by Joey Ruff
Then, the doll…the sodding doll…spoke in a voice that sounded like the best impression of Solomon Huxley I’d ever heard. “The first rule is, the best weapon is knowledge.”
18
Ape
We got out of the Rhino by the barn, and as I hobbled over to the house, London said, “Ya know, brother, you’ve fucking told me stories of every fucking tree and hill we passed, but you never said anything about that fucking tree over there. Is there a story?”
I stopped and looked at the giant apple tree that stood about a hundred yards from the house. The entire story of the tree, from my uncle missing my tenth birthday party to him gifting me the “magic” apple from some secret, far-off garden, flashed through my mind. Thinking about it just made me sad, made me remember Uncle Arthur’s transformation into one of the puppets of Brom. Just made me miss him like crazy. Arthur, the eccentric, world-traveling philanthropist, was the only person in my family, besides my parents, that truly loved me for who I was, warts…er, hair and all.
Was there a story to the tree? Yeah. Probably the only story worth telling. While London appreciated the Gopher trees, he couldn’t’ve cared less for the oak by the pond where I carved the initials of Sarah Chase, my first school crush, or the hill I sledded down as a boy.
“No,” I said. “No story. That’s just a tree.”
“Aw, come on, brother. I can tell you’re fucking holding back.”
I took a deep breath. “Fine.” I forced a smile and gave him a version of the truth. “A few months back, the tree lost some pretty big limbs in a bad wind storm.”
London stared at me for a minute, trying to figure out if I was being serious. I shrugged.
“See, not much of a story.”
“You can say that again.” He laughed, rich and hearty.
He followed me into the house, and we ate, then we went upstairs to the study. I was sitting at the desk looking for information on hauntings. I’d given London his own stack of books, and he sat sideways in an armchair across the rug. He had a beer in his hand and a restless shake to his foot. He looked bored, but determined to help.
“I’m sorry,” I told him, “If I didn’t seem very welcoming at first. I knew you were just here because Swyftt asked you to check on me, and I’d told him not to. I was tired of being babied.”
“Fucking A, brother,” was all he said, lifting his beer in a sort of toast.
I raised my mug of hot tea, and then brought it down to my lips and took a drink. “I appreciate that you didn’t baby me. Today was… It was good. It was needed. I’d been cooped up inside for too long. Just to get out… How long were we out there?”
“All day, brother. You got a fucking sweet set up.”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, clicking on the screen to see the time. I had three missed calls from Jono. He was impatient, but I was doing the research now. I’d call him back in a bit. I checked the time, just after six. The sun would be going down soon.
“It was all day. No wonder I’m tired.”
London looked up. “Is that a cue? You need me to fucking go?”
“No. Not unless you need to.”
“You sure?”
“It’s a big house. It’s nice to have the company.” Then I thought of something, “But it would be helpful if you could check on the dogs, make sure they don’t need to go out. I think they’re still in the house. I don’t think Chess would be too happy cleaning up after them if they go in the house.”
He stood and stretched. “Sure, brother. You need anything while I’m gone? I’m gonna grab another of these bitches.” He lifted his beer bottle up as he said it.
“No. Thanks.” Not a minute after he left the room, my phone rang. It was Swyftt. “Jono, I’m looking right now. I’ll get back to you.”
“Nadia’s gone,” he said.
“What do you mean, Nadia’s gone?”
“What do you mean, what do I fucking mean? I mean she’s fucking gone, mate. It’s not a riddle. The skunk apes took her into the swamp. I thought you should know.”
“Jono, I… When did it happen?”
“About forty minutes or so ago. An hour, tops. I tried to call, but you weren’t fucking answering, were you.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea. You need me to come down there?”
“And do what? Cripple your way through the fucking swamp? Pass. And if that wasn’t fucking enough, we’ve got to deal with the sodding Ballad Nocturne.”
“What is the Ballad Nocturne?”
“I’d tell you to look it up, but it might take you a day to figure it out. Which reminds me, another topic of conversation. Huxley’s back.”
“That’s not fair. Wait… what do you mean, Huxley?”
“Do you have a bloody phone app that turns all my statements into knock, knock jokes? I mean, Huxley. Solomon Hux…”
“I know who you’re talking about, Jono, but I was under the impression he died ten years ago. Wha… Is he the ghost you had me looking up information on?”
“Look, I’ve gotta go. I’ll catch you up on everything later, mate. I’ve gotta find Nadia and have precious little bloody daylight by which to do it.”
“I feel like I should be down there helping you.”
“I just called to tell you about Nadia so I didn’t have to hear you bitch later that I never did. You’re like a bloody woman sometimes.”
“Jono, would you just…”
“I gotta go, mate. Call me when you figure out the ghost problem. Cheers.”
Then he hung up.
I set the phone down feeling annoyed, confused, angry. I didn’t have much time to think about it before Chess showed up. He stood on the edge of my desk with a very worn, very old leather-bound book. There was nothing on the cover. “Sir,” he said. “Apologies. Here is the book you requested.”
I reached over and took it, holding it in one hand. It was small, about the size of one of those pocket New Testaments. I thumbed through carelessly, not sure what I was looking at, not remembering requesting anything. The pages were brown, crinkly and stiff, possibly water damaged. Every page was filled with hand-written text in a neat, cursive hand. There were diagrams on some pages, one that looked like a foo lion, another that looked almost like a blueprint of something.
Whatever the point of the book, it wasn’t really registering. I kept hearing Swyftt’s words. Nadia had been taken…
When I reached the end of the book, I began immediately flipping back through it in the other direction. I was about ready to set it down and order a plane ticket when I stopped on the first page. The page was blank, but for one image, a circle. No, it was a snake swallowing its own tail. It was like a light bulb came on in my head. I recognized the symbol.
I flipped the book around and showed Chess the image in the book. “This,” I said. “Ouroboros. It’s an ancient symbol that signified eternity. Endless cycles... Is this what you were talking about?”
He didn’t answer. I looked at him, but his entire body had gone rigid as he stared off distantly. “Chess?”
As I sat the book down on the desk, his head shot up, and he looked straight at me. “There is an intruder.”
“It’s just London,” I said. “I asked him to walk the dogs.”
“London walked out through the back door three minutes ago. The intruder is in the west wing. Third floor.”
“He’s in the ballroom?”
“He climbed the trellis and came in through the window.”
“What? Who is he?”
“Unfamiliar. Should I activate the defenses?”
I thought about it for a second. Defenses? What did that mean? Why did I feel like everyone was talking in riddles lately? “I…don’t think that’s necessary. Is he armed?”
“Difficult to say. Should I detain him?”
“Go get London, tell him to meet me by the west stairs.”
“Sir?”
“Is that a problem?”
He didn’t say anything, and i
n the next breath, he was gone. I hopped over to the crutches where they leaned against the wall, and made my way to the door, swinging out into the hallway. I stopped, thinking about the direction I’d need to go. The kitchen, living room, my bedroom…even the study, was all located in the center of the house. Even Swyftt and Nadia kept rooms just down from the study. Nobody ever used the wings. Either one. The East Wing was mainly servants’ quarters, though we hadn’t employed any for a couple generations now. The West Wing was used mainly to entertain. The ballroom was on the third floor, a couple of guest rooms on the second, a very old-fashioned bowling alley on the ground. The wine cellar was located below that.
I hopped along to the end of the hallway, where the floor curved and dipped away into a set of stairs. I descended, slowly, stopping at the landing and looking up the small flight that led into the West Wing guest quarters. To my left, another half-flight led away to the ground level.
One thing I noticed was the darkness. The hall behind me was lit, and what remained of the daylight came in through the large windows on the first floor below me, but the West Wing was uninhabited and rarely visited, so no lights burned ahead of me, and turning lights on would signal my coming.
I started going up with a little difficulty, finding it easier and faster to just hop on my one good leg, rather than maneuver with the crutches. When I reached the top there, I crutched down the hall and made the turn down the short hallway that ended with the ballroom’s stairs. I made it to the foot of the stairs and just listened. It was eerily quiet.
I decided if I was going to do this, I needed to keep the advantage. I knew where the intruder was, but there was no way he could know where I was. I had to stay quiet. That meant ditching the crutches, as they squeaked under my weight. I needed to catch this guy in the act.
As I climbed the first stair, I caught a movement of shadow just behind me. I turned, expecting to see London catching up to me. There was no one. It was possible that the intruder had moved on to other parts of the house. Of course, it was also possible, in the near-darkness, that I was seeing things.
I climbed off the stair and hobbled back down the hallway, holding one crutch up like a club as I neared the hallway junction. Pressing my back tight against the right wall, I was able to see a short ways to the left, back the way I had come. There was enough ambient light in that direction to show the hallway was empty. I peered around to the right.
The attack came from behind.
A solid blow struck the back of my head, following through to connect between my shoulder blades. Not only was it a sudden and unexpected hit, it was also very strong. I didn’t topple forward so much as I was thrown into the wall opposite me, clear on the other side of the adjacent hallway, colliding with the old portrait of my Great-Uncle Jonas.
I hit the ground after probably denting the wall, feeling a little disoriented. Before I could move, I felt a crushing pressure against my back. Hands tangled into my hair, jerking my head backward, and then slamming my face forward against the floor. My nose burst like a grape.
My arms were pinned. My left was held straight out, only inches from my discard crutch, which I could just feel on my fingertips, but couldn’t quite reach. My right arm was pinned at my side, and I tried to use it to free myself, struggling under the intruder’s weight, trying to find something to grab onto. I found a wedge of something, felt around it, figured it was a splintered piece of the frame I’d crashed into. The wood was jagged. I turned my wrist to position the stake for a strike, stabbed quickly. There was a scream above me, the weight shifted just a little, enough for me to reach and grab the crutch.
My right hand was forced down, and a boot planted firmly onto my wrist, grinding down as though the intruder were trying to put out a cigarette. There was more malice in the move than needed. My head jerked back again, this time staying up, and a cold, metal tip jabbed tightly against my skin.
I’ve had a knife to my throat before. While I tried not to make a habit of it, it had happened enough times in my life that I knew instantly what it felt like. It hadn’t broken the skin yet, but it was snug enough in place that the implications were clear. Don’t move.
I struck with the crutch, connecting a solid hit to the intruder, knocking him completely off-balance. The pressure eased enough that I was able to roll with the strike, twisting under him until I was on my back.
There was just enough light to see a lean figure, dressed in all tight-fitting black clothes, and black mask that made him look like a ninja. He wore gloves, and the only thing visible on him were his eyes. They were very angry.
I kicked him twice with my good leg, sending him off of me, but he caught himself against the wall, rebounding quickly. He came with the knife in one hand. I swung the crutch, but the intruder caught it in his free hand, wrenching it to the side. Tearing it from my grip, he tossed it clear, and fell down on me with the blade.
But he never struck.
It sounded like an explosion went off, and the intruder was thrown three feet down the corridor. Lying on his back and clutching his side, he wriggled but remained silent.
With all of the light at his back, London was just a silhouette. In one hand, he held a pistol, and even though I couldn’t see for sure, I imagined him grinning from ear to ear. “You’ve been judged, motherfucker,” he said.
He stepped toward me and reached out a hand, which I gladly accepted. Helping me up, he handed me the crutches, and we moved together to the intruder. The man in black had managed to move from the middle of the hallway to a sitting position against the wall under a portrait of Leonard Towers, a distant cousin.
“Who are you?” I asked, trying to sound menacing, despite my crippled state. “What are you doing in my home?”
The man didn’t say anything. He looked away, casting his eyes further down the darkened hallway, to the lone window at the end. Maybe he was thinking of making a break for it. Sure, he was quick, but now he was wounded, as evident by the dark wetness in the middle of the floor and the way he cradled his right side in his hands, applying pressure.
When the man didn’t answer, London stooped down next to him and placed the barrel of his pistol firmly against the underside of the intruder’s chin. “You might want to answer my friend, motherfucker. This here…this is the Judge. I already put a hole in you, so you know the way she kisses. One shot down means I have four more chambered, motherfucker. In case you don’t feel what hit you, those four rounds are three-inch shot shells, .410 bore: triple-ought buck.” He pulled the gun away just long enough to kiss the side of the barrel, and then he jammed it into the side of the man’s cheek. “Talk or you get another kiss.”
The intruder said something. His words were quiet, but they were also quick and panicked. He wasn’t speaking English.
Keeping the gun where it was, London looked up at me with a grin and said, “Looks like we got us a dirka-dirka motherfucker.”
“It’s not Arabic, London.”
“What the fuck is it then?” He looked at the intruder, putting his face only an inch away from the masked man’s. “What’choo fucking saying, brother? Talk some fucking English!”
“It’s Hebrew, London.” I watched the man in the mask. He was visibly in pain and breathing deeply, but his eyes ignored the gun pressed against him, ignored London completely, and focused intently on me. While I didn’t understand what it was that he’d said, I recognized the language. And while I didn’t know why, there was something oddly familiar about the man. “Put the gun away.”
“This motherfucker violated your home, brother. A man’s house is his castle.”
“Put the gun away.”
“Ape, brother…”
“Please. No more blood.”
He took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re fucking lucky,” he told the man. The Judge pulled away from the man’s cheek and hung at London’s side. He wasn’t putting it completely away, but it was enough to ease the tension.
I held the man’s eyes, ne
ither of us blinking.
“Take off his mask,” I told London.
London reached behind the man’s head and grabbed the mask, pulling it down and forward. The intruder’s eyes never left mine, not even when my heart skipped a beat. London gasped. Then he swore.
The intruder was a man…a young man, in his early twenties at the eldest. He had a pronounced brow line, with thick, bushy eyebrows, and deep hazel eyes. His hair, even in the dim light, was visibly bright red. It danced wildly over the top of his head and stood out awkwardly in places, trailed down the sides of his face in big, thick muttonchops, and ran thinner across his chin. His lips were parted as he breathed heavily, and his canine teeth were pronounced and almost sharpened.
I could tell just by looking at him that this man, whoever he was, was a fighter, and the way he stared me down, he was likely to pounce at any second. I didn’t trust him. And the truth of who…or even what…he was, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to know.
“Get a rope,” I said. “We need to secure him.”
“Wait one fucking minute, brother,” London said. “How in the hell is it possible that this motherfucker looks just fucking like you?”
19
Swyftt
I stepped back into the kitchen and tossed my mobile onto the counter. “There,” I said. “Ape has been apprised of the situation. Happy?” Nobody said anything. “Can we get back to the fucking business at hand now? It’s going to be dark all too soon, and the trail is getting colder every sodding minute.”
Huxley – in the guise of a one-foot doll made of burlap, having button eyes and a painted-on heart, with no mouth or fingers or toes – was standing on the counter by the sink. Near as I could tell, he was looking at me. “Calm down, Swyftt. We have plenty of time.” The doll didn’t have a mouth, I wasn’t even sure how it was he was speaking, but there was no denying his words.
DeNobb was standing over by the fridge with a cold beer in his hand and another empty bottle next to him. “Why am I the only one freaking out about the talking voodoo doll? Why are we not having a conversation about how this is happening?”
