by Nathan Roden
The final piece of the turret tower disappeared beyond the horizon. Seth and Holly topped the hill and descended toward what remained of the castle. Fifteen crew members remained, and had only an hour of daylight left after an intense day’s work. They prepared the last trailer load of stone wall for the next morning’s transport.
Seth and Holly got out of the truck and waved at the crew. The men smiled and waved back. The crew had grown used to seeing the two of them near the site. Their only concern was the times when their visitors appeared to be talking to themselves.
“You can hardly tell that there was a castle here, Uncle,” Holly said.
“Aye,” Seth said. “Won’t be but three or four days more, and she’ll be all gone. So sad, it is.”
“I don’t see them anywhere,” Holly said, turning in a slow circle. “Surely, their boundaries have disappeared. But where would they go?”
“I would think that if they were able to leave the grounds they would come to find you, straight away. Have they ever said where they would go to if they were able?” Seth asked.
Holly continued to walk in ever growing circles, her pace quickening.
“No. The castle grounds are all they know. And they have no one else on either side of the…they would find me,” Holly muttered a curse of frustration.
“I should have come every day,” she scolded herself. “What was I thinking? They’ve been through so much, and we are all they have… and their home is being—”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Holly,” Seth said. “They’ll be nearby.”
The work crew climbed into three separate trucks and disappeared over the horizon. Holly ran toward the hole in the ground where the castle used to be. Seth followed her.
“Charlotte! Nora! Baron! Elizabeth!” Holly yelled. Seth yelled the names as well.
Seth struggled across a muddy section. He saw Holly running up the south road.
Holly ran up the road, feeling drawn and not knowing why. The girls told her years before of the boundary that existed only a short distance to the south, a boundary through which they could not pass. Holly stopped running. She realized that she was now beyond that boundary. A glint of sunlight reflected off of something in a muddy rut. She stooped over, pinched a corner of the object, and pulled it from the heavy mud.
It was damaged and covered in mud, yet it was unmistakable.
It was the tiara of a princess, one that she had seen many times. It belonged to Princess Arabella.
And it was well beyond the boundary.
“Seth!” she yelled and turned to run.
Seth tried to follow Holly up the road. When Holly turned back, she saw Seth hunched over and down on one knee. He toppled to his side.
“Uncle Seth!” Holly ran to her Uncle’s side. “What’s wrong, Seth? What—“
“Holly…“ Seth whispered through clenched teeth.
“My heart—“
“I’ll get the truck, Seth. Stay with me. Stay with me, Seth!”
“Holly…” Seth struggled to say.
“Find them,” he said. “You have to find them. You hear me, don’t you now? Find the girls.”
“I’ll get the truck, Uncle. You just—“
But Seth Larrimore was gone.
Eleven
Wylie Westerhouse
Branson, Missouri
I paid a visit to the Snakebite Club since it was just down the street. I hadn’t called ahead, but what could they do—take away my birthday? I was running out of options. My head was swimming since I learned that someone is trying to shut down my ability to work in this town.
I told the bartender that I was looking for Jake Martin, the manager. I didn’t recognize the bartender from back in December, when we played there. I told the bartender that I had filled this club for two solid weeks and his boss would want to see me. He picked up a phone and spoke to someone. He pressed the receiver against his chest and asked my name. He repeated my name to whoever he was talking to and then hung up the phone.
“Jake’s not in,” he said.
“What time will he be here?” I asked.
“He’s not coming in today,” the bartender said.
I turned to go, and then turned back around.
“Tell Jake he has a flat on his Jeep,” I said.
The bartender reached for the phone again before he realized that he had been duped.
“That’s what I thought,” I said.
I didn’t puncture his tire. That would be a classless thing to do.
I did let the air out of one.
I drove back to Branson Music to let Johnny B off the hook. There was no sense making him cover for me until seven, just so I could go home and drink beer and feel sorry for myself. That thought was tempting.
It was strange to be treating Branson Music like it was a garage sale or a flea market. The inventory had been picked through like a road-kill carcass. The cardboard cutouts that shared my days and kept me company at night while I swept and mopped and closed up were gone by day number two. I missed them as much as I would miss some real people.
If all that Porter Plimpton really cared about was the money, he wouldn’t have let me finish out the week. He cared more about avoiding the dirty work than the dollar amount he was going to get from the remaining merchandise.
I assumed the role of King Solomon in my role as The Master Liquidator. Why not have fun with this, huh?
You want to negotiate the price of any item? Well, then—stand before the throne and plead your case.
Most of the inventory was already marked down a considerable amount, but people do love to haggle. If I recognized that someone was disadvantaged, elderly, or otherwise economically challenged, I gave them ridiculous deals. I even topped off some transactions with a free gift. Or two. Some people got upset when they didn’t get those same deals, but I answered them with the words of the prophet, Mel Brooks.
“It’s good to be The King.”
The afternoon that I relieved Johnny B, passing sirens interrupted business. Everyone inside the store went to the windows or out onto the sidewalk to see what the commotion was about. Quentin Lynchburg walked into the store soon after.
“There you are, Wylie,” he said. “Johnny B said that you were off today.”
“Yeah, I was. Is Johnny Law after you, Double O Seven?” I asked, pointing toward the street.
“Well, not exactly. But they are my sirens,” Q said.
“Of course, they are.”
“They won’t allow the trucks to stop until they reach the site, but you must come and see this, Wylie. It is spectacular,” Q said.
“Okay. What is—” I started. “Oh, the first of Castle McIntyre has arrived. That was quick.”
“Not just part of the castle,” Q said, “The top floor of the turret. It is unbelievable.”
“I don’t doubt it. I heard your discussion with your foreman, remember?” I said.
“I remember. What’s—” Quentin looked around at the sparse inventory. He finally spotted the “Going out Of Business” sign.
“The store is closing? Why? What happened?”
“Mr. Plimpton has to have several surgeries. They’re going to lease out the space. Branson Music is to be ‘no more’,” I said.
“That stinks,” Quentin said. “What are you going to—? Wow. I’m at a loss, I’m afraid.”
“Yeah, that makes two of us,” I said. Q looked at his watch.
“I have to go now. I have to alert the subdivision security staff and show the drivers where to park the trailer. The crane comes in around noon tomorrow. Can you come by this evening? The top section of the room may not be accessible after tonight,” Q said.
“Yeah, I’ll come by, Q. There are lots of empty spots on my dance card lately,” I said.
I pulled up to Quentin Lynchburg’s property around seven-thirty. He wasn’t there.
He was right, though. The section of turret room was amazing, as was the flatbed rig that had tran
sported it. Two trucks, bigger than any I’d ever seen, were attached to both ends of a huge trailer that was supported by twenty-eight tires. I stood there staring for some time. Such a rig was worth more than some entire neighborhoods, and it was paid for by a man I knew almost nothing about.
That man was on this mission because of his infatuation with a woman that he had known for one hour.
What kind of world do I live in? Does this even make sense? What do I know?
I looked around the rest of the site for a while and waited for Quentin to show up. This was his idea. But after about twenty minutes, impatience and curiosity got the best of me. The only way inside of the castle’s turret room was the window that was about eight feet above the bed of the trailer. I scoured the construction site, where parts of the castle walls awaited reassembly. I located several extension ladders. They were locked up with heavy chains and padlocks. I eventually found a step ladder that had escaped the security detail. I leaned it against the side of the trailer, hoisted myself up, and placed the ladder beside the window.
I looked up the street one last time. There was no sign of Q or an approaching Aston Martin.
I climbed the ladder, resting one hand against the castle wall. Something about the feel and even the smell of the ancient stone seemed to give off an energy. I had never seen, touched, or smelled anything that was more than one hundred and fifty years old. And according to Q, this castle was more than seven hundred years old.
The window was small by American standards. It looked like it had contained a glass of some kind. They must have removed it for the overseas journey. I leaned inside and was immediately hit with the feeling that I had stepped through a time portal. I leaned back out to catch my breath.
That was totally unnatural.
Or was it?
What was I doing? Getting carried away and distracted like Jack with his Beanstalk beans. My excitement fell away, crowded out by the reality of my current situation.
I was unemployed. And as a musician, I may as well not exist—at least in this town. Porter Plimpton has seen to that.
I had no plan. And in a matter of days, Toby and I will have nowhere to live.
Nate will try to help us. Quentin probably will, too. These thoughts painted an extra layer of black on my depression.
Dad’s house is out of the question. That leaves Mom, and that’s not so bad. I do miss her. I miss Dad, too, but I have no intention of trying to crowd around that dinner table. I would have to make it easy for Dad’s wife and wear a name tag. Or just a number “7”, me being kid number seven. What if one of those kids is allergic to Toby? Or the two-year-old pulls his tail and Toby bites him…?
No. It will have to be Mom.
I leaned back through the window as the bottom edge of the sun touched the horizon. There were a few scattered pieces of furniture inside. It looked like little kid’s furniture—a round table and three little chairs. They were overturned against the far wall. I leaned back and looked around. Man, it was really quiet up there.
That was the point where I should have climbed down and gone to wait in my car. Or, I should have continued to walk around while I waited for Q. Or I could have just gone home.
But there was something pulling at me—something inside of that room. The feeling made the skin on the back of my neck crawl. That feeling didn’t go away.
I stood on the deck of the trailer staring up at the window. Okay. My plan was to straddle the window sill, pull up the ladder and pass it through to the inside of the room. And then, I could climb down inside. I tried that, but the opening was too small to pass the ladder through with me in the way. It was on to Plan B. I would lower myself into the room, stop, hang with my weight on my elbows and pull the ladder up and through the opening. This was working nicely until—
You may start to pull away from me right now. And I wouldn’t blame you in the least. Really. I’m serious. We’re all friends here.
.
My forearms were firmly planted on the window sill. I was reaching for the ladder when I heard something move behind me. I froze. I grabbed the top of the ladder and pulled it toward the window when I heard the sound again. The sound stopped. I turned my head and—
I saw a painting of a mother horse and a baby horse floating in mid-air.
I dropped the ladder. It teetered on one leg for a second before it crashed to the floor of the trailer. I lunged for it and my arms slipped off of the sill. I landed on the floor a fraction of a second before the painting landed beside me. I scrambled backward, crab style, pressing myself against the wall as far away from the haunted painting as I could get.
I had torn both sleeves of my jacket. I took it off and looked down at my bare arms. Blood was oozing from nasty scrapes on my forearms and right elbow. The blood wasn’t as alarming as the size of the goosebumps on my arms.
I don’t know how long I sat like that, afraid to take my eyes off of that painting. It didn’t move again, which is a good thing because I don’t think I would have lived through it. Darkness was fast approaching.
Hoooooooly crap.
I forced myself to my feet, my back pressed firmly against the wall. What if Quentin doesn’t show at all? I had to get out of there.
I jumped up and grabbed the window sill with my fingertips. There was no place to get a foothold. A fingertip pull-up against smooth stone is beyond my abilities, even with the added adrenaline rush of being scared stupid.
After several attempts, I surrendered. There would be no escape from whatever ghosts, monsters, or demons lived inside this room. Oh, well. At least, this wasn’t happening on an otherwise good day. No, on a good day my phone would be in my pocket instead of dangling from the charge cable inside of my car.
I sat with my back against the wall, as far away from the painting as possible and hugged my knees to my chest. Fortunately, I was wearing a light jacket, but it was still pretty cold, and it would be really cold by morning.
I lost count of the number of times I nodded off, but every time I woke up I was sure that I either saw or heard something. Not that it mattered, because I was beyond clinically insane already.
I breathed a little easier when the first hint of daylight peeked through the window. I stood and stretched—my entire body was impossibly sore. I shook out my legs and did a few deep knee bends, keeping an eye on the painting. Satisfied that it wasn’t going to attack me, I looked around the rest of the circular room. The only other thing to catch my eye was a single stone, just above floor level. The stone had worked itself loose and half of it was sticking out from the rest of the wall. I tip-toed around the painting and grabbed the stone with one hand. It was easy to move, so I pulled it out.
I turned the stone over in my hands and then looked down at the hole it had come from. The mortar had been removed from both. That was curious. After checking on the painting one more time, I lowered myself to the floor and looked inside the hole. It was too dark to see anything. Without thinking, I reached into the opening.
I almost jumped out of my skin when my fingers bumped into something. Whatever it was, it moved away from me. I jerked my hand out, cutting myself again on the sharp surface of the stone. I reached back inside and drew out a very, very, old book.
My thoughts ran wild with the possibility of what this book might be. Some rare and priceless treasure? An ancient manuscript bound with a curse—waiting to be transferred to the next person to touch it?
Did an ancient curse now possess my soul? Was I now the adopted step-child of Satan? I swore that I felt something tickle my tail bone.
My God. I’m growing a tail.
Have I failed to mention that I watch a lot of horror movies, usually late at night and all by myself?
I stared down at the dusty book, my hands trembling. I blew at the dust, which did little good. I wiped some of the dust off with the sleeve of my jacket. There was nothing on the cover.
I carefully opened the book, prepared for bats or scarabs to fly into my eye
s—their blood-thirsty teeth seeking out my soft tissues and organs—
This is the personal diary of Nora Elizabeth McIntyre,
Daughter of the Baron and Lady McIntyre of McIntyre Township
Citizen of the sovereign Province of Perthshire Scotland.
This account begins this day, nineteen October, in the Year of Our Lord,
Fifteen hundred and twenty-three.
My hands shook even more just before I lost the ability to hold onto the book. It closed on its way to the floor. I was relieved by that. I just stared at the book, breathing like I had run a sprint. Or seen a ghost.
Dear God.
Fifteen hundred and twenty-three?
I listened hard for any sounds from outside, but there were none. I was just as afraid of the diary as I was of the painting. But the sense of beckoning was stronger than ever.
I returned to my sitting position against the wall and picked up the diary. After summoning the courage to open it again, I did the same thing I do when I pick up any other book. I have no idea why I do it, but I always look at the first page and then the last page. There were several blank pages left at the back. I turned the pages backward until I found the final entry.
On the left-hand side of the page were these words—
Often times I find myself so lonely that I can do nothing but cry.
On the right-hand page, there was an entry that made no sense to me. The statement was written with a different kind of ink. The handwriting was different and this entry was obviously not as old as this diary.
To my best friends, Nora, and Charlotte, whom I love as my eternal sisters,
Until the day that we are together as one, as was intended from the dawn of time
I love you,
Holly Larrimore McIntyre McFadden
