by Janni Nell
There were many caves in The Hollows, but only one whose entrance was littered with bones. Seconds before I entered I prepared myself for the fight of my life. Then I strode forward.
The cave faced east and the sun had already moved overhead, leaving the small round space wreathed in shadows. My eyes swept over the blackened camp fire, the pile of tatty blankets and the discarded head and skin of a rabbit. Other than that, the cave was empty. No Lily. No malhag.
Moving to the back of the cave, I found the entrance to the passage I’d gone down before. The malhag must’ve hidden Lily in the labyrinth of tunnels. Trying not to think of the odds against finding her, I switched on my flashlight and plunged forward. Too fast. My arm rubbed against the tunnel, leaving several layers of skin on the rock.
I kicked it and swore in frustration. Not that I thought the passage would magically widen or anything, but kicking the rock made me feel better. It didn’t do much for the yellow beam of my flashlight, which was growing paler by the second. I hoped the Angel Awards had gone to a commercial break because, if my flashlight went out, I’d need Casper.
As I moved along the tunnel, I called out to Lily, straining my ears for a reply. From far away came a sound that might have been the cry of a raven or a muffled cry for help from a frightened pregnant woman. I stopped, listening harder. Yes I could just make out the word, “Allegra?”
“Where are you?” I called back.
“I don’t know. It’s dark.”
“Duh. It’s all dark in here.”
Lily called out, as though she’d come up with a really bright idea, “You can follow the sound of my voice.”
“Gee I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
Ignoring her offended tone, I asked, “Are you okay?”
“Of course not,” she snapped, her voice echoing. “Neither would you be if you’d been captured by some nasty withered—”
“Careful. Best not insult your captor.”
“I’d like to kill her. It’s a miracle I’m not in labor, considering all I’ve been through. But I’m really cold and the ground is hard as a rock. Well, I guess that’s not surprising, since it is a rock.”
During our muffled conversation I’d been moving forward, trying to locate her. As far as I could tell she was on the other side of the rock wall to my right, but there were no openings, no way to reach her.
“Allegra are you still there?”
“I’m trying to figure out how to get to you. There’s no direct way.”
“It’s hard to locate you. Your voice is echoing all over the place,” I said.
She came up with another idea. “Remember when we used to play in the pool as kids?” Not our own pool. A friend’s pool.
I got it and called out, “Marco.”
She answered, “Polo.” There was less echo.
I continued down the tunnel, found a fork, took the right. “Marco.”
“Polo.” Now her voice seemed to be coming from the left. “Have you moved?”
“Of course not.”
I found another fork and turned left, but my hopes were already sinking. I hadn’t been able to find her in the pool either. Mainly because she and her friends had gotten out. They’d also neglected to tell me I could call “fish out of water.” When Mom came to pick us up, she found me wandering blindfolded in the pool, shivering, while Lily and her teenage friends sprawled on sun loungers, stifling their giggles at the stupid little sister. That was a few years before the incident with the orange juice and the prom dress.
“Marco,” I yelled, reminding myself I was a tough-as-nails investigator, not a little kid anymore.
“Polo.” Lily’s voice was still coming from the left. I found another fork and followed her voice. After two more left turns, I figured I must be back where I’d started. Maybe I should’ve turned right at the first fork. I set out again retracing my steps but the fork was no longer there. I went a long, long way but the sides of the tunnel remained unbroken.
“Marco.”
“Polo.” Her voice was faint. Far, far away. I turned back the way I’d come, hoping the forks in the tunnel would magically appear, calling out to Lily all the time. Sometimes her answers were so soft I could barely hear her, other times they got louder, filling me with hope.
“Polo,” she said, so loud it could’ve been coming through a paper-thin wall. I pressed my ear again the cold rock, heard the sound of someone breathing softly. I hammered on the rock as if I could break into her prison.
“Lily.” When she didn’t answer, I pressed my ear to the rock again. This time the breathing wheezed like wind through rusty pipes.
When a shaft of daylight entered the tunnel, I knew I’d failed. The malhag had been toying with me. Somehow, either by creating an illusion or actually changing the shape of the tunnels, she had made me see only what she wanted me to see. I could’ve walked right by Lily without even knowing it. Like being blindfolded. Maybe she’d even imitated Lily’s voice. I could almost hear the echo of the malhag’s laughter. Then I realized it was Lily sobbing.
I wanted to turn around and march back into the darkness, but I knew it would do no good. Even calling for help was pointless. Who would I call? I had to fight the malhag with the right weapon, which meant finding the cause of her need for revenge.
Leaving Lily’s car parked at The Hollows—I’d return for it when I got a chance—I returned to Hampton Horeturned
Chapter Fourteen
Barb Johnson had already left for Hawaii, but true to her word, she’d hidden a spare set of the keys outside for me. I collected them and let myself in. She’d left the door to the basement open, knowing that I planned to return and continue my search for the diary. There was a note taped to the basement door.
Good luck. If you’re ever in Hawaii, the piña coladas are on me.
After folding her note and shoving it in my pocket—I intended to hold her to that invitation—I flicked on the basement light and hurried down the stairs.
Shadows laced the busts like rivers of blood. Squeezing around the plinths, I searched for Steven Twenty. I’d only read a couple of plaques when my vision blurred like I had something in my eyes. Dust, most likely. I blinked rapidly, closed my eyes and rubbed. When I opened them again, mist was creeping into the basement. Chilly and damp. And the way my toe was itching, the mist was up to no good.
Drawing myself up to my full six-foot and one-half-inch height, I put my hands on my hips and said, “Okay Demelza, you can bugger off right now.”
The mist swirled and writhed. Thickened. A female voice, soft and very convincing, said, “Thou wilt never find what thou seeketh. Forsake thy search. Thou wilt fail and become a laughingstock.”
I have a 99.5% success rate, so even if I failed in this case, I wouldn’t become a laughingstock. The voice was talking crap, but the odd thing was I believed it. I began to question my ability. The more the voice talked, the more I doubted myself. If I didn’t leave the basement right now, I was going to fail. My reputation would be shot to pieces. I’d never work again. Tears welled in my eyes. I was no good—a dismal failure not just at finding the diary but also at finding Lily in The Hollows. Right now she might be giving birth alone in the darkness.
The mist draped icy tendrils around my neck. “Go home. Leave this place and save thy good name. Or thou wilt fail.”
I covered my ears, trying to block out the words, but they were in my brain. Fail. Fail. Fail.
Snap out of it, Allegra, the voice is talking crap. Just thinking that took a huge amount of strength. Sweat dampened my armpits. My shoulders tensed. I fought harder. “You’re talking crap, Demelza. Piss off.”
The mist thinned. Wow, I’d gotten rid of her. Easier than I expected.
And right in front of me was the bust I’d been searching for.
Steven Richard Hampton XX 1669-1732
Beloved father of Caroline, Steven, George and Martha. Beloved grandfather of Katie, Ste
ven, Elizabeth, Jane, Rosalind, Anne, Joshua, Adam, Cora, Sarah, Esther, Ruth, Luke, Matthew, Tom, Faith, Harriet, Viola, Jonathan.
So Steven Twenty had no great achievements in his life. Unless you considered being a beloved father and grandfather great. Actually it was probably the best thing a man could aspire top>
I looked Steven Twenty right in the eyes and, using one of Dad’s favorite words, said, “Hey, mate.”
Putting my hands on either side of Steven Twenty’s cheeks, I tilted the bust so I could look beneath it. Of course I expected the diary to be there. Unfortunately I was wrong. Had someone moved it? Had my dream been nothing more than—well, a dream? But what about Casper’s hint? He wouldn’t have risked helping me and upsetting the Powers-That-Be if he hadn’t truly believed the diary was there.
I took a moment to clear my mind. Deep breaths and peaceful thoughts never did much good. Instead I said every swear word I knew, including some really bad ones Wanda had taught me in Witch. Soon my mind was clear as a Tibetan monk’s.
After checking the plinth for secret hiding places—didn’t find any—I focused on the bust again. Tilting it way back, I looked inside. Hmm. Steven Twenty wasn’t as empty-headed as the average Hampton. Stuffed inside was a small cylinder wrapped in brown cloth. After teasing the package out of the bust, I peeled away the wrapping, revealing a thin volume bound in soft leather. It was in remarkably good condition for a more than three-hundred-year-old diary, but one look at the beautifully neat writing with its archaic words convinced me I’d found what I’d been searching for.
Yes! I punched the air.
After rewrapping the diary, I replaced the bust on the plinth and headed for the stairs. Wind gusted through the basement. The door at the top of the stairs banged shut, but it didn’t matter, since the key was in my pocket. I bounded up the stairs and checked the handle. Yep, definitely locked. I got to work with the key, but no matter which way I turned, the door refused to budge. I tried every other key on the ring Barb had provided yet none of them worked. Then my toe started to itch. Mist seeped into the basement.
“Okay, Demelza, open this door right now.” Worth a try. A harsh tone had gotten rid of her before.
The mist thickened, drifting from the sides of the room and clumping in the middle like unworked clay. The shape of a woman began to form—Demelza as her younger self. I leaped down the stairs, faced the mist and lashed out like a kick boxer. My foot connected with mist. I overbalanced and fell on my ass—then quickly scrambled to my feet. The misty Demelza took a step toward me. She stroked my forehead with a gentle hand.
“Thou wilt destroy the journal,” she whispered. “It be a terrible weight on thine heart.”
I tried to speak but the word no stuck in my throat.
The word yes formed in my mind. Yes, I will destroy the diary. My tongue ached to shout it out loud. I closed my lips, locking in the word. My head felt as if it was swelling, ready to explode.
Above me the door flew open. “Climb the stairs,” she said.
I leaped to obey. It was a relief to get out of the basement. But when I tried to leave Hampton House, she blocked my way.
“Thou canst not leave until the journal has been destroyed,” she said. “Go to the fireplace.”
“In your dreams, bitch.”
Never say that to a witch. The ache in my head grew worse. All I could think of was destroying the diary. I could barely stop myself from rushing to the living room grate, lighting a fire and tossing it into the flames. But I did. I turned to front door and took a step toward freedom. Pain shot through my temples.
“Obey me and thy pain will ease.”
“No.” Sweat broke out on my forehead. I trembled all over with the effort of defying her. If only I could burn the diary. I’ll feel so good when it’s gone. What was I thinking? I needed that diary. It was my only hope of solving this case. Clutching the precious package to my chest, I took another step toward the front door. Increased pain brought me to my knees. Please make it stop.
“Go to the fireplace,” said Demelza.
Yes, yes, anything to make the pain stop. Like a marionette I got to my feet, following her commands. Immediately the pressure in my head eased. I moved to the fireplace in the living room. It was stacked with logs. On the mantelpiece was a box of matches.
“Light the fire,” said Demelza.
Okay, I could do that. It would buy me some time. Maybe the cavalry would come to my rescue.
“Do not tarry,” said Demelza, shooting a bolt of pain through my head. “Hurry.”
When the pain receded a little, I got on with the job. Too soon the fire was up and flaming.
“Burn the journal,” said Demelza.
Playing for time, I lied, “It’s too thick to burn.”
She wasn’t convinced. “One page at a time.” When I didn’t respond, the pressure in my head built again. I moaned but didn’t move. Her misty breath whispered around my head, momentarily easing the pressure and then making it worse than ever.
“I am weary of your disobedience!” she shrieked. “Tear out a page.”
I trembled with the effort of fighting her. Matching my will against hers. It was no contest. I was losing, losing, losing. My fingers gripped the page. I began to tear, slowly, resisting all the way. With each little rip, my pain eased.
As the page came free, she said, “Burn it.”
I tried to shake my head but the pain ratcheted up. Invisible steel bands, tightening and squeezing. I fell to my knees, crushed the page in my hand and threw it onto the fire.
Tears pricked my eyes. I couldn’t do this. Couldn’t lose the diary. Ignoring the agony in my head, I snatched the burning page out of the fireplace and beat the flames out with my hands. Then my head exploded and I lost consciousness.
I was lying on a rug, my head resting on something soft. A cushion. I stirred, feeling someone’s strong thighs beneath the cushion. “Casper?” I murmured drowsily, opening my eyes. “You were late. You’ll never get an Angel Award now.”
He laughed softly. “The votes are counted before the ceremony begins.”
Was this goodbye? “Has your award been announced?”
“Not yet. At the moment, Elvis is still singing. When he’s done, a couple more awards will be announced. Then a performance by the original Ziegfeld chorus girls. I think the Marx Brothers are doing a comedy sketch after that. Anyway my award won’t be up for a while.”
Relief flooded me. For long minutes I didn’t even think of the diary. I simply enjoyed the comfort of Casper’s lap and his stroking the hair off my forehead like an attentive boyfriend.
Finally, I had to return to the real world. “Did I burn the diary?”
“It’s right here,” he said, showing me both the book and the page I’d ripped out and tossed in the fire. I smoothed out the crumpled page. It was charred around the edges but the text was still legible.
I sat up. My toe was no longer itching so I figured I was safe from Demelza. At least for the moment. “Gotta read this before she gets back.”
After switching on a lamp, I curled up on the sofa and began to read. The handwriting was bold and despite the faded ink, I didn’t anticipate any trouble deciphering it. Contrary to my expectation, the diary wasn’t a yearly one with dates and stuff. And there was no information about crops or the business of running a farm. It was more like a record of Steven Twenty’s life with Elowyn, which began with their first meeting in a Boston street.
I am astonished. Her beauty is incomparable. Her hair falleth like raven silk around her face. Full lips like plump strawberries rest in the rich cream of her skin. And her eyes, oh her eyes, deep violet and mysterious. She is wondrous.
’Twas good fortune her basket was overfull and a bunch of herbs tumbled to the ground. When I helped retrieve them, she did thank me and favored me with a smile, but she did not linger. I had no chance to ask her name or offer mine. I am determined to find her again.
Two weeks later he did.
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I espied her, laden with purchases, which I did offer to carry. She seemed surprised by my approach but she was content for me to assist her. We passed a pleasant interlude strolling to her home, which was in one of the less salubrious parts of the city. Her name is Miss Penrose. Methinks ’tis the sweetest name in all creation.
I skimmed over the details of their courtship, slowing down when she introduced him to Demelza.
Miss Penrose has no family save a sister, and ’twas encouraging to receive an invitation to meet the other Miss Penrose. I was astonished when I faced not one but two Elowyns. She and her sister, Demelza, are identical twins! At first I was amused, but amusement quickly turned to horror when Demelza claimed it was she who had first made my acquaintance. I did not believe her until she repeated our conversation word for word.
Then I remembered my second meeting with Miss Penrose and her surprise at my approach. This, I thought, must have been Elowyn. ’Twas unsettling to hear Demelza speak of the times we had met on the strs of Boston. When I accused her of speaking untruths, she told of a kiss we had shared. I was ashamed for Elowyn to hear this and looketh upon me with such sorrow. But worse, I knew not which sister I loved.
Hitherto I had been joyous but now the dark days began. Elowyn suggested our betrothal be announced without delay but Demelza insisted I become acquainted with each sister before making my final decision. Mayhap I was wrong to give her hope but it seemed a goodly plan. As I began to know them better, I marveled that they could be so alike in appearance but so different in nature. In less than a fortnight I knew Elowyn was the woman I must take to wife. When I told the sisters of my decision, Demelza became enraged, accusing Elowyn of practicing witchcraft to engage my affection. I scorned her accusations. I am a God-fearing man. I would recognize a witch if I did meet one.
