The Legend of Darklore Manor and Other Tales of Terror

by Vargo, Joseph

  "Thank you," he murmured, his throat suddenly very dry. He had meant to say something more profound and memorable but in the presence of the Brotherhood's highest level of Masters he found himself as abashed as a schoolboy.

  To Logan's left, Michael Mansfield patted Harris on the back and winked. "You're doing fine," Mansfield whispered.

  "This is Professor Logan's first trip to England," Yardley explained to the other Masters, "and I'm sure he's a bit jet-lagged and a bit intimidated by being surrounded by so many new faces. But rest assured, Mr. Logan, we are all friends here. Your friends. If the Brotherhood teaches us anything it's that you will always have us to rely upon, without question."

  "Hear hear," someone affirmed.

  Logan's smile was polite but wary. He was waiting for the catch. There was always a catch.

  Yardley smiled, his eyes brimming with nostalgia. "I can remember when I was in your place. Years and years ago. The Ritual of the Crossing had taken a lot out of me and, I admit, I would have been content to stay a Master of the Sixteenth Degree." He chuckled and feigned a horrific shudder. "After the Crossing, I thought, No more. Keep me at Sixteen. Hell, drop me back down to Fifteen—at least that was just a written test! Those were the days, weren't they?"

  "Yes," Logan said, "they were." The initiation into the Fifteenth Degree was indeed a written exam concerning the history and philosophic underpinnings of the Brotherhood of Shadows and Light. The questions were at first routine and factual, quizzing the initiate on the founding of the group in medieval France as a secretive conclave of radical philosophers and thinkers who were unimpressed with Church teachings. The questions then dealt with the Brotherhood's subsequent persecution by the Church as a heretical, even diabolical sect practicing Satanic rites. Eventually, though, the questions became more introspective. One question was, What is the purpose of the Brotherhood?

  After all his years in the group, Logan could answer that without much hesitation. To perfect the human being by lifting him out of the world of animal instinct and instilling in him new instincts of trust and faith.

  "It's quite profound, when you think about it," Mansfield had once told him over brandy at a restaurant near Mansfield's law firm in Chicago several years ago. "Most of our lives are spent reacting to things based on our primal needs, our selfish desires, our fight-or-flight instincts. Which is fine—if you want to remain on a level with animals who think only about food and self-preservation. But aren't we capable of much more than that?"

  "If a man is robbing you at knifepoint, a good fight-or-flight response isn't something to sneeze at."

  "No, but that's my point. The world as it's constructed keeps us at the animal level. Thieves rob out of a primal lust for power, or because they're hungry and desperate. Their victims cower like rabbits and let themselves be robbed, hoping not to be harmed. And at those moments there is little that separates us from the primitive, fearful hominids that foraged for food half a million years ago."

  "And the Brotherhood hopes to change that," Logan said, trying not to sound too skeptical. Being skeptical, however, was what made him the University of Chicago's most effective professor of philosophy.

  Now, as the gathered Masters of the Seventeenth Degree sipped their wine and listened to Yardley, Grand Master and Protector of the Royal Secret, Logan tried to quell his slowly mounting anxiety at the initiation ritual to come. He took a long drink of the pinot noir and tried not to think about the Ritual of the Crossing. That had been more than a year ago, and he still occasionally had nightmares about it.

  "This is a monumental night for you, Mr. Logan," Yardley said, beaming. "Tonight, all your years of fellowship in the Brotherhood will crystallize into your official rebirth as a Perfected Master, and you too will be able to wear the Ring of Seventeen." He held up his right hand. On the ring finger was the familiar silver band encrusted with seventeen small sapphires. The chandeliers' light glinted off similar rings on the hands of the other Masters. "A petty material token, to be sure, but one that symbolizes your spiritual evolution under our care. You have traveled from the shadows, from the ordinary human realm of mistrust, self-interest and fear and arrived, finally, at the light. During the Ritual of the Final Secret, you will have in your hands the ultimate truth to which we are all privy. The one you have heard whispers about all these years. The secret that has undoubtedly been a source of much speculation within you."

  Logan said nothing, even though the eyes of the Masters seemed to study him more keenly than before.

  "It's all right," Yardley said. "The promise of the secret is a key motivator for many in the lower degrees. Everyone wants the revelation and the power it holds. But, really, your tenure here in the Brotherhood and your spiritual progress through the ranks has revealed the secret to you already. You have learned all the lessons we had to teach, and our knowledge is now your knowledge, whether you realize it consciously or not. Nevertheless, you will hold in your hands the Final Secret. And once the ritual is complete, we shall toast your rebirth and have a proper celebration."

  "Do you still have that bottle of thirty-year-old scotch?" Mansfield asked. "The single-malt?"

  Yardley laughed. "I most certainly do, and we'll all have a taste. No better way to celebrate a rebirthday, eh?" The Grand Master nodded to the others, and almost simultaneously they begin donning their scarlet robes, which the small platoon of footmen and underbutlers had begun distributing.

  Logan was the only member of the group not given a robe. He felt curiously naked in his business suit. He was startled when one of the Masters began patting him down and removing the contents of Logan's various pockets.

  "What are you doing?"

  The Master did not answer but merely smiled.

  Yardley clapped Logan reassuringly on the shoulder. "Not feeling nervous, are you?"

  "No," Logan said, clearing his throat.

  "Of course he's not," Mansfield said. "He's not one of those dreadful First or Second Degreers. He's made of stronger stuff than that."

  "One hour and it will all be over," Yardley said. "Not a thing to worry about."

  "The irony is that it's the easiest ritual of all of them," someone said as they moved to the back stairwell that led down to the cellar. There was a small antique service elevator, but Logan had explained that he would rather take the stairs; his mild claustrophobia made even roomy limousines seem like coffins. Yardley's mansion was overwhelmingly large, and the winding stone stairwell corkscrewed into the earth for what seemed like half a mile. Finally, they reached the dank wine cellar, which was lit by several medieval wall sconces that held flaming torches.

  The Masters of the Seventeenth Degree, laughing and chatting about recent rare vintages up for auction, led Logan through the rows of dusty bottles until they came to what appeared to be an oblong altar covered with a black sheet.

  Logan's heart pounded. He tried to steady his breathing.

  The Masters fanned out around the altar. Yardley stood behind it, in the middle, reminding Logan of Jesus in da Vinci's "Last Supper." Logan noticed an object on the altar—a small, tattered canvas scroll bound with a black ribbon.

  "This is the Secret," Yardley said. "And it will be yours for one hour."

  Logan's mouth was dry. After eleven years, here it was, just a few inches from his hand.

  "But again, Mr. Logan," Yardley said, "its contents have already been divulged to you in one way or another by your time in the Brotherhood. What have you heard about the Secret?"

  "Just rumors."

  "What sort of rumors?" Parmentier asked, his thin lips twisting into a wry smile.

  "That the Secret deals with the true origin of man. Or that it reveals the location of some source of wealth that would put El Dorado to shame."

  The Masters exchanged unreadable looks. "What else?" Yardley asked.

  "That those who learn it end up with worldly success beyond their fondest imaginings." Logan met Yardley's amused gaze. He knew that once Yardley had passe
d the Ritual of the Final Secret his net worth quadrupled; Logan also knew that another Master, Lewis Benning, had progressed from an unremarkable professor of political theory to a key advisor on the President's national security team once he had gone through the rite.

  In an hour Logan would be one of them. His hands ached to unfurl the scroll.

  "Perhaps that success had more to do with the accumulated power of all the Brotherhood's teachings," Yardley countered, "and nothing to do with this." He laid a finger on the scroll.

  "And if the Secret really has no power or magic, then you wouldn't need to have it guarded day and night by armed men."

  Yardley's eyebrows rose. A smile slowly erupted on his face. "You have certainly been a most intrepid investigator, Mr. Logan." The Grand Master nodded to another man, who presented Logan with two books of matches.

  Logan's brow furrowed. "What are these for?"

  Yardley blinked. "It gets dark in the coffin."

  "Coffin," Logan said, not understanding.

  With a flourish, Yardley removed the black sheet from the altar, revealing the stone sarcophagus beneath. Upon the lid was a relief of a fallen knight, his arms crossed over his armored chest, the effigy of a scroll clasped in his hands. Logan noticed the words carved along the rim of the lid: Le jour de gloire est arrivé (the day of glory has arrived).

  All eyes of the Masters were upon Logan, who was perspiring heavily, even though the cellar was damp and cool.

  "Do you have faith in our words, in the words of your Brothers and Masters?" asked Geoffrey Parmentier.

  "Yes," Logan said after a brief hesitation. Images of the Ritual of the Crossing flashed through his mind, but he tried to banish them.

  "Do you trust in our words?" asked another man, an elderly gentleman named Gustafson.

  "Yes," Logan said.

  "Do you have faith in our honesty, in our integrity, in the words of our teachings?" asked Yardley.

  "You keep asking the same thing in different ways," Logan said, becoming slightly annoyed. "Yes, I do have faith."

  Yardley handed him the scroll, a gentle, pained look on his face. "Then you won't need this."

  The scroll felt warm in Logan's hand. He could feel the centuries of power within it, as if it were some pulsing, living thing. He was about to undo the black ribbon tying the canvas when Mansfield stopped him.

  "Not yet."

  Six of the other Masters took hold of the sarcophagus' massive granite lid and lifted it away. The casket's interior was decorated with elaborate carved diagrams and words that Logan could barely make out in the dim light.

  "Just as our founder, Henri le Dechambeau, lay for days in a tomb, buried alive by the Inquisition with only the sacred teachings of the Brotherhood for comfort, so too will you lay in this tomb," Yardley said. "And just as our founder was rescued by his Brothers, who overpowered Church gendarmes, so too shall we be your salvation. We will come for you in one hour. Lie still and remember that you already know the Secret, Mr. Logan. It is within you already." He nodded to the sarcophagus. "Get in."

  I can do this, Logan thought. He took a deep breath and let it out. His sweaty hands gripped the rolled canvas and his head rang with the echo of the heavy stone lid being dropped back into place above him. He was trapped in total darkness. Logan's sense of claustrophobia was threatening to blossom into full-blown panic and hyperventilation, but he forced himself to calm down. This was too important. Like the carved knight above him, he held the Secret. It was his.

  The Master who had spoken earlier was right—this did seem to be the easiest of all the seventeen rituals. It was certainly easier than the horror of the Crossing.

  And yet at first he had thought the Ritual of the Crossing would be an easy one as well. On that day fifteen months ago, when the Brotherhood determined that Logan was ready, one of the Masters of the Sixteenth Degree presented him with a crude schematic diagram of what appeared to be a wooden bridge, with many of the planks missing.

  "It would be helpful," the Master said, smiling, "if you would familiarize yourself with this. Where to step and where not to step."

  Logan assumed that the Ritual would be much like many of the other initiation rites. The Brothers would take him and the other Sixteenth Degree initiates to one of the Brotherhood's luxurious lodges, there would be a stylized ritual or innocuous puzzle to solve in one of the back rooms, and then they would all have drinks and cigars. Not that he didn't take the Ritual seriously—he did. Passing it was another step toward the Secret. For the two weeks prior to the Ritual, Logan studied the diagram, trying in vain to memorize the locations of the missing planks.

  It wasn't until two days before the rite that it dawned on him that the missing boards had a pattern. That pattern was music.

  While he was idly humming the Brotherhood's official anthem, "In the Darkest Hour There is Light," Logan was struck by the realization that the song's meter was mirrored in the bridge's diagram. Whole notes were a sequence of four missing planks, half notes were two, quarter notes were one. The entire first verse of the song played out throughout the entire hundred-yard span of the bridge. Jubilant, Logan had been tempted to share his gestalt with the other two initiates—Meyer, an overweight, melancholic accountant, and Newsome, a quiet but sarcastic film studio executive—but he kept it to himself.

  On the night of the ritual, Logan was so confident and happy that he slapped Meyer on the back and told the glum accountant several off-color jokes to take his mind off the rite—which would, Logan was sure, consist of the initiates having to draw the diagram of the bridge from memory, like some strange SAT test.

  When the Masters of the Sixteenth Degree blindfolded the three initiates and loaded them into the back of three limousines, however, Logan's exultation quickly faded. When he felt the car climbing higher and higher, advancing up onto what felt like mountain roads, Logan's heart began throbbing in panic.

  As the three men were herded out of the limousines, the icy wind whipped violently at their clothes. Logan chanced a quick peek under his blindfold and was horrified to see that they were at the edge of a cliff that dropped nearly two hundred feet to a roaring, twisting, boulder-strewn river below. A dilapidated bridge stretched nearly a hundred yards across the chasm, with many of the planks missing. The screaming wind rocked the bridge back and forth like a hammock.

  Logan felt like he was going to throw up.

  "In the Year of Our Lord 1322," said one of the Sixteenth Degree Masters, raising his voice to be heard over the winter gale, "our founder, Henri le Dechambeau, was chased by the Church's armed militia across a bridge in Amiens, a bridge which miraculously held steady for him but disintegrated under the feet of his pursuers."

  Logan could feel one of the Masters take his elbow and guide him to the entrance to the footbridge. He could hear the bridge rattle and creak.

  "Initiates into the Sixteenth Degree of the Brotherhood of Shadows and Light," said another Master, "your task tonight as honest Brothers and Knights of Perfect Truth is to answer a question I will put forth to you. Mr. Meyer, please step forward."

  Logan could hear the scrape of Meyer's reluctant footsteps.

  "Mr. Meyer, Accomplished Master of the Fifteenth Degree, do you wish to replicate our founder's crossing on that fateful night in 1322?"

  Meyer cleared his throat and said hoarsely, "Yes. I will."

  "Then step onto the bridge, dear Brother, and may the Universal Power deliver you safely to the other side."

  Logan didn't risk another peek under his blindfold, but he heard it all. He heard Meyer's frightened panting, the creak of the bridge, the scream of the wind, and the halting, erratic clop-clop of Meyer's shoes groping for purchase on the planks. Logan heard Meyer's gasping yelp as he stumbled and nearly dropped through one of the gaps in the planking. Logan's heart raced as if he were the one on the bridge. When he heard Meyer's sobbing cries, Logan himself wanted to cry. Eventually the shriek of the wind drowned out Meyer's voice, but Logan remembered h
earing the man stumble again. Logan heard what sounded like a man's hands grappling for handholds on the planks, then, a moment later, Logan heard the distinct splash in the rough waters below.

  Logan fell to his knees and vomited. One of the Masters helped him back to his feet.

  The Master asked him softly, "Mr. Logan, Accomplished Master of the Fifteenth Degree, do you wish to replicate our founder's crossing on that fateful night in 1322?"

  "Yes," he found himself saying in an unsteady voice, "I will."

  The Master tightened Logan's blindfold and pushed him gently onto the bridge. He made his first few steps with agonizing slowness, humming the Brotherhood's anthem under his breath.

  In the darkest hour, there is light—

  The light of holy truth—

  He did not stumble. With every dreaded whole note, he stopped before the four missing boards and braced himself. Then he leapt, nearly weeping with relief when his feet touched down on solid wood again. The wind roared like a raging lion and his hands were nearly frostbitten as they gripped the frayed rope handrails for support. Seventy-five yards… fifty yards… thirty… and then, toward the end of the first verse, a measure with two consecutive whole notes. That translated into eight missing boards. Since each plank seemed to feel a little less than a foot wide, that meant he was facing nearly an eight-foot jump.

  If he got even a slight running start, he could do it. He gingerly backed up a few feet, mindful of the one missing plank behind him, then took a deep breath. The wind rocked the bridge. I can do this, he thought. He hummed the song, thinking of nothing but the Secret, which was that much closer now. He could do this.

  We know that truth will triumph

  In the hour of darkest night…

  He bit his lip and leapt. That was when his luck seemed to run out. The wind shook the bridge yet again, making it groan and undulate like a boa constrictor. He was airborne but the sudden movement of the bridge meant he had no way of knowing if his landing spot would still be there.

  Please, God, please.

  He landed awkwardly on the planks, and he pitched to the side, nearly spilling over the edge into the icy water. Logan grabbed the rope handrails and hauled himself to his feet again, gasping. He had done it. He screamed in triumph. There was only a short section left to traverse, and adrenaline and confidence propelled him easily to the other side. The feel of the solid earth and brittle, frozen grass made him cry out again in ecstasy. He tore off the blindfold and saw the Masters on the other side applauding him.