by A. L. Mengel
“Did he ever visit you after that?”
Darius paused, and finished the remaining beer, and tossed the bottle over his shoulder into the trash. The bottle landed and crashed against the others.
“Tell me, Claire. Why do you have such an interest in my history?”
“I think we both know the answer to that question. But I do appreciate your being candid with me.”
He looked over to her, staring her directly in the eye, his eyes wide and intense, the lines on his forehead standing out. He banged his fist on the arm of the chair. “I know you, Claire! I know you better than you might think!”
Claire sat back and closed her eyes. “Darius, just sit back, try to relax and finish the story.”
He got up, the scowl on his face giving way to anger, and he flung the chair over to the floor with a thud. “No it’s isn’t! If you insist these are just stories, then where will we have gotten?” He approached her, getting in her face, he hovered over the couch, a hand on each arm, leaning forward putting his lips next to her ear. “I know what you have done,” he whispered, barely loud enough for her to hear. “I know what you did when you were still just a child, old enough to remember, but still basically a child. I saw it, Claire. You looked like an adult, but I know better. And I saw you. I saw you that night. In the cemetery. I know, because I was there.”
Claire looked over towards Darius, her eyes wide. “You were there?”
Darius backed off, and sat down on the coffee table, placing his legs between hers. “Yes I was there,” he said, smiling and caressing her inner thigh. She slapped his hand. “We need to keep this professional!” she barked.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he chided, placing his hand back on her thigh and sneaking it up her skirt. “I know more about you, Claire. I know where you come from and where you are going.”
She shuddered as his hand crept farther up her skirt and his fingers entered her. She stopped, brushing him away, and stood on her feet, the notepad falling to the floor. “That must stop now!” she said, raising her voice.
Darius leaned back and smiled. “Shall we talk about the cemetery?” He raised his eyebrows waiting for an answer.
“Absolutely not! This session is over.”
Darius got up, gave her a smug look and walked over to the door, wiping his right hand on his jeans as he walked.
“I am going to have you reassigned,” Claire stated, shaking her head, trying to regain her composure.
“No you won’t,” Darius said, smiling. “I know you won’t because you are too infatuated with me. And if you do, maybe then I will talk about what happened that night in the cemetery.”
Darius walked out the door and back into the hospital hallway, quickly ushered away by two tall skinny men dressed in white, while Claire recoiled back into her office. As soon as Darius and the men were out of sight, she slammed the large, dark wooden door to her office so hard that the woman who had been sitting at the administrative desk in the foyer typing ran up from her chair so fast that the small felt seat spun around and around again and again; she knocked furiously on the door asking if Claire was okay, but Claire did not answer.
Claire did not hear her Assistant’s desperate knocks; she was busy rummaging through the top desk drawer, through pens and various papers and clutter, and then let out her breath when she saw the small golden set of keys that she was looking for. She grabbed one of the two keys, and dashed over to her bookshelves where she unlocked the cabinet, and caressed the bottle of twelve year old scotch inside. She grabbed the scotch, and behind the bottle was one more item.
A large manila envelope, marked “Cemetery”.
“So this is what you want, Darius,” she said, cracking open the scotch. The ice clanked in her glass, reverberating through the now silent office. She took a deep breath and tried to relax as she felt the burn of the scotch splash down her throat and warm her insides. “So you want to talk about what happened at the cemetery.” She held up the other key in front of her face and turned it around, admiring its copper beauty. She downed her scotch, wincing at its burn.
“You will never get this key,” she said, taking it off the ring. She poured herself a fresh scotch and swallowed the key.
*~*~*
CHAPTER TEN
Douglas awoke with a start and shot straight up in bed, clutching his chest and breathing rapidly. His heart was pounding, and he was covered in sweat. Once he gathered his senses, he rubbed some sleep out of his eyes and scanned the dark room. He made out a cream colored high back chair, and in front of his bed, if he squinted, he could make out the television.
Yes.
He was in his hotel room.
And he was in Miami. What was that dream? He tried desperately to remember, but he couldn’t. All he knew was that it was terrible, causing him to shake with chills as he pulled the covers back and swung his legs around the bed. He needed a stiff drink to warm himself back up and get back to sleep.
He looked at the clock, noticing that it was still just fifteen minutes past three in the morning. Flipping on the bedside lamp, the room was bathed in a warm, orange glow of the light, and he shielded his eyes as they adjusted to the new brightness. He padded over to the minibar, and stopped in his tracks as he saw what was on the table.
Sheldon’s urn.
That’s right. He was on Key Biscayne earlier. The thoughts flooded his mind as the veil of alcohol had been lifted.
“I trust that you will take these and follow his wishes,” Mr. Werdley had said, handing over the urn to Douglas. Doug could not help but notice that the man seemed to be at the age where he was probably well past retirement. In fact, he was probably a step or two away from being one of his own customers.
And after Douglas took the urn, turning to leave, Mr. Werdley held up a bony finger. “Just a moment,” he said, turning to his desk. He opened a small, brown accordion file, and dumped the contents out on his desk. There was an assortment of papers, and multi colored carbon forms, and one sealed large, manila envelope. He fished the envelope from the pile of papers and held it out in front of Doug.
“That is my name,” Doug said, craning his head to the side to read the writing. “That is for me?” He looked up at Mr. Werdley with raised eyebrows.
The undertaker smiled. “To be opened only by you. Written by Sheldon himself, and placed in this file to be given only to you in the event of his death.”
Douglas cradled the urn in the crook of his left arm as if it were a baby, reached his right arm out and took the envelope.
And now, later in the hotel room, that envelope was sitting next to the urn, its stark yellow pulp contrasting to the dark wood of the table. Douglas reached for the envelope, and started to open it, and quickly stopped. He needed a drink for this.
He could feel it.
After he poured himself a glass of straight bourbon on ice, he finished the job, the tearing of the envelope sounding like tape coming off of leather. And there it was –
Douglas,
If you are reading this, I am dead.
I don’t exactly know what way that I will have died, but I can be certain that it won’t have been under the most pleasant of circumstances. Over the past few years, I have become consumed with a coven of immortals, immortals who are much more than your typical vampire. And I have been researching their ways and lifestyle as part of my work at The Astral, which I joined in 1985.
Several years ago, I came across the subject of my inquiry, a young Antoine Nagevesh, of Sri Lanka. He grew up working the coffee fields outside of Badulla, but that was well over two hundred years ago. He was transformed into an immortal shortly before his nineteenth birthday, and has remained in that physical state since. Some might think of him as a vampire, but in actuality, he is much more than that. I have experienced this first hand.
Antoine and I met at his estate over the course of many months, and I gathered notes, tapes and everything that I could about his story. My intentions were to write a book
integrating immortals into everyday society; but those intentions were never realized. Too often and too soon, I became consumed with his story and his way of life, and I wound up becoming swallowed up in the madness.
When I listened to my tapes, I went mad. I drank feverishly, I ate everything in sight, I slept at the office night after night, and I smoked a steady stream of cigarettes. Because his story was addictive.
Antoine is pure evil.
Please heed warning in that. He has a gift, a power, and is one of the most charismatic gentlemen I know. He is very well learned and he is very well traveled. But I write you this letter to give you a warning.
You must do three things for me.
I ask you to do these things, as my friend who I lost so long ago, my friend who I have always loved and cared for, and who never understood my work.
Now you will understand.
Now that you have come to Miami, you need to erase my existence from that city. You need to start at my office, at the corner of Ponce De Leon and 5th in Coral Gables. Have your hotel arrange for a car to take you; they will know the way. What’s important though – have the car leave right after he drops you off.
When you get there, go into my office, close all the blinds, close all the doors, turn off all the lights, and dump the contents of my files on the floor in a giant pile of papers and folders. And then I want you to open the bottom right hand drawer in my desk. In that drawer, I have a jug of lighter fluid. I want you to douse that mound of papers and soak it – get it wet! And then take my ashes – take the urn and dump it on the pile of papers and light the fire. Let it burn and let me go down with it. The get the hell out of dodge and let the building burn.
Then quickly walk down Ponce De Leon until you get to the corner of Andelusia.
This is so important, so pay attention.
You will see all the stately mansions, the magnificent royal palms, and the stunning canopy shading the street. This street is so beautiful but so evil. You need to go to One Andelusia Avenue. You will recognize the house with the giant mason columns out front from the photos that I have sent to you.
That is where Antoine lives.
It is so necessary that you destroy this house. It must be burned to the ground. But you will see houses in Florida are made of cinder block because of the violent storms, so you will have to go inside. You won’t be able to just douse this house in gasoline or lighter fluid; nothing will happen.
And this is where it will get difficult for you, and I apologize for it.
The last time that I saw Antoine, he was guiding me down into his cellar; and his cellar led down a set of stairs framed by white plaster walls like any other cellar, and it had a hanging lamp at the foot of the stairs like any other cellar, but that light did not penetrate the darkness. It hung from the ceiling, and it cast a warm, yellowish glow – but that is where the light stopped. And beyond there was blackness. And I have been there. And you don’t want to go there.
But you have to burn the house down, Douglas. You have to burn it to the ground, and you have to make it seem like the fire wasn’t started intentionally. The Miami FD is very adept at determining arson and what is not, so you will have a challenge ahead of you. But, please…see that it is done. You do not want what will be coming out of that house to be coming out into your dimension.
And, as Antoine’s house is burning and in smoky ruins, you have to travel to Miami Beach. You will need to find a way to get there completely undetected. You will have to find a nightclub that opened recently. It’s called ‘Sacrafice’.
The club was built in Saint Peter’s old Cathedral on Washington. After the fire, it sat for several years abandoned as the diocese opted to close the church due to low attendance.
But our fine friend Antoine snatched it up.
But it’s the pure personification of evil now. He uses it as a magnet to draw the lost and forbidden – and it must be destroyed. I don’t know how you will get rid of a Cathedral. Burn it down, plant a bomb, find a way, Douglas. You are a smart man. I know you will find a way. Just do it, please.
I never understood the need for my organization. I would sit in my office, lay back in my chair, and always look to people like Antoine. He – his kind – was one of the purposes of my organization. But, to be totally honest, The Astral did not exist to interview. We did not exist to write books. We had a deeper purpose.
At least I thought so.
I remember the night that I first met Jean Carlo.
I saw him across the room. And I think he saw me. He was sitting at a long banquet table, and I don’t think he knew what exactly The Astral was about.
But he is key. And he can be of great help to you, Douglas. He was initially brought to us when he first arrived on the astral plane. He can help you, Douglas. Take heed in that.
And now, the third task.
I have booked you an open ended First Class plane ticket. All you need to do is call the airline listed on the accompanying paperwork and choose your travel dates.
I need you to fly to Frankfurt, Germany.
Darius flew to this city to bury Antoine’s ashes not long ago. But Antoine was a demon. He was an immortal.
So he could come back.
He could come back and undo everything I have been trying to do to stop him. The interviews, everything. I wanted Antoine to feel like he was a celebrity. And he did. And he was stopped.
But his heart remains.
He died an immortal, and could always return one day. His heart is the source of that.
Antoine was buried in a small, unmarked grave in a cemetery near his and Darius’ chateau near Lyon in France.
You need to travel there, south, into France and to their Chateau. Darius most likely will not be there as he is mortal at the time of this writing and only travels to Europe via commercial airliners. Most likely, the chateau is closed.
But you will need to get inside, Douglas.
You will need to look through the basement, and find the map to Antoine’s grave.
And when you do, you need to dig up his casket, find the heart, and destroy it.
Our lives depend upon it.
Darius is aging quickly and will die a quick and final death if he cannot get Antoine’s son, Roberto, to resurrect him.
The heart is the key. And you must destroy it.
For if Antoine returns, so will Darius to immortality. And Darius must be stopped.
Our future depends upon it. Darius may be humbled as a human, but as an immortal…he will transform.
Please do these things for me, Douglas. I need you to ensure that Darius never walks in this world again.
With Warm Regards,
Sheldon T. Wilkes
*~*~*
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Douglas set down the letter next to his glass.
The ice cubes were long melted, and the bourbon was watered down. He took a sip.
“You sure took a good way to go out, old Shel.”
And then Douglas reached for a pack of Chesterfields, fumbled for a match, and lit up. A minute or so later, he exhaled a large cloud of smoke. “But how? How am I going to do this?”
The hotel room did not answer his question.
Douglas fell back into bed. He didn’t look through the rest of the manila envelope that Sheldon had left him. He had plenty to digest. And, at that point, the sun would be up soon, and he needed some sleep.
He did not look at the rest of the materials. He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray after a few short drags, flopped down on the pillow, and felt sleep gradually overtake him.
Douglas went back to sleep. No, he did not see any of the tools that Sheldon placed in the envelope to help him. Which included the business card and phone number for the most well respected medium and clairvoyant in the state of Florida.
*~*~*
Claire did not live to see Darius again.
That night, shortly after Darius was escorted from her office, and after she swallowed
the key, she promptly left the office, drove home, and shot herself.
She did not even think twice, nor did she have a last minute relapse of regret when she pulled the trigger. Up until the last minute, and probably after she died, she was glad that she did what she did. And what was found after the gun went off was a big mess.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Martin said. He looked over at Ned, a lit cigarette bouncing between his lips as he spoke. “Why do I always get the messy ones?”
“Because you are the one who cleans up all the shit!” Deputy Rickson said, patting him on the back and laughing.
Martin shook his head. “Man this is a messy one. But pretty cut and dry. Look at the trajectory of the blood splatters on the wall. And you see the brain matter behind the toilet? She clearly shot herself. I would say that this is a suicide.”
“You could be right,” Rickson said, nodding his head in agreement. “Once we get an ID on the victim, we may be able to get more information. Nothing on the body.”
A deputy came to the door. He was wearing rubber gloves and holding a plastic baggie with a brown square mass inside. “I found her wallet.”
Martin got up from where he was crouched next to Claire’s body. He got up so fast that he almost fell backwards from slipping in a lake of blood. Ned immediately reacted and caught him. “Careful there partner!” he said. Martin just shook his head and grabbed the plastic bag from the deputy.
“Let me see that,” Martin said, glaring at the cop, his cigarette falling to the floor in his haste. “I want to see who this bitch is that called me out here in the middle of the night.”
Ignoring his cigarette and letting it burn on the tile floor, Martin took the wallet out and handed the plastic bag back to the deputy who quickly took it. He opened it up, thumbing through the contents. “No shit!” he said, almost dropping the entire wallet. “We got us here a celebrity!”
