Malefic

by Ambrose Ibsen

  No trace of my beloved wife.

  My pulse shot up so quickly that my temples ached. Clutching at the arm rests, I tried to remember where I'd put it, how I could have misplaced it. In the years since my wife's death the pen had rarely been further than arm's reach. So, what the hell had I done with it? Think, you senile bastard! Think!

  Heedless of the gawking from nearby seats, I dropped to the floor and began searching for it there. Maybe it had fallen out of my pocket while I'd been asleep and was laying nearby.

  The woman across the aisle, probably convinced by now that I was demented, leaned over. “Are you OK? Do you need help with something?”

  “My pen,” I gasped. “I... I dropped my p-pen.”

  “Oh...” She glanced under her own seat, then sat back, donning a sympathetic smile. “I'm sorry about that. I don't see it over here.”

  On the verge of hyperventilating, I removed my blazer and checked all of my other pockets, turning up nothing but lint. I sank into the seat, shaking, and tried to piece together the events of the prior evening. Think! Where could you have left it?

  Though I would make a point of dumping everything out of my valise upon landing, I knew the pen wasn't in among my clothing and books. Think, damn you!

  When I finally remembered, I loosed a groan that sent the flight attendant rushing down the aisle. “Sir, are you all right? What's the matter? I need you to stay in your seat, OK? What's the problem?”

  As best I could remember, I'd put the fountain pen, along with the journal, into my messenger bag the night before. There, I'd expected it to stay safe and sound, and had given it little thought.

  And it would have remained so, except for what had happened during the séance.

  While Joseph and I had been huddled around the talking board, one of the spirits had dragged my messenger bag into the living room and spilled its contents across the floor. I'd taken this as an attempt at intimidation, a scare tactic. In that mess, it was conceivable that the pen had rolled beneath the sofa or some other piece of furniture.

  There was another possibility, though, which struck me as likelier—and more sinister.

  The things in that house had stolen it—were effectively keeping my wife hostage. I'd not considered the possibility before that there'd been something in that bag the spirits might be interested in. What would they do with it—with her?

  Whether I'd overlooked it on the living room floor, or it had been snatched up by a dark presence in that house, the result was the same.

  The pen—Constance—had been left behind.

  Lost to that house of horrors.

  I waved the attendant away and grit my teeth. Unless she could turn the plane around she was of no use to me. Staring at the clouds outside the window, fists buried in my thighs, I blinked back tears. “I'm sorry, darling. I'm sorry...”

  Alone in that house with the hideous things that dwelt there, Constance's suffering was sure to be immense. I felt a terrible guilt at having been so careless and prayed that the monstrosities we'd contacted during the séance would leave her alone.

  Odds were good that, without me in the way, they would focus their malevolence on her, however.

  I spent the remainder of the short flight in a panic. Upon landing, I retrieved my valise and tore into it before I'd even left the baggage claim. As expected, the fountain pen was not in with my other things. Standing in the lobby, I tried to decide what to do going forward.

  If I couldn't get back to Detroit in a timely fashion, then perhaps I could ask Joseph to look for the pen. I pulled out my phone and began to dial him, but at the mere memory of the frightful things we'd encountered there, I decided against it. I needed to know that Constance was safe, but couldn't ask him to go there, lest I put them both in danger.

  There was nothing to be done. I was in Annapolis. She was in Detroit. I could only hope that she'd still be waiting for me when I returned. I would complete my work as quickly as possible and hurry back to her at the earliest opportunity.

  It's not like the other times, she'd written me previously, regarding the haunting on Morgan Road.

  And she'd been damn right.

  Nineteen

  I provided the driver with Ulpio's address and we took off. I was thankful, for once, to have ended up with a silent cabbie. After asking me “where to?” he didn't open his mouth again except to let me know the final charge. Staring out the window, my thoughts were fixed squarely on Constance.

  Maybe you should go back to Detroit. The thought occurred to me every time my mind tried reaching for some interesting landmark in the scenery. Maybe you should call the whole thing off.

  Ulpio's house was located on what seemed to be the very cusp of Annapolis. I noticed, as we wound down a lengthy road, that I was seeing a lot more green than concrete the further we went. When finally the cabbie—following the directions on his dash-mount—turned onto a long drive hidden between a row of manicured white oaks, I found the property singular in its remoteness.

  At the end of the winding drive sat the house. It was a handsome construction in a rather old style; two stories, and exceptionally wide. It was hard to say, but by the looks of it, the place probably had six or seven bedrooms. Parked at the end of drive was a white Volkswagen, and seated on its hood was a thirty-something in stonewashed jeans and a baggy t-shirt smoking a Camel and staring down at her phone. I took this to be the housekeeper, Mara.

  I settled the fare and stepped out of the cab, hauling my things with me. I still wasn't in a talkative mood, far too preoccupied with other things, but mustered a little politesse as I approached the housekeeper. “Hello, you're Mara, I presume? I'm Marcel Dubois, a friend of Ulpio's.”

  Mara dashed out her cigarette and nodded. “He told me to expect you. If you'll follow me, I'll give you a quick tour of the place.” She started towards the front steps of the grand old house, and yanked a pair of keys from her pocket. “You'll need these,” she said, handing them over.

  The acreage was boxed in by tall trees, providing a good deal of shade and privacy. A beautiful garden had been set up to the left of the house; wildflowers, ornamental shrubs and a number of vegetables grew in neat rows. I could smell the fresh mulch as we walked up to the door.

  “Right this way,” she said, combing a hand through her shoulder-length hair. It was the color of brass—a dye-job—and her darker roots were starting to come through. The smell hanging about her was a mix of cigarette smoke and bleach. “I actually just stopped by to clean things up,” she explained. “Everything should be all set for you.” Pushing open the door, she led the way into the foyer, which was lit by a large hanging lamp of wrought iron.

  The first thing I noticed as we walked in was that almost every surface in sight was made of wood. The hardwood furniture, floors and wainscoting gave the place a very warm and rustic look. “Lovely house,” I said, following her through the sitting room and to a wide staircase. “How old is it? They don't make them like this anymore.”

  “It was built in the late 1800's, I think. Don't quote me on that. It's a German Colonial, the only one of it's kind in the area. It's actually been designated as a historical site, and Doctor Ricci put a lot of money into the restoration.” She motioned to the carving—a vaguely nautical motif—along the nearby molding. “I set up one of the spare rooms for you.” We stepped onto the first landing, rounded the corner, and continued our ascent to the upper story. Grinning, she added, “I don't know what I'm talking about. Except for the master bedroom and the doctor's study, they're all spare rooms. This place is pretty big. I live in a one bedroom apartment in town. This feels like a castle to me.”

  Another iron chandelier was suspended from the high ceiling, dangling above the half-way mark of the staircase. The bulbs in it shone an orangish-yellow, resembling firelight. As we arrived upstairs, I noticed more details in the woodwork; small flourishes in the wainscoting, elaborate floral motifs in the crown molding. Ulpio was a world-class surgeon and businessman, and
from the start of his career he'd always been ludicrously wealthy. I'd never visited his home however, and seeing where he'd put his riches to use over the years was fascinating.

  Mara pointed out the locations of various rooms. “This one here is a spare room. Nothing in it. The next door here is the master bedroom. I don't imagine you'll need to go in there for anything. Next up is one of three bathrooms. If I were you, I'd use this one. It's the most spacious, and there's a huge bathtub in it, if you're into that kind of thing. Across the hall here is the door to the doctor's study, and he insists you make use of it. He keeps his cigars in there. Oh, and he wanted me to tell you about the bar; it's in the basement and should be well-stocked. There isn't much in the kitchen—they didn't grocery shop since they planned to be out of town a few weeks, but there's a grocery store a few miles from here.” She paused outside a door near the end of the lengthy hall and motioned to it. “I prettied this one up for you. Let me know if you like it. Otherwise, we can get you set up in another.”

  “This'll do fine,” I said before I even set foot inside. And when I did cross the threshold, I found it more than sufficient. A full-sized bed sat at the center of the room atop a plush hand-woven rug. There was a dresser, a walk-in closet, nightstands on both sides of the bed, and enough open floorspace for me to do plenty of pacing. “Thank you so much, Mara. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” she replied. “I'll leave you to it. I'm sure you're tired after your trip. I'll be here a few more minutes if you need anything.” With that, she backed out into the hall and returned downstairs.

  I unpacked my valise, dropping my clothes into the dresser. I crowded the nightstands with my books and set the messenger bag down on the bed. A quick test of the mattress confirmed my suspicions—it was damn comfortable. Even so, I couldn’t relax. I paced the room, hands in my pockets, and peered out the window as the afternoon drew to a close. There were only a few hours of daylight left but so much work yet to be done. I wasn't even sure where to start. I might have drawn a detailed plan on the plane, but my panic at having left Constance behind proved too distracting.

  I called up Ulpio to let him know I'd made it, and to thank him for his hospitality. “Your house is gorgeous. I can't believe you haven't had me over sooner. The woodwork is beautiful. I really appreciate your letting me stay here. Thank Tracy for me, too.”

  “Oh, it's nothing. I'm sorry I can't be there to properly entertain you. I hope you enjoy yourself nonetheless,” he began. “And make sure to check out what I've got in the humidor. Only the cubans are off-limits, my friend—anything else is fair game. Wines of all kinds in the cellar—spirits, too. Whatever you like.”

  As long as we're talking about distilled spirits and not the supernatural kind, I thought to myself. “That's very kind, Ulpio. You have my thanks. I'll be sure to smoke and drink you out of house and home.”

  We exchanged a few pleasantries and then signed off. Before I put my phone away, I sent Joseph a text message, letting him know I'd made it to Annapolis safely. He replied within minutes with a relieved, I'm glad. Let me know how it goes.

  Sitting on the bed in that massive room, staring at the high ceilings, I felt very small. The layout of the house was straightforward enough, but its sheer size made it vaguely disorienting. One could wander through it all day, admiring the woodwork in every room, without noticing every detail. Beautiful though it was, the busyness and artistry of my surroundings felt a bit distracting, and I found myself wishing I'd just opted for a hotel room instead.

  I hiked downstairs and found Mara in the kitchen, getting ready to head out. “Can I do anything for you before I go?” she asked, fiddling with her pack of cigarettes.

  I glanced at my Seiko. “I know it's getting a bit late, but do you know of a good library around here?”

  “A library? Yeah, there's the main library downtown. I think it's open till 9 or so.” She shrugged. “If you head out now you might have a few hours. In fact,” she added, “it's close to my place. I could drop you off on my way home, if you'd like. It'd be faster than waiting for a cab, anyway.”

  I took her up on her offer at once. The less time I spent waiting around, the better. “Thank you. I'll pay you for the gas,” I said.

  She locked up the door and paced to the Volkswagen parked out front. “Don't be silly, it's on the way.” Giving her pack of cigarettes a shake, she asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all,” I replied. “In fact, can I bum one off of you?”

  The two of us drove into town smoking Camels and listening to the drone of public radio. Twenty-five minutes in light traffic brought us to the Annapolis Central Library—the biggest in the city's library system. Mara dropped me off at the curb and I thanked her profusely for the ride.

  With a few hours left before they closed and determined to get some answers, I made a beeline for the front entrance.

  Twenty

  It'd been years since I'd set foot in a public library.

  I wasn't sure exactly what I was looking for, but on the car ride over I'd considered a few potential angles for my research. Looking up a list of orphanages in the area would be a good place to start, I wagered. Searching for information about Willard Weiss and his family would be necessary, too.

  The towering stone building, divided into three floors, required a roadmap to navigate. Before I had a chance to lose myself in the stacks, I stopped by one of the desks near the front and flagged down a librarian who'd been busy sorting books on a cart. “Yes, how can I help you?” she asked. Her name tag read “Delilah”, and she wore bright red lipstick with a matching red bow in her bottle blonde hair. Wrapped in a polka-dotted halter dress, she'd succeeded in looking like an old-time pin-up girl. She also looked completely out of place; her style was the loudest thing in the hushed building.

  “Sorry to bother you, but do you know where I might find a phonebook around here?” I asked.

  “A phonebook? Sure, I can find one for you. In fact, hold on just a moment.” She walked over to the desk and went rifling through one of the lower drawers. Moments later, she unearthed a dogeared phonebook and held it out to me.

  “Thank you so much. I'll bring it right back,” I said.

  “No rush, take your time.” She went back to sorting books.

  I carried the phonebook into one of the small, cell-like rooms in the corner reserved for quiet study. There was no one else inside, so I closed the door and ignored the posted no-cellphone policy. I flipped straight to the W's in the phonebook, searching for anyone with the surname Weiss, and was ready to place as many calls as necessary.

  There were disappointingly few listings, however. A mere four people with the last name Weiss were featured in the book, and whether or not any of them were related to Willard was impossible to say. I dialed the numbers, one-by-one, and hoped for an answer.

  As it turned out, three of the four had been disconnected, and the fourth went to the voicemail box of a local aquarium supply store.

  A dead-end.

  It was possible, likely even, that Willard Weiss and his wife had stopped talking to their family in Maryland after making the move to Detroit in the 70's. Though some of his lineage might be found with a more thorough search, odds were good that any surviving relatives of his would know nothing about the man or his life in Detroit, and would thus be of little use to me.

  I moved to the next lead I had—local orphanages. If I could find out which orphanage Fiona had come from, then perhaps I could find something pertinent in her adoption records. It was a long-shot, and I knew from my years in medicine that accessing such privileged information required a lot of hoop-jumping—not to mention consent. Still, unearthing whatever I could about Fiona's past seemed like my best bet in finding out the nature of what she'd brought with her to Morgan Road, and I ran several searches for orphanages in and around Annapolis.

  This, too, proved frustrating. It turned out that there were no operating orphanages anywhere in Maryland; they'd
all been shut down, rolled into the State-wide foster care system more than twenty years previous. Though the lack of orphanages seemed like a roadblock, I recognized it as a potential blessing, also. Since the facilities had all been closed down, the old records were likely sitting in a warehouse somewhere, and accessing them—perhaps illicitly—would be much easier. I had only to figure out where such records were kept. But in order to find that out, I'd first have to determine what orphanage Fiona had come from.

  Whatever orphanage had been closest to the Weiss household seemed to me the surest bet. That would have to be my next step; finding their former Annapolis home. Sure that the internet wouldn't be able to tell me anything about real estate sales in the 1970's, I exited the quiet study room with a mind to dig into some old periodicals.

  I walked the phonebook back to Delilah, who was still sorting books on her cart. “Sorry to bug you again. I'm actually from out of town,” I explained, “and I'm trying to do some genealogical research. I don't suppose I could ask you a few questions, could I?”

  She donned a wide smile. “Certainly, sir. What would you like to know about?”

  “I'm looking for information on a specific person—a relative of mine,” I lied. “Do you have any public records I could sift through—or even old newspapers, things like that?”

  Her mascaraed eyes narrowed. “Public records? We do have some newspapers in our microfilm room... What kind of thing are you looking for?”

  I thought about it a moment. Willard and his family had moved to Detroit in 1975, so looking at old real estate listings from around that time might give me something to work with. “Perhaps real estate listings? Houses for sale—that kind of thing? I'm looking specifically for listings from around 1974-75. Anything from the local papers will do.”

  “Sure, I think I can help you out. Right this way.” She spun on her heels and led me down the main hall. We crossed through a large, crowded lobby and then turned right, entering a bank of elevators. “The microfilms are on the third floor,” she said. “I can help you get set up. Please be aware that we close tonight at 9, however.”