PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  And within the west tower of Salvació House stood Beatriz Salazar, her right hand lightly caressing her cousin’s back, to his irritation. As cold rain fell, they watched the distant figure of Gabriel Holland approach the grounds. To her satisfaction, he was unaware of their hateful scrutiny. Beatriz spoke, almost to herself at first.

  “Ours. . .” she said, and she turned to face her cousin, “All ours . . . why not end his life tonight?”

  Cristian broke away and headed back inside Salvació, words of reproach trailing in his wake.

  “No. We will allow him hope; then, he will know misery—have you forgotten Aurelia so soon?”

  “Yes, you are right, of course. Let him suffer . . . let him bleed.”

  CHAPTER X: THE KINDLY ONES

  HOLLAND HAD INTENDED TO CONFRONT Cristian Salazar on arrival in Carliton, but a more subtle approach was required, he now decided, and so turned away from Salvació with little relief. He scouted around the town, asking for directions and looking for rooms for rent, until suitable arrangements were made at a public house.

  Having eaten a pleasant meal prepared by the landlord’s wife, Holland strolled through the drab streets, somewhat lost. As he passed the small, commonplace houses, he saw a red sign above a shop window: Marcus Allen Bookstore & Lending Library. Peering through the glass, he noticed a diminutive grey-haired man sat at a desk reading. Rather than wander aimlessly anymore, Holland decided to ask for guidance. A bell rang noisily as he walked in.

  “Good day. I wondered if you could advise me? I’m looking for a particular residence.”

  The owner looked over the top of his glasses. His face was stern, serious until he smiled gently, put his book down, and stood. He must only be around five-foot tall, thought Holland.

  “Lost, are we? All looks the same around here, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, I know the town well—I was born here. But there’s a new manor house I’m unfamiliar with, evidently.”

  “Perhaps there’s a visitors’ guide, or a map here somewhere . . . .”

  Allen took Holland by the shoulder and ushered him towards a dishevelled bookcase holding volumes notable only for their mismatched sizes and colours. Perhaps he sensed a prospective customer.

  “Sorry about the mess—I only returned from my mother’s house a half-hour ago. Hmm, not quite what you’re seeking but we have a nice little volume of local lore here—believe me, it’s a great deal more interesting than Carliton’s modern history; granted, that’s not saying much, is it?”

  Displaying that indulgent smile once more, Allen handed him a small green book, its frontispiece stamped with silver lettering. Thumbing through it, a sketch of a stately home caught Holland’s eye. In the foreground stood a faceless woman dressed in mourning. He read the caption beneath the picture—Salvació House, as it looked fifty years ago, then named ‘Carliton Place.’

  Marcus Allen hovered at his shoulder—the salesman at his best, his most insistent.

  “They say one can hear the restless dead screaming as they walk the battlements of Olde Carliton Place on stormy nights.”

  He laughed, ever so slightly, enjoying the melodrama of his words. In spite of the book’s Romantic text and the grainy illustrations, Holland’s interest was piqued.

  “I’m going there tomorrow. Is it true? I mean, is the house really haunted?”

  “Only by the living . . . .” came Allen’s reply. He smiled no longer. “I played, quite happily, on Salvació’s grounds as a boy. No children play there now, that’s for certain.”

  “Mr Salazar doesn’t tolerate trespassers, I take it?”

  Obviously believing a confidence was being shared, Allen forgot his sales pitch and looked at Holland directly.

  “Hardly. Anyway, Beatriz would frighten them off. Wretched, isn’t she? A real witch, if you ask me.”

  “Mr Allen, I wonder if you know my fiancée, Helena Graham? She is staying at Salvació House, I believe.”

  Allen walked back to the desk and slumped down into his chair, as if defeated somehow. He looked at Holland with pity, then began to speak quietly, seriously.

  “They’ll try to get rid of you—Cristian and Beatriz—they’ll lie to you and send you on a false trail. They’ll enjoy your suffering and your confusion, Mr . . . ?”

  “Gabriel. Holland, that is.”

  “I didn’t know your fiancée, Mr Holland, but . . . I doubt that she’s far away; that’s all I can say for sure. My advice to you is to leave—you won’t find the truth in Carliton. No-one but me will speak against Salazar.”

  Allen spoke with sudden passion: “Look—people here know their place and the value of silence. No matter who you ask, you’ll get the same response: ‘The Salazars are wonderful, Cristian is so misunderstood, Beatriz is a saint amongst women’—do you know what it reminds me of? The way that primitive people gave beautiful names to those they feared most of all—like the Furies that ancient Greeks called ‘the kindly ones.’”

  “I’ve had my own experiences with the Salazars, so little you say surprises me. But I have to ask—if they are so wicked, why do people remain here? Why do you?”

  “This is my home and my business. My mother refuses to leave and, besides, she is in ill health. And Cristian lets me alone, as he’s aware of my antipathy towards him. So, take your choice of reasons. I’m sure others have their own.”

  “Doesn’t that put you in danger? I mean, the fact that Salazar knows you’re his enemy, so to speak?” Holland asked.

  “Yes, I suppose it does. Still, so far, so good. Excuse me, I’m just about to close up. If you need my assistance again, don’t hesitate to call, Gabriel.”

  “Thank you. I may take you up on that offer before very long. Goodbye.”

  Allen showed him out, the look of sadness on his face remaining unchanged even as the two shook hands.

  CHAPTER XI: THE WITNESS

  A REVELATION CAME to the Reverend Ian Jardine that night. As he took the cups and saucers to the kitchen, the floorboards creaked above him, and he studiously ignored the sound. Since he had arrived in Carliton, Jardine had only visited Alfred Morley’s old bedroom once, and then only briefly—it was poorly lit, unkempt in the way that the rooms belonging to elderly people often are, with yellowish dust framing the books on makeshift shelves and furniture which hadn’t been moved for years, perhaps.

  In truth, the room was rather oppressive; despite his predecessor’s personal belongings, Jardine had a sense that the room had never really been lived in—there was no joy or comfort to be found there, only gloom. He continued to wipe a china cup with a checkered tea towel, long after the vessel was dry.

  Jardine emptied the sink and patted at his forearms with the towel; a little water had stained his rolled-up shirtsleeves. Once dry, he looked through the kitchen window until his eyes focused on the moonlit cemetery. His nervousness faded and, for an instant, he subconsciously wished for the serenity of death. With a heavy sigh, Jardine took hold of the threadbare curtains and moved to close them. At least sleep would afford him some peace. But then something moved among the headstones.

  As one, clouds departed from the sky, leaving the moon to cover all things with a cold, bare light. Jardine saw Rebecca Pierce, a middle-aged woman from the town, and her daughter, being restrained by two men. They were forcing the women to walk with them.

  Jardine hurriedly unlocked the back door and made for the cemetery. But the wailing and harsh shouts of anger made him wary as he approached; on arrival, he lingered behind a tall gravestone and listened. If anyone witnessed this, they’d think him mad or perverse, but at this moment he didn’t care; fear and a strange fascination overtook him. Jardine braved a look, accidentally grazing his head on the moss-covered stone as he did so.

  Cristian Salazar strode through the unkempt grass, an ornamental ebony cane dragging behind him. The two brutish servants faced him as he came to a halt, the Catalonian’s face telling of his fury. In the moonlight, he looked old and haggard. Jard
ine kept his place at the rear of the tall headstone. Salazar slowly edged towards an open, freshly-dug grave and looked down. His nostrils flared as if an unpleasant odour offended him. As he turned away, his black overcoat spread wide by the wind, he commanded his men.

  “Bury them.”

  At his word, one of the servants readied the spade he carried while the other pushed Mrs Pierce into the grave, followed by her daughter. Salazar himself picked up a child’s corpse and let it fall upon the women. Blood-stained, muddied hands reached up in protest or beseechment, but soon the grasping fingers were broken by the shovel, deliberately aimed. Damp soil rained down on the desperate couple until only fingertips could be seen, and then, nothing but earth.

  Ian Jardine’s hands covered his mouth. He muttered to himself, his mind at breaking point. He only fell silent when Salazar uttered what at first seemed to be a prayer.

  “Father, can you hear me?”

  Footsteps on gravel. Footsteps edging closer.

  “Father, why hast thou forsaken me?”

  Joyless laughter. Salazar’s cane rapped against the headstone, and Jardine let out a childish whimper.

  “I know you can hear me, Father, so listen well. Run along now, and keep your silence . . . deceive me and die.”

  At this, Jardine staggered away, running until he fell exhausted against the rectory walls.

  CHAPTER XII: A NIGHT OF WONDERS

  HOLLAND SUFFERED A RESTLESS NIGHT. Tormented by his own cowardice in avoiding Salvació and the thought that he could expect little help from any other source, he resolved to visit Marcus Allen again. The bookshop owner, who saw him as he approached the store, opened the door expectantly. Allen locked it once Holland entered, turned the sign over to ‘Closed’ and looked through the glass. He mouthed words, but initially, no sound issued until he staggered backwards, colliding with his desk.

  “M-my God!” He gasped.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I saw her—Beatriz Salazar! She had her face pressed against the glass, staring at me. Then she was gone.”

  “Are you certain? I saw no-one.”

  Allen trembled, and his voice matched his involuntary movement. “She . . . she was looking at me . . . with hatred in her eyes.”

  “Perhaps you’re tired. Nobody was there,” Holland said.

  Allen moved to the door and checked the locks. Eventually, he calmed himself. “I-I’m sorry, I must be far more weary than I thought.” He backed further away from the window. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, I was hoping you’d give me some insight.”

  “Into what, exactly?”

  “A way to rid this town of the Salazars, once and for all, to drive them out or . . . something more final.”

  Allen offered Holland the only seat in the shop. At his refusal, Allen sat at his desk.

  “I understand; believe me, I do. Something should have been done well before now. I knew it would come to this, eventually. But at least now there are two of us.”

  “Three, if I can persuade Reverend Jardine to change his mind.”

  “I’d be surprised, given what his predecessor went through. I know. I saw it.”

  “Well perhaps you should let me know. Forewarned is forearmed,” Holland said.

  “On Christmas Eve a year or so ago, I received an invitation to Salvació House: ‘A Night of Wonders’, it read, to be held in the Banquet Hall. I’d heard only good things about the man and his cousin, so I decided to go. I’ve always had an interest in art—good art, not the popular rubbish—and Cristian Salazar is considered a major, if flawed, talent by his peers, after all; a man after my own heart, I assumed. More fool me, for my intellectual vanity.”

  “Flawed? How so?”

  “Well, his name is a byword for depravity, in the capital—very few collectors will have anything to do with him. The first time he exhibited there, years ago, there was absolute mayhem. His paintings were of murder scenes, slaughtered women, children, in the most lurid, appalling detail. People were outraged, understandably—some even tried to assault Salazar, but Beatriz shielded him from the blows. Cristian didn’t care, I’m sure. He probably enjoyed the whole thing.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Since then, I’ve seen several of the paintings in the homes of my neighbours. They’re hard to describe, the pictures . . . each of them seems a mockery of sorts—one can see angels smiling blissfully above the bodies, or children playing games amidst the carnage; horrible. Salazar had given the pictures away . . . people were, shall we say, obliged to accept them.”

  “And despite all this, you still wanted to meet Salazar?” Holland said disdainfully.

  Allen’s feet shifted a little. He glanced quickly at the shop window, apparently still perturbed by what he had seen or imagined there.

  “Yes—I wanted to judge the man for myself. I admit, he interested me greatly. I’ll never forget that night. It began so well, too . . . he talked—you know perhaps how some people can charm one without effort—beautifully. Sometimes he looks as if the whole world is in his grasp, you can see it in his face—when he’s enthused about something or other, and his face reflects this; he’s young again. I have to say that I was enthralled by him, at first.”

  “I take it you dined alone?”

  “No, not at all. He, or his cousin, had invited Carliton’s cultural elite, if such a pathetic thing exists . . . Reverend Morley, Robert James the newspaper editor, Martin Preston the poet—they were all there. I had expected the house to be full of Christmas decorations, but I should have known better, there was nothing seasonal at all—a most sombre place, if truth be told. But, anyway, the conversation was excellent, the food and wine delicious, if a touch unusual. I was really glad I had come, until Cristian talked of his family.”

  “Go on,” Holland encouraged.

  “One can never really divine whether Salazar is telling the truth or merely playing some kind of strange game, making fools of his audience. Anyway, truth or lie, Cristian went on with the story; how his servant allowed some fool of an artist into Salvació; how he ended up trying to seduce Cristian’s wife, Aurelia . . . and then murdered her and abducted his ward. Apparently, Cristian has made it his life’s work to find the villain.”

  Holland’s shock told on his face. He walked towards Allen’s desk, the better to hear him.

  “Why on earth would Salazar tell of such a terrible thing?” he asked.

  “Oh, believe me, he boasted of it, he laughed hysterically as he told us of the people who died at his hand . . . in a manner of speaking. He actually savoured his revenge. The strangest thing . . . the others followed suit—Reverend Morley laughed though tears ran down his face, and his expression was one of deep unease; Beatriz had laced the wine, I imagine. It began to have an effect on me, too. I slumped to the table, stupefied, and looked at Cristian and Beatriz through my glass. When I raised my eyes again, the two of them seemed elongated, their features stretched and blurred, as if they were inhuman creatures. After a while, Salazar’s words faded from my hearing. I could no longer understand his speech—a quietly-spoken intonation, droning and repetitive, took over; I could only see, in my mind’s eye, what happened.”

  “And what was that?” Holland asked. Marcus Allen’s hands gripped the sides of his face, the memory of the night becoming even more painful in his recollection.

  “It was like a zoetrope. The images began slowly enough, but soon everything quickened and blurred—sometimes I would see Aurelia Salazar before her death, as if she stood right in front of me. I watched the flesh open and the life drain out of her. Then, her clawing hands striking the window again and again, but she couldn’t break through the glass; eventually she scratched and tapped the surface in vain. But they were my hands now—I felt the agony she suffered, the hatred she bore for her killer.”

  A slight upturning of Holland’s lips told Allen of his listener’s discomfort. “Well, I don’t blame you for doubting me.”

 
; “No, you’re mistaken. I have something to tell you.”

  “There is more,” Allen interrupted, “and perhaps, it’s a clue to your Helena’s disappearance.” He sighed as if he were composing himself again, and continued. “Salazar’s spell still held us. Preston’s body was twisted, James had curled up on his chair, like a frightened child. The two of them wailed and wept—I have no doubt they saw and felt what I did. A vision came to me, of Aurelia’s child. Now I could see only through her eyes. She roamed the forest, hunting for victims, chasing them until their panic made them stumble. Then she fell upon them. But the worst of it was, I felt pleasure; I felt the satisfaction of vengeance fulfilled.”

  Allen needlessly polished his glasses upon his sleeve. After finishing this, he cast them aside in temper or disgust.

  “We all just sat there, like stuffed dummies, a tableau vivant for Salazar’s perverse delight. He shouted, and the terrible images ceased. All the while, I’d had the distinct impression that Cristian was toying with us, testing us . . . as if even he didn’t believe his own words, and that it was all a marvellous joke. As I recovered, Beatriz declared that we would see a ‘master class’. She explained that her cousin ‘makes wonderful things in his mind,’ and that we should feel ‘honoured’. And then, the most outrageous thing occurred.”

  Allen’s eyelids flicked. After a few seconds, he spoke again.

  “Beatriz had stood silently at her cousin’s shoulder throughout the entire meal, like the contented guardian of a beloved child. Now, she struck the table a sharp blow, and I wondered what on earth was going on. Then I realised that this was a signal. ”

  “For what?”