I said briskly, talking myself away from my wayward thoughts, “Are you ever going to tell me what you saw at Berkeley House way back when?"
Sam tilted his beer bottle up, his eyes studying me wryly over the top.
"Is this going in the book?"
"Not if you don't want it to.” That was a rash promise; I wasn't sure if it would go in the book or not, but I wanted to hear what he had to say.
"Okay, well, it's not like I have an actual incident to report. I used to go over to the house. This is about twenty years ago."
How old was he? Late thirties? Early forties? I tried to picture him as a little kid. I kept getting tall, grim-faced with five o'clock shadow.
"What did you see?"
"Nothing."
At my expression he said, “I never saw anything, but ... it was an ... uneasy place. It had a vibe, I'll give you that."
"Did you ever go upstairs?"
"A few times.” He shrugged. “By then there wasn't much left to see, but when Oliver was a kid there was still some furniture and bits and pieces of Berkeley's magic apparatus."
"For real?"
"Yeah. No one seriously ever tried to secure the premises, so piece by piece, it all vanished or was destroyed by vandals. Oliver's grandfather donated the best of what was left to the Historical Preservation Society."
"What kind of stuff was there?"
He eyes rested on my face; it was probably my imagination, but for a moment his expression seemed to soften. “Books mostly. A guillotine. A portrait of David Berkeley."
"I saw that guillotine today. Pretty impressive. The portrait too."
He smiled reluctantly. “You love this stuff, don't you? Everything from the magic tricks to the spooky old house."
"Well ... it'll make a great chapter for the book and ... yeah. I do.” I waited for him to say something rude or belittling, but he just grimaced and reached for his beer.
"What was it like upstairs?"
"Like the downstairs."
I opened my mouth to object, and he said patiently, “There was a lot of junk and a lot of cobwebs and dust. A few skeletons of sea gulls that flew in through broken windows and couldn't get out again."
"Did you go through all the rooms?"
"Yes,” he said. “I did. And I crawled around in the attic."
Here was a valuable resource if he'd be willing to cooperate.
Correctly reading my expression, he said, “That wasn't the creepy part."
"What was?"
"The cellar."
His eyes flicked to mine and I wasn't sure if he was about to pull my leg or not. “Cold as ice. A cold like nothing I've ever felt. I only ever went down there once. That was enough."
"The cellar? Not the library?"
"The cellar."
"But Berkeley killed himself in the library."
"So the story goes."
I fastened on this. “Is there any reason to think he didn't kill himself there?"
"Not that I know of."
There was nothing about the cellar in any of the stories about Berkeley house, so I couldn't figure why there would be a cold spot in the cellar. Lights in the upper story and an unnatural chill in the cellar: two supernatural manifestations that didn't make any sense.
Whether they made sense or not, I wanted to check the house out, experience its secrets for myself.
Afraid that Sam might read my thoughts—he seemed pretty good at that—I changed the subject again. “How long have you been a cop?"
His face tightened. “Ten years."
Yes, there was something there. Something to do with his job.
"Do you like it?"
"Yeah."
"Are you on vacation now?"
He gave me a long level look, planning, if I read his look correctly, to tell me it was none of my fucking business. But instead, he said neutrally, “I'm on ... leave."
"Oh.” Medical leave? He looked healthy as a horse. What other kinds of leave were there?
I was still thinking it over as he changed the subject, turning the tables once more.
"Oliver says you teach at UCLA?"
I nodded, reached for my beer.
"You've got a pretty good football team heading into spring practice."
"Twenty returning starters and an experienced core group of players."
"And you teach history?” He really had been listening the night before.
"Mostly. One course on parapsychology."
"How long?"
"Six years."
He nodded thoughtfully.
It was the slightly awkward conversation you make on a first date. I almost asked him how he felt about Oliver trying to set us up, but remembering how quiet and intense he had been when we'd fucked, I held my tongue. It seemed to me that he was not a guy to tease.
I must have been looking at him oddly, though, because he raised his brows. “What?"
I shook my head. “Thanks for dinner. My turn tomorrow night."
"Are you staying for dinner? I figured you'd be taking off early. Beat the traffic."
Meaning he'd hoped I would be taking off early? Probably.
"I ... was thinking I might stay over Sunday.” I was?
Sam raised his brows.
"Unless you have a problem with that?"
He shrugged. “It's not a problem for me. You're Oliver's guest."
"Right. Well ... good.” For some damn reason I couldn't come up with anything else to say. I'd thought—well, I hadn't really thought anything. I'd hoped—no. No, I definitely wasn't hoping for anything. In fact, I had no idea what the hell I was thinking or why I had suggested staying another night.
Sam said slowly, “Did you know Berkeley was found just moments after he used the guillotine? The local story is that when they picked up his severed head he opened his eyes and spoke."
I stared at him. I knew it was just a story, but for some reason my face felt stiff as I formed the question, “What did he say?"
"Dum spiro spero."
A chill rippled down my spine. “Which means what?"
"It's Latin."
"For what?” I asked a little impatiently.
Gravely he said, “While I breathe, I hope."
He laughed at my expression, and I was glad it was too dark for him to see that I was red as well.
"Funny,” I managed.
He was still laughing.
"So is there actually any story about Berkeley being found after he used the guillotine?"
He sobered. His eyes, black in the uneven light, met mine. After a moment, he said, “No. Of course not."
I realized he was lying.
"You know, there are scientists who believe that when a head is suddenly severed it takes the brain a while to realize what's happened. There are recorded instances of severed heads responding to someone speaking their name or touching their cheek."
He said flatly, “Berkeley was found days later. There's no story about his severed head."
"How do you know when he was found? I've never read anything about it."
"Anecdotal evidence. There are still a few old-timers with stories about Berkeley.” He rose and picked up his plate and mine. “Don't let your imagination run away with you, Professor,” he threw over his shoulder.
After a moment I stood, gathering the rest of the dishes, following Sam into the house. He had the dishwasher open and was loading it.
"I'll wash up,” I told him, and he nodded and left me to it.
It didn't take me long. I finished loading the machine, turned it on and went upstairs to bed.
Setting my wristwatch for 11:30 I lay down to nap, but it took a long time to relax. I could hear the TV downstairs, little twitches of the house settling down for the night, the wind....
I woke at the creak of floorboards down the hall and the sound of Sam's bedroom door shutting. Raising my head, I checked my wristwatch. Ten-thirty. Early yet. I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep.
My wr
istwatch was going off softly next to my ear. I rolled over, peered at the luminous dial in the gloom. Eleven forty-five. Time to get moving.
I sat up, pulled on my jeans and shirt. Found my shoes and socks, holding them in one hand as I eased open the bedroom door. I paused.
Moonlight dappled the floor like silver lily pads on the shiny dark wood.
Not a sound from down the hall.
I tiptoed down the lily pads past Sam's closed door, hesitating at the squeak of a floorboard.
I waited. Behind the door on my right, I could hear Sam snoring, and I bit back a grin.
I continued down the hall, down the stairs and out through the front door, which I locked quietly behind me. I sat down on the porch steps and slipped my tennis shoes on, pulled my sweatshirt over my head.
Rising, I glanced back and the black window of Sam's bedroom.
I hoped to God the neighborhood burglars didn't pick tonight to hit Oliver's.
* * * *
Berkeley House was, unsurprisingly, quiet as the grave on a crisp and chilly Saturday night.
I crawled in through the library window and hesitated for a moment in the darkness. It was very dark with only my flashlight to guide my way across the uneven floor.
The video camera whirred softly away in the indistinct gloom of the library. I checked the meter. It had only started running two hours ago, so there was still plenty of time and tape.
For laughs, I tried tapping on a few walls. Berkeley was an illusionist. I thought it was likely he might have a hidden room or a secret passageway built into the house. But the place was huge and some of the rooms were no longer even accessible due to broken flooring and tumbled walls. I wondered if it would be possible to lay hands on a set of blueprints for the house. Mason might know.
Remembering Sam's comments about the cellar, I started hunting for the kitchen. There were two doors at the end of the long former dining room. One door turned out to be false, apparently existing only to add symmetry to the room's architecture. The second door led down a short passage to the enormous old kitchen. The flash light picked out where the ovens had stood, the wreck of cupboards, and another door leading into what must have been the pantry.
Staring up, I saw the gallery where the lady of the house would have stood to drop her instructions for the day's menu down to the kitchen staff. Of course there had been no lady of the house in Berkeley's day, so maybe he had stood up there himself.
For some reason the image of that tall, thin figure standing up in the gallery gave me goose bumps. I turned away, making my way to the far end of the kitchen where an empty door frame led out onto a porch.
That couldn't be it.
I started back across the wasteland of dirt and debris.
The flashlight beam picked out another door I had missed when I'd entered the kitchen. It was positioned near the kitchen entrance, set off to the side of the hallway. I studied the peeling surface for a moment and reached for the tarnished knob. It seemed stuck. I tugged harder and the handle came off in my hand.
The door swung gently open.
The dank breath of the cellar gusted out. I could feel clammy stink against my face. A chill wave of sick horror came over me.
Okay. Maybe not.
I shoved the door closed and stood there for a moment panting in the wake of that cold miasma.
What the hell was that?
I backed up trying to make sense of it. I'd experienced a few cold spots in my investigations—though nothing that couldn't be explained by underground springs or faulty architecture—and occasionally I'd felt something that prickled the hair on the back of my neck, but this was the first time I'd ever felt anything quite that ... extreme.
Mouth dry as sand, heart banging away in my chest in that flight or fight instinct, I began to reason with myself. It was just bad air. Stale air.
It was dust. Mold. Mildew. The damp.
That scene from the movie The Haunting flashed into my mind. Gloomy old housekeeper, Mrs. Dudley warning poor doomed Eleanor, There won't be anyone around if you need help. We couldn't even hear you, in the night. In the dark....
Right. In the night. In the dark. In the damp.
That seeping damp ... pervasive and oppressive ... like a gust of swamp gas or the tainted air from a crypt. It brushed against my face like a veil.
Even if there was some kind of presence—no, not presence. Presence was the wrong word. Even if there was some kind of supernatural manifestation, that didn't mean there was any danger. Outside of the movies, no one has ever been killed by a ghost.
I was still telling myself this as I stumbled back towards the door opening onto the dining room. I grabbed the handle, relieved when it turned. Why wouldn't it turn? Why was I overreacting over a little bit of moist and mildew?
I made my way through the broken planks and plaster, almost falling over a loose floorboard in my haste.
Christ. I was acting like the very nitwit Sam believed I was.
Blundering back into the hallway, I paused to get my bearings.
Something moved in the surrounding pitch blackness and my heart stopped. I swung my flashlight in the direction of that soft sound. A mouse froze in the glare of my flashlight and then whisked itself away behind a baseboard. I sucked in a sharp breath, told myself to get my shit together.
Okay. There were good reasons not to explore the cellar. It was a foul place, and it wasn't even mentioned in any of the stories about Berkeley House. So no need to prove anything to myself. Logically, there was no reason to go down there.
If I did decide to explore the cellar, it would be better to do that during the day. But actually it would be better to just forget about the cellar because Sam was right. It was dangerous down there. The house really was unsafe. I could break a leg easily. Or my neck.
I reached the library with a feeling of relief.
The relief was short-lived.
As I stood there listening to the breeze through the broken window scuttle leaves or old newspaper around the floor, I got that sensation of being watched.
A feeling of increasing anxiety crept over me. I turned my flashlight into the cobwebbed corners of the room.
Nothing.
I shone it at the black mouth of the doorway.
A prickly shivering darkness seemed to lay in wait beyond the doorway.
Yeah. Right.
Really, what the fuck was my problem?
I resolutely turned from the doorway and scouted out a reasonably clean place of floor space near to the wall. Wrapping myself in my blanket, I sat down with pad and pen.
The spring moon moved slowly across the floor, the shadows lengthened, deepened...
The repetitive rasp of sliding metal, a cold hollow thunk, and the jangling pull of a chain filtered into my dreams.
I started awake.
To a crisp and eerie silence.
I listened tensely.
To nothing.
I rubbed my eyes, checked my watch. Three-thirty. The camera was still running. I took a look at the electromagnetic detector. The needle was trembling, indicating strong erratic fluctuating EMFs.
I watched it in the circle of my flashlight beam. The needle stilled.
I waited for something else to happen.
Nothing did. I jotted down the time and event in my log, then made myself sit down again to wait.
Outside the window I could hear crickets chirping.
Bed sounded better and better. Especially since I couldn't seem to keep my eyes open.
Electromagnetic fields could result from a number of things, but that sound had been so ... real. I could still hear the echo of the slow distinct draw of chain, the swift steely bite, and the crunch of blade on ... on flesh and bone?
Too much red meat, that's what this was about. A heavy dinner and not enough sleep.
Unfolding painfully, I set my unused pad aside—I wasn't about to write down my dreams—folded up the blanket and crawled out through the window.
/> I hurried through the shambles of the garden, pausing on the edge to look back at the house. The scent of eucalyptus hung heavy in the night air. I told myself that if I saw lights in the second story windows, I would go back, so it was a relief to see only black and broken panes reflecting the night sky. I started back up the road towards Oliver's house.
It seemed a long way that night—as though the overgrown road were elastic, stretching further and further despite the energetic pace I set.
I began to think about the figure in the road the previous evening.
Except ... not a mysterious figure, after all, but rather a famous and well-respected artist. With a penchant for sauntering through the woods at night.
Well, everyone needs a hobby.
But the way Thaddeus Stern had followed me through the woods—that wasn't normal behavior. That was ... disquieting. The way he'd stood there watching me, moving closer and closer across the lawn. He'd practically emanated malevolence.
Or had my tiredness and imagination got the better of me?
Given the direction my thoughts were going, I guess it wasn't surprising that when someone stepped out of the bushes right to the side of me, I shot off the ground like I'd had springs installed in my feet.
A blast of fear and adrenaline surged through me, I turned and bolted—slamming right into a thick tree trunk.
* * * * *
I was seeing stars.
"Are you all right?” The voice floating above me was soft and alarmed. A black bulk bent over me.
I jackknifed up—and just missed banging heads with the owner of the voice. “I-I think so...” Actually, I felt a little sick in the wake of that rush of fear and adrenaline—not to mention the shock of hitting my head.
I had a blurred impression of massive shoulders and silver fur. It didn't do much to settle my nerves.
Feeling around in the grass, I found my glasses and examined the wire frames doubtfully. The lenses were fine but the frames fit crookedly when I slipped them on. I viewed my companion.
He was big—even bigger than Sam. Tall and broad with a dark hawkish face and long silver hair and beard. Silver eyebrows too.
"Here, let me help you up.” Forceful hands fastened on my upper arms and lifted me onto my feet. “I didn't mean to frighten you."
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