The Killing Room

by Manning, John

  “So are you saying that you can tell us,” Douglas asked, getting close to the old man’s face, “but that you choose not to, because you think it’s pointless?”

  “I’m sorry, my little hoodlum,” Uncle Howie said. “Sorry that I have let you down.”

  They were startled by a sound from the hallway. They all tensed. Douglas moved closer to the door, brandishing the rifle.

  He listened. Footsteps. Two people. It was not the heavy clomping of David Cooke.

  Still, both he and Carolyn pointed their rifles at the door as it opened.

  But who was there on the other side caused both of them to gasp out loud.

  Uncle Howie shouted, “Jeanette!”

  It was Jeanette Young, with Michael O’Toole close behind her.

  “Hello, Uncle Howard,” she said calmly. She moved her eyes over to Douglas and then to Carolyn. “Cousin Douglas. Miss Cartwright. It’s good to see you both again, though I wish the circumstances were more pleasant.”

  “Dear God,” Uncle Howie exclaimed.

  “How is this possible?” Douglas asked.

  Jeanette smiled. She still looked frail, and she walked with some stiffness and difficulty. But she seemed in full control of all of her senses. Michael rested a hand on her shoulder for support.

  “I awoke this morning and was able to speak,” she said. “The veil that had so long separated me from the rest of the world was lifted. I could speak, I could move, I could communicate.”

  “It was a miracle,” Michael said.

  Jeanette sighed. “I knew right away that the curse had been lifted, that someone had survived a night in that room.” Her face saddened. “We came over here at once, thinking we’d find the house in celebration. I did my best to explain to Michael all of the terrible details on the drive over here. But what we found was no celebration.”

  “The force is angry that we survived,” Douglas explained.

  Jeanette nodded. “I deduced that. In the study we saw a dead man.”

  “Dean,” Uncle Howard said with evident grief.

  “And in the parlor were the bloody remains of a young woman,” Jeanette added.

  “Oh, no,” Carolyn cried.

  “Who?” Douglas asked.

  “It was hard to see for all the blood,” Jeanette said. Her long years of silence seemed to have left her unnaturally calm. She did not blanch as she described the scene. “The woman had been terribly mutilated. She seemed young, so I wouldn’t remember her. No doubt she was born after my own night in that room.” She paused. “But she was blond. I could see that much.”

  “Chelsea,” Uncle Howie said, his voice breaking.

  “Was there anyone else in the parlor?” Douglas asked.

  “No one else,” Jeanette informed him. Douglas didn’t know if that was a hopeful or an ominous sign.

  “Jeanette,” Carolyn said, “you need to know you’re in danger here. And so is Michael. There is a killer in the house, and unless we can find out a way to stop him, he is bent on taking us all before the day is over.”

  “We should call the police!” Michael said, whipping out his phone only to see it had lost all service.

  “I told you as we walked through the house viewing the carnage that the police were useless,” Jeanette said. “In my long years sitting there at Windcliffe, I saw many things. I saw that what happens here is beyond the control of ordinary humans. I saw things that no one else could see in this house, sitting here all alone, isolated on top of this hill.” She paused. “And from everything that I have seen, I think I know who’s doing the killing here.”

  “His name is David Cooke,” Carolyn told her. “And I need to tell you again that he is extremely dangerous.”

  Jeanette shrugged. “I’m not frightened. I survived a night in that room, remember? You did, too, didn’t you? I saw you in there, Carolyn. You and Douglas. You saw what I saw. You saw the terrible thing that happened that night.”

  “The murder of Beatrice?” Douglas asked.

  “You didn’t see that, because neither did I,” Jeanette corrected him. “You saw her dead body. But it was someone else you saw murdered.”

  “Beatrice’s baby,” Carolyn said.

  Jeanette nodded.

  Uncle Howie groaned. They all turned to look at him.

  “We saw Clem kill the baby,” Jeanette said, approaching her uncle. “It was a terrible thing to see.”

  The old man was silently crying.

  “It’s Malcolm doing this, isn’t it, Uncle Howard?” Jeanette asked. “It’s Malcolm who’s the controlling force of that room.”

  The old man just continued to sob.

  “Who is Malcolm?” Douglas asked.

  Jeanette looked up at him. “Malcolm,” she told him, “was Beatrice’s baby.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Ryan was getting desperate. He could not find a way out of the house. Doors and windows refused to open; glass refused to break, even with heavy pewter candlesticks tossed at it. What kind of spell had been cast over this place? Were the forces of the room so powerful that they could trap him inside forever?

  Ryan shook the knob on the kitchen door again. It didn’t budge.

  It wasn’t fair! Others had gotten out. He’d watched from the window as Linda and Paula and some other woman ran across the yard with those two bratty kids toward the barn. How did they get out? How come whatever forces were controlling this house took pity on them and not on him?

  Because of what we did.

  He tried to block the thought from his mind, but was unsuccessful.

  When you tamper with the lottery, when you don’t follow the rules, you are punished.

  Ernest Young had learned that lesson when he’d run away, only to be massacred with his family in their beds.

  And now Ryan’s family was being massacred.

  Running from room to room in the house, he had found the mutilated bodies of his father and sister. It was easy to think they were being punished for their deception. But Dean was dead, too. Ryan understood that, in the end, they were all fair game. They were all just sport for the bloodlust of the thing that was tormenting them.

  He tried the French doors that led out onto the terrace. But again they were sealed shut. In frustration, he slammed his fist against one of the panes of glass, but the glass might as well have been iron. He just bruised his knuckles.

  A short time before, he’d had a glimmer of hope. A woman and a man had come through the front door. The door had opened easily from the outside, allowing them to enter. Ryan had been watching from an alcove; he had become so paranoid that he trusted no one, so he stayed very quiet, not revealing himself. After the man and woman had passed down the hallway, Ryan ran to the door, hopeful that it was now open. But it had reverted to immobility. He burst into tears.

  Now he prowled from room to room, feeling like a caged animal. His mind no longer thought logically or critically. He just wanted to get out.

  And then the laughter began.

  High-pitched and shrill. Like a child’s. The laughter came from everywhere, as if an unseen audience were watching his crazy antics and finding them all too amusing.

  “Stop!” Ryan cried, wandering into the foyer. “Stop laughing at me!”

  But the laughter just went on. The sound assaulted him, almost like spears being tossed at him from all sides of the room. Each gale of laughter pierced him, hurt him. Ryan cried out in pain.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Please stop!”

  He fell to his knees, clapping his hands over his ears, but the laughter only increased in volume and intensity.

  “Kill me! Take me!” Ryan cried. “Just stop laughing at me!”

  That brought about even more hysterical laughter.

  Ryan collapsed into a ball, sobbing. Terrified, broken, he pissed his pants.

  All around him the room filled up with laughter. It seemed to Ryan that he’d never hear anything else again except the laughter. He fell over onto his side, re
duced to a blubbering fool on a floor covered with blood and urine.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  From the foyer came the sound of laughter.

  Carolyn faced Howard Young with new urgency. “You must tell us!” she demanded. “You must tell us everything you know!”

  The old man just sat there, yellow tears rolling down the flaking parchment of his cheeks.

  Douglas had peered out the door. “Ryan’s out there,” he reported back to the group. “I can hear his voice.”

  “Mr. Young,” Carolyn said. “Is Jeanette correct? Is all this being done by Beatrice’s baby?”

  Slowly, the old man nodded his head.

  “How is that possible?” Carolyn asked. “For a mere baby…”

  “Malcolm has learned a great deal in his eighty years in that room,” Jeanette explained. “He has learned to mimic our speech, our words…. He has even learned how to make letters on a wall.”

  Carolyn stared at her, dumbstruck.

  “He’s learned other things as well,” Jeanette continued. “He’s learned about the ways in which people seek revenge.”

  “Dear God,” Carolyn said.

  “But at his heart, Malcolm is still just a baby, with a baby’s emotions. He is angry and frustrated and frightened.”

  “All of this,” Carolyn said, the full realization hitting her, “is merely a baby’s tantrum.”

  “That’s right,” Jeanette said. “That is an excellent way of putting it.”

  “How do we stop him then?” Douglas asked.

  Jeanette had turned once again to the old man in the chair. “Uncle Howard,” she said, “you must tell us everything that happened eighty years ago in this house. There could still be time to do what is needed to end this!”

  “Please, Mr. Young,” Carolyn begged. “You want this terrible curse to end. I know you do.”

  Douglas had moved over to confront his uncle again. “No more deaths, Uncle Howie. How many more can you tolerate? My father, and indirectly my mother…and just today, Dean and Philip and Chelsea. And now Ryan is out there begging for his life! Please, Uncle Howie! Tell us what you know.”

  The old man’s watery eyes looked at each of them in turn.

  “All right,” he said brokenly. “I will tell you everything.”

  EIGHTY YEARS EARLIER

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Howard Young was not yet eighteen, but already he was a big, strapping fellow, a solid six feet, the tallest and handsomest of the five Young brothers. Of course, Jacob and Timothy were still just sixteen and thirteen, respectively. They might eventually pass Howard in height. But everyone agreed that none of the boys quite matched Howard in looks. His fair hair, wavy and thick, crowned a perfectly symmetrical face, defined by crystal blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a square jaw with a cleft chin.

  Howard understood his appeal. He had seen the look in Beatrice’s eyes the first day she came to work for them. She had paused, looking up at him from under her long dark lashes. It was a look Howard had returned. Beatrice Swan was exquisite. A year older than Howard, she had mysterious dark eyes and luxurious black hair. Her breasts were full and round, and her smile hinted at pleasures to come. It wasn’t long before Howard discovered just what those pleasures were.

  Slipping upstairs after the household was asleep, Howard knew she’d be waiting for him. The little alcove in the attic with the bay window had become their secret meeting place. It was here that Beatrice had given herself to him—the first time Howard had known the full joy of making love to a woman. His heart quickened as he climbed the steep steps to the attic.

  She turned to him as he entered, her smile bright, her eyes glowing, her arms outstretched. He fell into them, reveling in her sweet fragrance. He kissed her neck, her hair, her lips. His hands moved up her body, cupping her soft breasts.

  “Oh, Howard, I do love you so,” Beatrice whispered, her lips on his ear.

  Did he love her in return? Howard thought perhaps he did, though he had never been in love before, so he had no idea what it might feel like. Certainly he loved the way she felt, and the secret things she did to his body.

  “You will be the greatest of all your father’s sons,” she said. “I know this. I can see things in my mind. It is a gift. My mother had it, too. You will surpass all of them.”

  Beatrice knew of the rivalry among Howard and his brothers. He had confided in her, telling her how they had always competed, ever since they were children. Whether it be in polo or foxhunting or swimming or lacrosse, the five Young brothers were always trying to one-up each other. It was his eldest brother Douglas whom Howard envied the most. Douglas would inherit this house someday; he would be master here. Douglas stood to take the biggest share of their father’s fortune. He had already married, to a woman who was an heiress herself, and produced four grandchildren for their father, the latest being a baby girl, Cynthia. All four could now lay claim to the family wealth, dividing up what might otherwise have been left over for Howard. Many were the times that he rued being born the third son.

  “Yes,” Beatrice was murmuring, “I see you as the greatest Young of them all. This house will be yours, Howard. I see it.”

  “There are too many others ahead of me in line,” he told her, kissing her neck.

  “It will be yours,” she promised.

  She was unbuttoning his shirt now, slipping her hands inside to caress his chest. Howard leaned his head back and moaned in pleasure. Beatrice was very good at taking the lead in their lovemaking. She pressed his hand to her lips and sucked each finger into her mouth.

  “Someday will you marry me?” Beatrice asked, her black eyes locked on his. “Make me mistress of this house?”

  “Of course, of course,” Howard promised, feeling the hardness swelling in his pants, the urge to have her, possess her.

  She kissed him then. Deep and full. He pressed himself down on top of her, unbuckling his belt and lifting her long skirt in nearly the same motion.

  “Make love to me, Howard,” Beatrice purred.

  But suddenly there was a scraping of wood. The door behind them was opening.

  “So this is what has been going on,” a deep voice echoed through the alcove.

  Howard spun around. His father stood there glaring over them in his nightshirt.

  “Papa,” Howard uttered, standing awkwardly, his loose belt dangling in front of him. Beatrice let out a little shriek.

  “Go to your room,” Desmond Young commanded the servant girl. She quickly pulled her dress back down and scampered out of the alcove. Her frantic footsteps rushing down the stairs echoed through the house.

  Meanwhile, his father’s eyes never left Howard’s face. Even with his own eyes averted, the young man could feel them burning holes in his skin.

  “This is not how I raise my sons,’ Desmond Young finally intoned. “No son of mine takes up with a scullery maid.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  “Meet me in the study,” the older man said, turning and heading back down the stairs.

  Howard sighed. He fastened his belt, buttoned his shirt. He had thought he’d been so smooth, so quiet, sneaking up here to meet Beatrice several nights a week. But clearly his father had noticed something. Desmond Young was a very shrewd man. Very little got past him. Howard had been a fool to try.

  Trudging into the study, he faced the somber patriarch sitting at his desk.

  “She is pretty,” Papa said. “I will grant you that. But those French girls…they are all witches. They will cling onto you, and expect much in return for their kisses.”

  “I won’t see her again, Papa.”

  “That is for certain. I know her kind, Howard. She will trick you. She will use you. She will try to get her grubby hands on our money. That is what she is after, son. Your bank account. Not your heart.”

  Howard knew that wasn’t true. Beatrice loved him. He was certain of that. But to dispute his father was futile.

  “And if I find you with her
again, Howard,” the older man added, “I will cut your allowance by half, and the trust that is waiting for you will be reduced. I will take a third and give it to your brother Douglas. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So I have your word?”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said.

  “Go to your room then.”

  He didn’t sleep. In the morning, he came down to breakfast with dark circles under his eyes. Beatrice, carrying the plates out from the kitchen, noticed, and cast him a look from under her dark lashes. After the meal, she passed him in the hallway.

  “I need to speak with you,” she whispered.

  “It’s not possible,” he said quickly. “My father will be watching with an eagle eye. We cannot see each other anymore.”

  “But you must talk to me!” Beatrice insisted, her voice rising. “You must! What I have to say can’t wait!”

  “All right,” Howard said, anxious to keep her quiet. “Twenty minutes. In the barn.”

  She nodded, scurrying away.

  Howard stewed as he wrapped a scarf around his neck and slipped into his coat. Winter was coming on fast this year. Already they’d had their first frost. Heading outside, he could see his breath fog up in front of his face. What was so urgent that Beatrice needed to tell him? He began to wonder if his father had been right, if she would do everything she could to cling to him.

  In the barn, Clem was feeding the horses, pitching clumps of hay into their stalls with his pitchfork. Howard told him to run along, that he wished to be alone. But when Beatrice came in after him, Clem cast a suspicious eye over his shoulder.

  “He’ll tell my father that he saw us here,” Howard fretted.

  “I can take care of Clem,” Beatrice said. “He’s a simple man, not right in the head. But he’s in love with me. He’ll do whatever I tell him.”