The rain hissed. More thunder shook the air outside and the frame of the barn. It took a moment for him to swallow. To breathe.
He shone the light up at his son.
A figure stood behind Cody. A pale woman in a gossamer gown. Her eyes were milky white orbs devoid of pupils. Her mouth opened impossibly wide in a silent scream as she reached for the boy with elongated fingers.
“Jesus!” Bruce shot to his feet with a gasp and snatched Cody off the riding mower. The flashlight fell and rolled at their feet. He held Cody close to his chest with both arms. His eyes searched the darkness.
Lightning outside. It stuttered blue-white in the barn, strobed the shadows. The figure was ten feet away now, staring at them with those ghastly, sightless eyes.
“Jesus!” He crouched, Cody still clutched to his chest, and picked up the flashlight. He aimed it in the direction of the apparition, which dissolved into smoky tendrils and dissipated.
The remainder of the gas finished draining into the can with a hollow dripping sound. Bruce ripped the hose out of the container, topped it and heaved it, ramming the light into his pocket. It felt about three-quarters full.
Dear God, please be enough…
They ran to the threshold of the barn door. The sleet had already formed an icy sheen over the pathway that led to the courtyard of the manor. He looked around them—behind them— then took a step out into the cold and quickly darkening twilight. The rain stung his scalp, pelted him with tiny specks of ice. His eyes watered against the blasting wind, and his cheeks went instantly raw.
He went out onto the path, carefully balancing Cody and the gas can. The frozen rain made walking over the path treacherous work. Bruce took careful steps. Wind blasted, howling across the circular expanse of three acres encircled by the bare, clawed branches of the forest, the open expanse of the backyard.
A flash of lightning.
Six gray figures hung from the trees by their necks.
Bruce blinked. His breath came in a hollow gulp. He choked and almost lost his balance.
The figures hung from ropes, strung from the branches of the elder trees. Heads drooped. Heavy gray robes clung to feminine figures. Long strands of wet, dark hair hung over their faces. Each of the bodies had been eviscerated, their wombs sliced open. From the openings in their abdomens dripped the last cascades of blood that had splashed in sheets to the ground. From each womb dangled a long umbilical cord that reached to the ground, and at the end of each cord were six still fetuses, curled against the ground in such ways as if to imply that the blood of their mothers had impregnated the ground, and the Earth itself had become the mother of those unborn children.
When the sleet and wind kicked up again, twisted strands of rope creaked as the dead women swung, grim pendulums at the edge of the forest gloom.
Six dead women. Six dead children.
Dear God, it’s true.
Certainly this illusion proved nothing, but an illusion consistent with the tales his father told him years ago was either a product of starting down the road to madness, or a supernatural manifestation of the tragedy that had claimed this place for its own long ago.
Thunder rumbled and Bruce hurried as fast as he could, watching his step, holding Cody’s face close to him so the boy wouldn’t see the women. His foot slipped out from beneath him, and his other foot spun slightly on the glassy sheen that formed over the mossy, cracked concrete of the courtyard. He twisted and caught himself, but not before a tangle of muscles along the left side of his back ripped with pain. He gasped but kept moving.
They made it to the door of the manor. Bruce hurried Cody inside and, turning, paused just a moment to look back.
The figures of women now stood on the ground over their unborn children. They lifted their heads simultaneously. Staring at them.
* * *
Bruce slammed the back door, the sound echoing through the empty house, and he had the distinct sensation of being swallowed up again by Elderwood Manor. Felt that somehow the house had driven them back inside, and gloated in some evil sense now that they were back within its cavernous halls.
“Daddy?” Cody hadn’t seen any of the horrors outside, but he definitely sensed that something was wrong.
“Shh, let’s get back to the fire.” They were frigid and he needed to think. Bruce led them back through the dim light of the place, navigating the murk with cautious steps. Once inside the den, he closed the door. There was a lock on it, the old-fashioned kind that would require a key from the outside to gain entry, so he turned the latch, setting the bolt.
The fire had died to embers. There were only a couple of logs left. He threw them on and blew until they began to darken and smoke. A small flame started under the logs, then they each drank a bottle of water and he made another PBJ and opened a small bag of chips for Cody. The boy ate solemnly. Bruce tried to cheer him up a little. He’d packed his favorite book, Henry and the Elephant, and a couple of toys, plus some crayons and a coloring book. The boy ate and Bruce watched him, haunted by the images they’d seen of the women out back and thought again, My God, it’s true.
Clearly the woman—Demon? Ghost?—in the barn had wanted Cody. It meshed with everything Dad had told him in secret the final year he’d spent here in the house before he turned eighteen. By then Bruce had already begun to pull away from the family, intensely focused on seeking a life for himself elsewhere, hell-bent on escaping the brooding sense of doom that clung to every man who’d ever lived in this godforsaken manse. Dad had wanted him to go, to see his son flourish in the world outside, not rot in this gray mausoleum. But the women…well, they were the key. No woman or child born in the Davenport line had ever left Elderwood Manor for good, but then he was the first son in a long line of daughters. So no child had ever left the manor until Bruce Davenport walked out those doors without looking back.
He wouldn’t accept the guilt. A million things were racing through his mind, starting with the idea that things might have been different for everyone if only he had stayed, as Mother had always claimed he was destined to do. Perhaps Dad would have lived longer. Maybe things wouldn’t have fallen apart from the top down like they did. For years he’d lived a dream, with Heidi and their baby boy. Then came the economic downturn. The layoffs. Half the town crushed by recession. Perhaps if he had stayed at the manor, Heidi wouldn’t have died. She could have met some other man and gone down another path, lived a long and happy life. For certain, if he had stayed and done as Mother decreed, he wouldn’t have received the greatest blessing of his life; Cody wouldn’t be here with him now, sitting in what felt very much like a rotting dungeon, awaiting some unknown fate.
Bruce couldn’t help feeling the legacy of Elderwood Manor was a curse inherited by their family. Carried in his blood.
No, he wouldn’t accept that. Not any of it. It wasn’t consistent with the stories Dad told him. Here, now, Bruce accepted without question that there was a curse, but it was not so much tied to their lineage as it was tied to the land, to anyone who resided here for any length of time. The actions of one man long ago, a man to whom he wasn’t even related, would not decide the fate of him and his son, in this age, not even under this decrepit roof.
If only he could see his father now. If only his father had met Cody and not just seen the pictures he sent through the mail. Maybe if he’d called instead of writing brief letters, if only he had used the phone to talk to Dad, man to man, maybe Bruce would have mustered the courage to come back before now. Clearly, it was too late. Seemed like, lately, it was too late for a lot of things.
No, it’s not over yet. I have gasoline, I’ve called the authorities, and someone will be here soon.
The part of him that still dared to hope clung to that line of reason as a cornerstone of faith. He had to believe in their chances to get out of here. The other part of him, the pragmatist, knew how slick the ice storm had already made it outside, recalling the twisting slopes of road they had traveled to get here, and it was n
ot likely anyone would arrive anytime soon.
But they had the gasoline. If they could make it through the night, maybe it would warm up enough to go out, gas up the car, and drive out of here tomorrow. Or maybe someone would come tomorrow.
Maybe.
They could survive for one night, even within these walls.
“Daddy, will you wead me dat Henwy and da elephant book?”
“You bet, buddy. Come on over.” They snuggled up together on a big chair near the fire and Bruce read to his son softly, changing his voice to suit each character, and this simple act pushed away the darkness for a while, put smiles on their faces.
They cuddled up under some extra blankets, and Cody started to drowse, but then he said, “Daddy, I have to pee.” He whispered it. Like he didn’t really want to leave this little cocoon they’d made for themselves. Like he knew his daddy didn’t want to go either.
“Okay. It’s okay—I have to go, too.”
The moment they folded back the blankets, cold pressed in around them. Soon the logs would burn out, but Bruce had already decided to burn the furniture instead of going outside for more wood.
They stood and went hand in hand to the door. He unlocked it, and the sound of the latch clicked through the musty spaces in the corridors outside. The moment they stepped out of the den, Bruce felt like they were being watched. That someone was standing nearby, aware of them, but unseen.
“Come on,” he said. They slipped inside the old narrow bathroom down the corridor and joked about how small it was, and Cody yelled, “It’s loud!” as his pee hit the water. When it was Bruce’s turn, Cody watched the whole thing. “It’s like a waterfall!” Cody said, really thrilled. Bruce grinned but said, “Quiet now.” He didn’t know why he’d said it—well, he did know, but he wished he hadn’t. They turned on the faucet but the water was arctic cold, so they made quick work of washing their hands before heading back into the hallway.
They had to pass under the main stairs again to get back to the den. Bruce’s eyes ran across the room, his chest tightening with every step they took.
Out here, with the open space around them—the heavy air of the house scented with age and mildew, dusty carpets and wood oil and wet stone—it felt as if something was off balance. The floor maybe slightly canted. As they walked back toward the den, one of the chandelier lightbulbs in the foyer flickered and went dark, adding another layer of shadow to the darkly majestic interior. On either side of the front door, the sounds of the frozen rain pelted the tall windowpanes relentlessly.
Bruce was nervous about stepping into the foyer again. It would mean they could be seen from the top of the stairs, from that catwalk up there leading to the room in which his mother had died. He didn’t want to think about that again. Enough about that. He just wanted to see what the weather was doing, to confirm his suspicions.
Bruce started into the foyer. Cody tugged his hand toward the open door of the den. “No, Daddy,” he whispered.
“I just want to see outside for a second.”
Cody came along, a toddling little form beside him, Bruce’s only companion.
But there’s something else here with us, isn’t there?
He went to the window, pulled back the heavy drape, and looked outside. Night was the deepest shade of purple. He could see only as far as the driveway where it ended in front of the house. Ice coated everything in crystalline layers. The elder trees that lined the driveway seemed to have bowed down, choking off the road. He had to convince himself they hadn’t actually grown that way in the past two hours, strangling their only path to the outside world. In the dark, the ends of their bare branches looked like black glass claws, waiting to tear apart anyone who dared try to escape.
Panic rose in Bruce and he had to fight it down. He felt himself begin to tremble. He let the drape fall back into place, then knelt and hugged Cody. Was it fair of him to draw strength from his child? Could he possibly draw strength from anywhere else?
Cody hugged him back, hard. When they parted, Bruce held his son at arm’s length, and looked him in the eyes.
“We’re going to get out of here.”
Cody nodded, tears threatening to fall.
“We’re going to have to stay the night here, but tomorrow, first thing, we’re going to leave.”
Something scraped across the wooden floor nearby, like someone dragging a chair.
Bruce and Cody looked up at the same time.
The sound was coming from the hall to their right, behind the door to the east wing.
Beyond that door, the scraping grew louder.
Cody shook, then scrambled into Bruce’s arms.
Something slammed against the back side of the door. The violence of the impact seemed to make the ground beneath Bruce’s feet heave.
Two, three more strikes, much harder than before. Even deep in the shadows, Bruce saw the dark gleam of the wood bowing with the force of impact.
Another strike. The door cracked.
A final damaging blow—the strongest so far—and the door cracked again, filling the foyer like the sound of crunching bones. The hinges rattled. The arched transom window atop the doorway shattered. Glass fell in a wicked shower to the floor below. A moaning wind escaped the corridor beyond.
Bruce ran with Cody, reached the den and slammed the door.
* * *
At this point, the lock seemed pointless, but he turned the bolt anyway, telling himself that if something intended to come for them, a locked door would at least give them some warning. Their fire had died, so Bruce chose one of the antique chairs and took unexpected pleasure in smashing it to pieces before using it for fuel to regain their source of heat and light.
The warmth of the fire made them feel better. A little bit anyway. Cody had shrunk into himself, his usually joyful eyes deep and dark with fears only a child’s mind can know. The look there scared Bruce, and he did what he could to reassure the boy, reading to him again, but found it hard to muster the energy for the voices this time. He played with the toys a little, and finally, with a little belly tickle, Cody laughed a bit, and it lightened the dread they both felt. He tucked his son beneath the covers, gave him some more water, and stayed with him until he fell sound asleep.
Bruce stood. He looked around the den. Under other circumstances, it would have been a fine room, a regal library and place for men to smoke cigars and pipes, drink cognac and scotch, laugh over their beards at tales of old. Now, in the night, filled by the air of decay and the energy of unseen forces that oppressed this old home, it seemed dismal and full of brokenness. A place where dreams had died and their ghosts still lingered, voiceless and forlorn.
This had been his father’s favorite room. His absence here felt like a vacuum. In the far corner sat an overstuffed chair and lamp table where Dad used to read. Bruce went over there, preferring to save the flashlight batteries, took a candle and lighted it to peruse the titles of books on the shelves. Some of these books probably hadn’t been moved in a hundred years, might even disintegrate at the touch of his hand. The titles on the oldest spines supported all the stories Dad had told him, of what Elderwood Manor had once been.
He couldn’t remember ever really believing it. It had all seemed so much like a fairy tale. Stories to scare kids on stormy nights.
Cody’s breath shuddered. He whimpered in his sleep.
Bruce held up the candle, listened. Watched the shape of his son, sleeping near the fire.
The child settled again.
Bruce hadn’t been much older than Cody when Dad began to tell him the stories of Elderwood Manor. The mansion had been built out here in the late 1800s by a wealthy German immigrant and self-proclaimed master of the occult, Samael Reuchlin. He’d invited only women to join him in what seemed the perfect sanctuary, and although he claimed to foster a peaceful heritage of neo-druidism, fertility, and worship of the earth, things went decidedly south from there.
He made a good show of it at first, to hear it told.
He’d planted the elder trees for their iconic powers—worshipped as they had been for years by druids and witches as links to the Mother Goddess. More than that, they were historically regarded as being symbolic of beginnings and endings, life and death. Dad liked to add that some tales say, after he betrayed Jesus, Judas Iscariot hanged himself from an elder tree. All manner of lore attributed magical powers to those trees, had them visited or embodied by everything from fairies to the Crone of druidic Celts, even the Elder Mother herself. The trees were the lure here—they had enchanted a small group of fervent, handpicked women with an interest in Samael’s fertility cult.
Bruce reasoned that Samael had managed to deceive them all, luring them to Elderwood Manor with seemingly altruistic intentions. The general consensus among tellers of the tale was that Samael had been a wicked man at his core. He led the women down a path that seemed true to ancient pagan beliefs, but blinded them to the ultimate transformations he’d wrought in their spirits and souls. It was rumored he used the women to rekindle ancient knowledge better left forgotten. That he enacted dark rites, offered blood sacrifice, awakened Satanic forces. None could say for sure. Other than a crumbling book of insane scribblings written in German by Samael himself, there was no real accounting for what led up to the grand horror inflicted on those poor women who’d come to study under him.
Legend in the nearby towns, passed on by old-timers who heard from old-timers, said that the women were essentially sex slaves under the auspices of some kind of coven-esque hierarchy remanded by his diabolic objects of worship. In celebration of some twisted version of Beltane, he’d managed to impregnate them all. But in a gruesome sabbat meant to commemorate Samhain months later, he turned on his disciples—or perhaps he simply went mad—and while no one would speak of what was found inside the house, all anyone truly knew was that six women had been killed. They were hanged from the trees behind the manor, their unborn children cut from their wombs, and they bled out onto the land, the children and their mother’s blood becoming one with the earth where they had died.
Elderwood Manor Page 3
