Vague flashes of running through the woods, the moonlight gilding the ruined garden, and then ... nothing.
My heart accelerated, zero to ninety in nothing flat.
I was in the cellar at Berkeley House.
I knew it as sure as I knew anything ... which was maybe debatable considering the dumb ass way I'd managed things so far.
One thing for sure, no ghost knocked me over the head and threw me into the cellar. I told myself this a couple of times in an attempt to distract my awareness of the sickening chill pressing in on me.
Numbly, I moved my hands over the door, trying to find a knob. A handle.
No reason for panic. Even if there was ... something ... wrong with the house ... and there wasn't. Of course there wasn't. Even if there was ... it had nothing to do with me. It had nothing to do with my being in the cellar.
I jerked my head around at a whisper of sound behind me.
Was there moment? A breach in the wall of darkness? I turned back to the door, urgently feeling over its surface.
There it was again, the stealthy slide of something metallic. A tinkling like broken glass—links of a chain?
My groping fingers closed on metal. A handle. I twisted it. Tried the other way. The door stayed firmly closed. I yanked hard. The door didn't budge.
Another insinuation of sound. I threw a frantic look over my shoulder and froze.
Movement in this utter darkness?
I turned, planted my back against the wood, facing ... the wisp of smoke that seemed to unfurl in the void a few feet from me.
My eyes strained to see.
From overhead came the slow draw of a chain. I looked up, flinched as something glinted overhead.
"This isn't real,” I said desperately. “I don't believe in this."
I caught motion out of the corner of my eye, jerked my gaze forward. A filmy, cadaverous mist was gathering a few feet away.
No.
I shook my head to clear it. Mistake. The room slanted sickeningly. I could feel something warm trickling down my face. Blood? Tears? My head swam. I blinked hard.
Above me I heard again the metallic rasp of links through a pulley, but I couldn't look away.
The mist was taking shape before me ... a tall figure in old-fashioned garments ... shoes with spats ... trousers ... vest beneath overcoat ... a top hat ... but all of it indistinct, vaporous, seeming to waver and wane as though moving in a breeze.
The drag of chain was louder, harsher ... deafening It was destroying my ears.
The mist seemed to reshape, a familiar face taking form: long, narrow, diaphanous, with hollow burning eyes and a cruel thin mouth.
Overhead the pulley stopped.
"You're not real,” I told the baleful haze. “I don't believe in you."
The eyes seemed to find me in the darkness. It sees me, I thought bewilderedly. The cruel mouth turned upwards.
I heard the screeching release of chain, felt something heavy hurtle my way. I cried out in shock as something massive and glacial and terrifying slammed into me.
From a distance I heard David Berkeley laughing.
* * * *
"Thatta boy."
The words trickled through the warm blankness. Someone was stroking my face. My hair. A warm callused hand smoothing from temple to jaw, a long, slow, comforting sweep over and over.
"That's it. That's better."
Sam.
I unstuck my eyelashes.
An indistinct form leaned over me—and beyond his shoulders, the red ball of the morning sun. I was lying on the ground. I could feel the fragrant tickle of weeds and grass, feel the damp warmth of the earth beneath me. Tears of relief flooded my eyes.
I unglued my lips. “Sam?” I croaked.
"Welcome back,” he said. He brushed the back of his knuckles against my cheek, wiping the wet away.
"I can't—” It was an effort to get my lips to form sentences. I felt battered, exhausted. “Are my glasses—?"
"Your glasses are broken. I found them outside the house.” He added grimly, “That's how I knew to look for you inside.” He repositioned, slipped an arm beneath my shoulders. “You think you can sit up?"
I nodded. Sat up with his help. “Sorry,” I said to the blur of his face. “Are you pretty pissed off?"
"Yeah, I am. You want to try standing up?"
I nodded. Rested my head in the warm curve of his neck and shoulder. Closed my eyes.
* * * *
When I next opened my eyes I was in my bed at Oliver's, and it was late afternoon. I squinted at the clock on the bedside table. Sometime after three? My spare pair of glasses sat next to the clock. I slid them on.
Three-twelve on Monday afternoon.
Shit.
I needed to call the university. I shoved aside the pile of blankets and sat up cautiously. My head ached but nothing like that morning. I reached up, touched a square of gauze and tape. Sam to the rescue, apparently.
I was slowly trying to process everything that had happened since that very long ago night we had spent together, when the open door to the bedroom pushed wide, and Sam, wearing black jeans, black T-shirt and a black expression, looked in.
We gazed at each other for a silent moment. He had the advantage. There's nothing like being knocked over the head and caught out in a lie to take the wind out of your sales—sitting there in nothing but my underwear didn't help, either.
"Hi,” I said, subdued.
"Hi. How do you feel?"
"Okay.” That was overstating it. I felt like shit.
"Good. Because I want to know what happened. You up to getting dressed and coming downstairs?"
I guess I could understand why he had no wish to sit with a nearly naked me in my bedroom. “Yeah."
"I'll see you downstairs."
"Sam—"
But he was already gone.
I got up slowly, dressed still more slowly, and went downstairs. Sam was in the kitchen, sitting at the table. There was a mug of tea in front of him.
I took a seat at the table, moving with careful deliberation, trying to jar my head as little as possible.
He watched me without particular sympathy. “You want some tea?"
"Please."
"Milk and sugar?"
I nodded and wished I hadn't.
"You've got a mild concussion,” he said, observing me. “I had Oliver's doctor take a look at you while you were out."
"Thanks.” My spirits sank lower still at his flat tone.
He placed a mug in front of me. I picked it up, hand shaking. I sipped the hot liquid and felt a little better. I wondered if this doctor had left any tablets for my head.
"So fill me in on what happened after you snuck out of the house.” He didn't sound angry, exactly, just ... empty.
I told him everything I could remember—which wasn't a lot—and I apologized a couple of times for ... not listening to him.
"You mean lying?” he asked, the second time I said it.
I cleared my throat. “Yes."
He was silent for a moment. “Have you ever blacked out like that before?"
"I didn't black out. Someone hit me over the head."
"When I pulled you out of that cellar you were ... you appeared to be catatonic."
I stared at him.
"Has that ever happened to you before?"
"No.” I took another mouthful of tea, concentrated on keeping my hand steady. “I didn't dream it. There's something in the cellar,” I said.
His green eyes rested on my face. This was the face that people across the interrogation table from him saw. I'd blown it with him; I knew that. He wasn't somebody to take a light view of being lied to.
"You mean like a ghost?” he asked at last.
"I mean like...” I stopped. “Yes. Like a ghost,” I admitted.
He looked sorry for me. “Rhys."
So I told him everything. I told him about seeing the shade of David Berkeley in the woods the night I had ar
rived, how I thought it had been Thad, but now I knew for sure it hadn't. I told him about hearing the sound of a guillotine when I'd fallen asleep in the library. I reminded him of the horrifying cold emanating from the cellar.
"You said yourself you'd never felt anything like it,” I said.
"It's an unpleasant place. That doesn't mean there's a—an entity setting up house down there."
"Thad saw David Berkeley too."
"Thad? Thad is not what I'd call a reliable witness."
Neither was I apparently. It didn't look like he was going to bother humoring me at this point.
I said, “What happened to my equipment?"
"Loaded in your car."
I nodded, looked down at my mug. My fingernails were torn and bloodied; I must have clawed the door of the cellar trying to get out; I was just as glad I didn't remember that part.
"There's something down there,” I said.
He stared at me with those hard green eyes.
"I think David Berkeley is insane—was insane."
"I think he's dead,” Sam said with finality.
I said, “If there is such a thing as life beyond the grave—” His wearied expression stopped me. I said, “Is it unreasonable to think that if someone was driven mad in life, their spirit might be ... troubled as well?"
"Yeah, it is. Dead is dead. Over. Done with."
I had the sick feeling he wasn't just talking about mortal coil stuff.
I said, still trying although even I wasn't sure why, “There's something in that house. Something that can't rest. Something that won't let David Berkeley rest.” I rubbed my head. Speaking of rest, I wanted nothing more than to lie down again.
Distantly I was aware that Sam had risen from his chair. He dropped a hand on my shoulder, squeezing, then letting go. “You should get some sleep,” he said. “You've got a long drive tomorrow."
* * * *
I was packing when Mason showed up that evening.
The door bell ring and then Sam bellowed for me from downstairs. When I came down only Mason sat in the front parlor.
"How are you feeling?” he asked, rising as I entered the room. “You look okay.” He stepped towards me and then stopped.
"I'm fine. Just a slight headache.” I gave him a wan smile.
Had I been interested in Mason? It seemed as vague as everything else that had happened to me since crawling out of Sam's bed Sunday night.
Mason sat back down and so did I.
"The whole town's buzzing with the news you got yourself clobbered by the local burglars."
"I did?"
"Yeah.” He looked puzzled. “Didn't you know?"
"I don't remember much about it."
"Apparently the gang was using the house to store the stuff they stole."
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “I didn't see any sign of that."
He smiled his nice uncomplicated smile. “They were using a hidden room."
"A hidden room?"
He chuckled at my tone. “'Fraid so. Not so hidden as it turned out. Sam Devlin knew all about it."
"He knew about it?” I didn't seem to be able to do more than echo Mason's words.
"Apparently he spent a lot of time in the house when he was a kid."
I felt irrationally hurt that Sam had not shared this knowledge with me. Had he thought it would tempt me too much to return to the house? Little did he know.
"So they caught the burglars?” I asked.
"No. They recovered some antiques, a couple of stereos and some TVs equipment. They won't catch anyone. I'm sure they wore gloves. Everyone knows that much."
"Yeah,” I said slowly. “How would these burglars have known about the hidden room?"
Mason got a funny look on his face. “Now that's an interesting question.” He lowered his voice. “It would have to be someone familiar with the house.” His eyes shifted to the doorway which led to the room where, from the sound of things, Sam was watching TV—loudly. “Did you know he's on suspension? Something about missing property in a police investigation."
My head was really starting to throb again. I stared at Mason. “You think Sam—"
"I just think it's very convenient that he happens to be the guy who discovered the hidden room was full of stolen property right before the sheriffs descended on the place."
I absorbed this slowly, shook my head—unwisely—which made me curt. “That makes no sense at all. He couldn't have been the one who hit me. When I left he was sleeping."
Silently we both absorbed the implications of my certainty on this point.
Mason said, “He wouldn't have been the only person involved, you know."
"He wouldn't have pulled me out of the cellar if—” I stopped because I already knew the answer to that.
Mason said earnestly, “He wouldn't have wanted to kill you. No one would have wanted that."
I nodded. I knew what he was suggesting didn't make any sense—I knew Sam was not part of any local burglary ring—but I was too weary and muddled to reason out how I knew.
Mason rose. “Anyway, glad you're okay. I guess..."
He stopped. I stood up.
"Thanks for coming by,” I said. “And thanks for your help ... and everything."
"Yeah. You won't be headed this way again?"
"My work here is done.” I was trying to put the right note of levity in, but it just sounded dull.
"Sure. Take care,” Mason said.
After he left I spent a few moments sitting in the parlor feeling sorry for myself. I listened to the television blasting from the next room.
Finally I rose and followed the sounds to their source.
Sam was sitting in the dark watching some nature program. Snarling tigers and velvet-eyed antelope—the antelope were getting the worst of it, as usual.
"Can I talk to you?” I asked from the doorway.
A noticeable pause, and then he said, “Sure.” He pointed the remote control at the TV.
I sat down across from him and said, “I think you should dig up the cellar."
I couldn't read his face in the flickering light of the television set, but he said without inflection, “Is that so?"
"That cold, that ... miasma—it's classic outward manifestation of a haunting."
"Look, you weren't hit that hard on the head."
"Just listen to me for a moment. A ghost or a spirit is the sentient presence of someone which stays in the material world after the individual dies. Conventional wisdom is that the ghost is the spirit of a murdered person who wants justice."
"Or someone who died violently and is confused about passing over.” Sam turned his head my way. “I read plenty of ghost stories when I was a kid. I know the drill."
"I've investigated a lot of so-called haunted houses, but I've never seen or heard anything like Berkeley House. I guess the sounds and lights can be explained by the burglary gang wanting to scare people off—and maybe someone was dressing up like David Berkeley in the woods—but nothing explains that cellar."
"I think a case of concussion explains that cellar."
I was afraid he had a point. “Okay, maybe, but you felt the cold yourself. You said you'd never felt anything like it."
"The house is built on a cliff over the Pacific ocean. Of course it's cold. Of course it's damp."
I said stubbornly, “I can't believe that what I experienced down there was all due to concussion. You said yourself I was in shock when you pulled me out."
He said, “I know you're not the most honest guy in the world. For all I know, you're not the most stable guy, either."
Well, I sort of had that coming. I said, “I'm sorry I lied to you, Sam. I let my enthusiasm for the book get in the way of my judgment."
He was shaking his head, and I knew he wasn't interested in hearing it.
"But don't let your personal feelings for me get in the way of hearing what I'm saying. I've never had anything like that happen, never experienced anything that didn't have a
rational explanation."
He moved as though he were going to get up and walk away, but he stayed seated. “Rhys, Jesus. It's a creepy room. All right? I don't think David Berkeley was murdered, and he had plenty of time to figure out what he was doing when he set the guillotine up."
"I think Berkeley is trying to hide or protect something in the cellar."
There was a long moment of silence.
"So what's in the cellar?” Sam asked evenly at last.
"The remains of Charity Keith and Aaron Perry."
"Really.” It was not a question. Sam's tone was uninterested.
"I might be wrong—"
"You might."
"But I think the reason no one ever heard of Perry or Keith again, why they never turn up in any of the historical accounts, is that Berkeley killed them. And I think that's why he killed himself eight months after they supposedly ran off. Either he couldn't live with what he'd done or..."
"I'm going to hate myself for asking. Or...?"
"Their spirits were haunting him."
"Okay,” he said calmly. “Appreciate the theory. What time did you want to hit the road tomorrow?"
* * * *
My office phone was ringing Thursday afternoon when I got back from giving a seminar on historical research and interpretation. I shrugged out of my tweed jacket, reaching for phone with my free hand.
"Davies,” I said.
"Hello,” Sam said. “How are you?"
I sat down hard; I hadn't expected to hear from him again. He sure as hell hadn't indicated he'd be giving me a call when he said his curt goodbye Tuesday morning.
"As good as new,” I said. “It's nice to hear from you."
"Yeah. Well. Oliver's on his way home. He liked your idea of digging up the cellar, so he's inviting you back for the weekend."
"Oh.” I said. Oliver was inviting me, not Sam; that was clear. And Oliver had initiated the call; it wasn't Sam's choice. My happiness drained away; I was embarrassed to have felt it. Of course it was over. It hadn't even begun, really. We'd fucked a couple of times and it had been nice and that was that. Leave it to me to start building it into something more.
As tactful as ever, Sam questioned, “Is that a yes, no, or whatever?"
"Whatever,” I said.
Silence. Nothing new there.
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