and roll on the floor.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Shane saw Emmanuel, and the dead man grinned his sharpened grin as Shane tried to flee the room.

  A few steps away from the white door a large shape caught Shane's attention, and he turned in time to see a soup tureen race towards him. He turned his head away at the last moment, the china cracking against his skull and sending him crashing into the mirror on the floor.

  Chapter 53: In the Dressing Room

  Marie came to and gasped for breath. She was bouncing on the shoulder of David, and when she struggled, he stopped to put her down.

  “Can you walk?” he asked.

  “I can run if I have to,” she answered. She struggled to remember what had happened, but she couldn’t. Part of her thought that was probably for the best, especially considering her drinks with Emmanuel.

  David nodded, rewrapped the chain around his hand, and gestured towards a door a few feet away.

  “Where does that lead to?” Marie asked, ignoring the pulsating pain in her head.

  “Don’t know,” David answered. “Could lead to anywhere.”

  “Great,” Marie muttered. “I do not want to go in there.”

  "Me neither," David said. "We don't have a whole lot of choice, though. If we can meet up with your friends, then that'll give us a better chance of getting out of here."

  “Can we?” Marie asked, looking hard at the man. “Has anyone?”

  "More than a few," David said. "More than that have died in here, though, I won't lie about that. You may want to get your shotgun out, too."

  Marie did so, flipped off the safety, and looked at David.

  “You ready to go?” he asked.

  Marie nodded. “I’ll take the lead.”

  “No argument from me,” David said, stepping aside.

  She went to the door, reached out and tested the knob.

  It was unlocked.

  Marie wrapped her hand around the cold metal, squeezed and turned as she pushed against it. The door opened a sliver at a time, and in a moment the room was revealed.

  Light, filtered through green glass in the ceiling, filled the room. The walls were all lined with dark blue curtains and benches with cracked leather seats were set in a haphazard fashion in the room’s center.

  David came in behind her, and the door clicked shut, the lock tumbling into place.

  “How do we get out?” Marie asked, keeping her voice low.

  “I’m hoping the exit is behind one of the curtains,” David said.

  “Great,” Marie said, sighing. She watched as he walked to the nearest piece of fabric and pulled it down.

  It fell and landed with a soft thump, a cloud of dust spiraling up from it.

  “Oh no,” David whispered, staring at what he had uncovered.

  All Marie saw was a mirror, and she said as much.

  “No,” David said in the same hushed tone. “It’s worse than that. So much worse than that. Hurry, pull the rest down. We need to find the door. We need to get out of here.”

  Marie didn't ask why. Instead, she went to the nearest curtain and pulled it down, revealing another mirror. By the time the fabric was on the floor, she had already moved on to the next. In a matter of moments, every curtain had been torn down, and not a single door had been revealed.

  Marie’s murky reflection stared back at her, dizzying in its multiplicity as each mirror showed the other.

  “Break them,” David whispered.

  She looked at him, confused. “What?”

  “Break them!” he screamed as he lifted his arm up, the chain rising up with it.

  But it was too late.

  Black shapes hurtled out of the mirrors, broken glass launching out like shrapnel. The creatures were humanoid but lacked features. Long arms reached out while thin legs launched them across the room.

  Marie fired blindly, first one barrel, then the second, and she was fighting for her life with iron rings and nothing more.

  Chapter 54: A Reunion of Sorts

  When Shane hit the mirror, he felt the glass break, and then he continued to fall.

  It was as if there was no floor.

  He fell for what seemed like several minutes, and then he was thrust into light and in the middle of a brawl. Shane struck the floor with enough force to leave him breathless and dazed as he tried to make sense of what had happened.

  Around him were black shapes, tall and frightening. They attacked a naked man and Marie, both of whom had a hard time keeping the creatures at bay.

  Shane regained his breath, scrambled to his feet and became dimly aware that he was bleeding from multiple cuts. He had landed on broken glass and a glance at his legs and chest showed his clothes glittered with what looked like hundreds of slivers.

  One of the black beasts sensed him, turned and reached for Shane.

  Without thinking, Shane punched it in the head with his knuckle-dusters, and the creature vanished.

  They’re ghosts, Shane thought, and he stepped into the fight. He lashed out with both hands, rings, and knuckle-dusters dispatching the dead as he moved forw
ard. In a moment, all of them were gone, and only he, Marie, and the naked man remained.

  Marie’s pupils fluctuated in size while the man looked around as though he suffered from PTSD.

  “Who are you?” the man asked.

  “He’s Shane,” Marie answered. Her words were slurred. “This is David.”

  It was then Shane noticed the blood on her forehead.

  “I think you have a concussion, Marie,” Shane said.

  “She probably does,” David interjected. “She was knocked out.”

  “I’m fine,” she argued.

  Shane ignored her and asked the man, “Do you know anything about this place?”

  “Too much,” David answered. “We need to get out. Before Emmanuel sends anyone after us.”

  “What were the black things?” Shane asked.

  “They used to be part of something,” David said. “Then they weren’t. I can tell you about that later. We need to go, and we need to go now.”

  Shane shook his head. "I need to find Frank, and I need to burn Emmanuel's bones."

  “Nobody knows where his bones are,” David snapped. “They’re probably not even here.”

  “They’re here,” Shane said.

  “How do you know?” David demanded.

  “He told me,” Shane replied.

  David looked surprised. “Oh.”

  After a moment David asked, “Did he say where?”

  “This is what he told me,” Shane said, and he repeated what Emmanuel had said.

  “Mr. Johnson,” David murmured.

  “What?” Shane asked.

  “Johnson,” David said louder. “Mr. Johnson was the only person Emmanuel ever considered a friend. As far as I know, though, Johnson never built anything here.”

  “He did,” Shane said.

  When he didn’t elaborate, David said, “Well, what?”

  “I need to find Frank,” Shane said, twisting around. “Is there a door out of here?”

  “No,” Marie answered. “Nothing we could see.”

  Shane closed his eyes tried to clear his mind and felt a tug in his gut. When he cracked an eye open, he saw that he stood on a carpet, albeit one littered with broken mirrors.