by Ron Ripley
“If you would follow me, please, sir,” the butler said once the maids had left. The fat man gestured towards the left and led the way. Louis followed, his eyes darting from painting to painting.
As they progressed down the hall, that felt longer than it should have been, Louis was impressed to see the paintings changed. The acts depicted grew more depraved. Violence increased exponentially. Each pleasure more debased, fouling the air.
The butler strode along, unaffected by the change in the atmosphere, but Louis had a sensitive nose, and it wrinkled at the bitter scent. It was a mixture of too much perfume and rotting meat.
The butler stopped at a tall door, the woodwork in the shape of an inverted cross. Louis rolled his eyes at it. He had experienced the black mass first hand, down in the depths of the Louisiana bayou.
Even with its human sacrifice, the ceremony had left him less than impressed.
The butler reached out, grasped the doorknob and said, “Mr. Borgin is expecting you, sir.”
Louis gave a nod, and the butler allowed him to enter the room.
As the door clicked closed behind him, Louis was surprised to see the room was light and airy, a far cry from the dark and somber hallway he had traveled down. In a large chair, barren of cushions and carved from a dark mahogany, sat a man Louis assumed was Mr. Emmanuel Borgin.
The man’s features were exquisite, a fine combination of royalty and pride with a set of cheekbones that seemed to cut the air. A smile played at the corners of the man’s full lips, and piercing blue eyes watched Louis with a devilish mix of mischief and madness. Mr. Borgin’s hair was pitch black and swept back from his brow. His dark blue suit was of an exceptionally fine cut, and Louis sensed the man in the chair was far more than a simple madman.
Louis gave a short bow and introduced himself.
Mr. Borgin nodded and made a small gesture towards a comfortable, dark gray Queen Anne chair across from him.
“Thank you,” Louis said, and he sat down.
“You’re much older than you look, aren’t you,” Mr. Borgin mused.
“A tad,” Louis said, suppressing a grin. “Few know how old I am.”
Mr. Borgin leaned forward and whispered, “What’s your secret, Louis?”
“A carefree life,” Louis responded. “And not merely saying so, but living it.”
“Hm,” Mr. Borgin murmured, sitting back. “I think you may be correct. I speak about a life free from worry, but I do not, in all actuality, live it. Concerns about the future plague me. But not you?”
Louis shook his head. “Why should they? My death will come when it is ready. I can do nothing about it.”
“A fatalist then?” Mr. Borgin inquired.
“Realist,” Louis replied.
“Excellent,” Mr. Borgin said, chuckling. Beside him hung a single braided cord and he took hold of the end, giving it a gentle pull. A few moments later, a door in the corner opened, and one of the maids who had met Louis at the door entered the room. She carried a silver tray and brought it to a tall sideboard.
Louis watched as she prepared two glasses of absinthe and then brought one first to him, and then the second to Mr. Borgin.
She left the tray and exited the room in the same silent way in which she had entered it.
“You have had absinthe before?” Louis’s host asked politely.
“Of course,” Louis answered.
“This is a mixture of my own device,” Mr. Borgin said. “I would be pleased if you would give me your opinion as to the flavor.”
“I would be happy to,” Louis said.
“Fair warning though,” Mr. Borgin said, “it is a rather unorthodox concoction.”
Louis nodded, lifted the glass to his lips, and took a cautious sip. The drink was powerful, and he licked his lips as he lowered the rim.
“Quite good,” Louis said.
“And if I told you,” Mr. Borgin said, watching him, “that I added blood to it?”
“I would still say it was quite good,” Louis replied.
“And if it was a man’s?” Mr. Borgin inquired.
Louis lifted the glass to his lips, drained it, smiled, and said, “Then I would have to ask if I might have another glass.”
Mr. Borgin let out a pleased laugh, and Louis grinned, enjoying the heady, powerful mixture of absinthe and cannibalism.
Bonus Scene Chapter 4: Nothing So Base
After several days at Borgin Keep, Louis knew several important facts about his host.
The first was that Emmanuel was far more intelligent than anyone Louis had ever known. Second, the man’s tastes were truly, and insanely, eclectic. And finally, there were two types of people who visited the Keep; there were those who were true aficionados, like Louis. And then, of course, there were pretenders.
Pretenders such as August Wyant and his wife, Camille.
Emmanuel, Louis, and the Wyants sat in chairs on the patio off the left of the house. Several glasses of lemonade and a pitcher of the same stood upon a table in the center of the four chairs. Louis and Emmanuel, along with the Wyants, snacked upon capers and delicate, broiled strips Emmanuel had referred to as barbecued long-pork.
Camille, a pasty skinned, yellow-eyed woman of forty-six had spoken for seven and a half minutes straight on the long-pork. She had asked for the recipe, and Louis sat, watching Emmanuel, wondering if the man would tell her exactly what, or whom she had eaten.
Emmanuel winked at Louis, but he did not mention the origin of the meat in question.
“Yes, Mrs. Wyant,” Emmanuel said, “I will speak with my chef and see that you get the recipe.”
August, who was in every way the same as his wife in both appearance and annoyance, leaned forward, and said, “Emmanuel.”
The look of disdain with which Emmanuel fixed upon August caused the man to sit back and clear his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Borgin, I was wondering if we might talk some business.”
"Of course," Emmanuel replied, his smile as inviting as a corpse's.
“Perhaps in a more, well, private place,” August said, glancing at Louis.
Emmanuel’s feigned smile dropped away. “Louis is my guest.”
“Yes, of course,” August stammered. “But the nature of my business–”
“Quiet,” Emmanuel said in a low, harsh voice, silencing the man. “If you wish to speak business with me, then you will speak it in front of Louis. Do you understand, Mr. Wyant?”
August’s Adams-apple bobbed up and down, as did his head.
“Yes,” August whispered.
Louis smiled. The Wyants stank of fear, and it was beautiful to experience.
“I came to speak with you about the property you were interested in,” August said. “The one located at the back of the graveyard.”
Emmanuel nodded. “Have you decided on a price?”
At the question, Louis saw Mrs. Wyant look away, and her husband blushed.
Emmanuel saw it as well, and he said, "I'm a wealthy man, Mr. Wyant. I want you to remember that. Whatever price you are considering can be met. I am extremely interested in purchasing the property in question.”
“Ah, well, there’s the rub, sir,” August said, sweat breaking out across his brow. “You see, I thought you had lost interest in the property, and someone else purchased it.”
Emmanuel said nothing, merely stared at August.
“They offered a considerable amount of money,” August began.
Emmanuel cut him off, saying, “You’ve lied to me.”
“What?” August asked, horrified. “When?”
“A moment ago,” Emmanuel replied. “When you said someone else purchased it. You spoke as though you had nothing to do with the transaction which, as we both know, is a falsehood. They would not have been able to come into ownership of the said property if you, in turn, had not sold it to them. Therefore, you lied.”
“I misspoke,” August said, the words rushing out of his mouth.
Emmanuel shook his head and w
agged a finger at him. “Not true, sir. Not true at all. You lied, and the deed is done. I took you for a stupid man, August Wyant, with an equally stupid wife. I didn’t know that you were imbecilic, however. If I had known that I would have gone about obtaining the property in an entirely different manner.”
“Now, Mr. Borgin,” August whined. “Please.”
“You sound exactly like a pig when you whine, did you know that, August?” Emmanuel asked.
The man shook his head.
“Did you ever notice, Camille?” Emmanuel inquired.
Like her husband, Mrs. Wyant shook her head.
Emmanuel shrugged.
“Mr. Borgin,” August began.
“Louis,” Emmanuel said, ignoring the couple. “Would you do me the kindness of showing dear Camille how we go about the preparation of long-pork?”
“I would be thrilled to,” Louis replied. He stood up and took off his coat, folding it over the chair.
“August here looks as though he’s as plump as a Christmas goose,” Emmanuel said, chuckling. “About as ripe as they come.”
Louis nodded his agreement. “He does, indeed.”
Camille and August Wyant sat in their chairs, frozen with confusion, unable to decide what they should do.
“Now, Mrs. Wyant,” Louis began.
“Louis, we are all friends here,” Emmanuel chided.
“Ah, yes,” Louis said, offering his host a short bow by way of apology. “I had forgotten. Now, Camille, long-pork has a fine tradition throughout the world, though each culture does have its own takes and taboos on the harvesting and preparation of it. Do you understand?”
She shook her head, her eyes bulging from their sockets.
“Hm, well, you will shortly,” Louis said, smiling at her. He rolled his shirt sleeves up. “Now, Emmanuel here prefers to have as little of the blood lost as possible, and I, personally, have always preferred the methods of the Algerine Dey. Did you know what those were?”
“What are you going on about?” August demanded, his voice quivering.
Louis stepped over behind the man’s chair, leaned down and whispered in his ear, “'Only this, and nothing more.'”
And as the last word of Poe's line left his mouth, Louis wrapped his hands around August's neck and squeezed. His fingers sank into the man's flesh, and he squeezed and held on. August thrashed in his chair while his wife screamed in terror.
Below her screams and August’s labored gasps, Louis heard Emmanuel speak. The man calmly described to the Wyants the art of strangulation, and Louis felt the muscles in his forearms strain.
He found himself chuckling, guiding August out of the chair and onto the ground. The man's tongue protruded from his lips, and his eyes rolled up to reveal the whites. When he ceased his struggles, Louis let go and stood up, sweat gathering under his arms and down his spine.
Camille no longer screamed, but that was because Emmanuel had stuffed most of her right hand into her mouth. Tears ran down her cheeks as she stared at her husband.
Louis walked to the table, picked up two of the glasses that still had a significant amount of lemonade in them, and dashed the contents out onto August's face. The effect of the cold drinks and several slaps from Louis's open palm had the desired result.
A confused and disorientated Mr. August Wyant sat up.
Whistling, Louis stepped behind August and grinned at Camille.
“In Algeria, before Decatur sailed and crushed the power of the Dey and the Barbary corsairs,” Louis said, “those sentenced to death there would be strangled twice, revived twice, and finally a third time, from which there would be no return.”
Before either Camille could respond, Louis wrapped his hands once more around her husband’s throat and squeezed.
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: The Night before His Return
In a locked cell in the basement, Camille Wyant had screamed herself hoarse.
Emmanuel had made certain that she received the recipe, which had been used to prepare her husband’s rich flesh for dinner. Over the next few weeks, Louis learned, Emmanuel would systematically destroy every vestige of the Wyants as well as enjoy the meat August had provided. In time, Camille would make her way to Emmanuel’s plate as well.
That was in the future, and as much as Louis hoped to partake in the repast, he would need to return to Boston for work.
He and Emmanuel sat in the office, enjoying a fresh batch of absinthe, and smoking harsh, Turkish cigarettes.
“You haven’t asked,” Emmanuel said after nearly an hour of silence.
“About what?” Louis asked.
Emmanuel chuckled. “What property I was interested in.”
“Well,” Louis replied, “I assumed you would tell me if you felt it was something I needed to know, or if you wanted to share.”
A broad smile appeared on Emmanuel’s face. “I am very pleased you came here, Louis. I feel as though I have known you for years rather than a few short days.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Louis said with a short bow.
Silence fell over them again and was broken once more by Emmanuel.
“Are you a true believer of the Watchers?” he asked.
Louis shook his head. “Not at all. They provide a healthy sum for jobs I enjoy completing. Why do you ask?”
“I will not be so crass as to taint our blossoming friendship with business,” Emmanuel said, choosing his words with care. “But there can only be one other interested buyer in that particular property from the Wyants.”
Louis waited for more information.
"I know I won't be able to purchase it," Emmanuel said. "Not directly, and it could take me decades if it truly was them. What I need to know, Louis, is whether or not they do in fact own it."
“I would do this for you,” Louis said. “For friendship, and nothing more.”
Emmanuel smiled. “Thank you.”
Louis nodded.
"Have you ever been in the main office of the Watchers in Boston?" Emmanuel asked, putting out his cigarette.
“No,” Louis replied.
“Do you know where it is?” Emmanuel asked.
“Yes,” Louis said. “What is it you need from there?”
“Only information,” Emmanuel answered. “In the office is a map. It is periodically updated, and I don’t suppose this property will be listed for at least another month seeing as the quarter has passed us. Regardless, the property is in Amherst, New Hampshire. A quiet little town. It is a rather unassuming parcel, but I know for certain that it is at the intersection of three ley lines and that there is a burial ground upon it as well."
“I will find out for you,” Louis said, and he raised his glass to his new friend.
Chuckling, Emmanuel did the same, and they drank to each other’s health.
“I have a question for you,” Louis said.
Emmanuel raised an eyebrow. “Ask it, I beg of you.”
“Have you ever harvested a bit of meat from someone still alive?” Louis asked.
Emmanuel looked surprised.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “In all honestly, I must confess the idea never crossed my mind. Which is not a statement I find myself making frequently.”
“I’ve found it improves the taste,” Louis continued. “At least in regards to the limbs. Fingers, toes, ears and such, they’re fine to go into a stew, or to boil the marrow out for a soup or to make stock. But there seems to be an almost sensual nature to the flesh which had so recently been alive.”
“Go on,” Emmanuel said, leaning forward. “I am intrigued.”
"You go about the amputation as you might a surgery," Louis said. "No drugs, however. I find it leaves a tang to the blood that can be unpleasant. Unless you have a particular desire to taste opium with your meat."
Emmanuel shook his head at the thought.
"Well," Louis said, "you would tie off the limb, say above the knee or elbow, and joint the donor there. I've sampled flank steaks as well, but it te
nds to be a little more difficult to keep the stock alive after that. For some reason, they survive better when it's a limb."
“It sounds delectable,” Emmanuel admitted after a moment.
Louis lifted his glass, drained the absinthe out of it, and set it down on the table between them.
“Would you like to try it now?” Louis asked.
“Do you think she’ll survive?” Emmanuel replied, emptying his own glass.
Louis shrugged. “There are always more of them, aren’t there?”
Emmanuel nodded, laughing as he stood.
Louis joined his new friend, and they made their way to the kitchen. There, Emmanuel told him, they would find a bit of rope, the butcher's knives, and they could have the cook warm up the oven.
After they had retrieved the necessary equipment, and given orders to the cook, Louis and Emmanuel walked arm in arm down the hallway. When they reached the door to the cellar and opened it, they heard Camille Wyant begin to scream anew.
“You know, Emmanuel,” Louis said as his stomach rumbled. “I’m famished. I may need to sample a bit of Camille raw.”
Emmanuel’s laughter followed them down the stairs and Louis’s mouth watered with anticipation.
* * *
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