Masters of Midnight

by Michael Thomas Ford

  I felt quite embarrassed, as you can imagine, Minter. But now, sitting here writing this, I find I can’t get back in that bed. I can’t switch off the lights. I feel certain this is the very same room Mr. Bain was killed in all those years ago. I keep telling myself it was a dream, a stupid hallucination brought about by all these crazy superstitious villagers. But I don’t know, Minter. I just can’t wait for the sun to come up.

  May 5—It really is beautiful here, babe. I’m sitting on a rock at the beach below the cliffs. The spray from the waves that crash all around me is cool but invigorating, making me forget about my stupid dream last night. I’m thinking about how our first anniversary is coming up in a couple of months, and how I’d like to go back to Ogunquit with you. We could sit on rocks like this, looking out over the ocean. I wish you were here, Minter.

  It was so good to hear your voice this morning. Did I wake you up? You said no, but I wonder. I hope your shoot goes okay today. Drag queens can be impossible. I wonder how many retakes they’ll demand? And of course, they’ll want you to fix up their boobs with PhotoShop. You sounded kind of frazzled when I spoke to you so I didn’t go into too many details about my dream or about all the weirdness up here. You’ll learn all about it when you read this journal.

  More and more I’m convinced you’re right, though. This will make a great personal interest piece. If not for the Globe then for some place else. I can just see the magazine art directors loving it—I mean, here I am on a rocky coastline with some gothic mansion reputed to be haunted looming above me. Hey—you ought to do the photography for it! Maybe I’ll suggest it when I talk to you tonight and you can join me this weekend. I’d love to have you up here with me. Everything’s better when we’re together. You could bring Ralph, too. The inn accepts pets.

  This could be the direction I’ve been looking for, Minter. I admit I’ve been kind of a wanderer all my life. I never could decide on what kind of a career I wanted. I’ve tried lots of different things—some things that I’ve never even told you about. Like I tried working as a publicist for a ballet company a few years ago. I’d never even been to the ballet. Then I got my real estate license. I showed six thousand houses but sold none. I hated it. So I became a traffic reporter at a radio station.

  But it always came back to writing. I know I never went to journalism school the way you went to photography school, Minter, but I think this is what I want to do. Write stories. In college my best grades were always in English, and I was editor of my high school newspaper. Working at the radio station I used to watch the news reporters type up the stories they’d read on the air. It was so inspiring to me. That’s what I want to do: tell really interesting stories.

  So I’m not going to leave here until I’ve gotten to the truth of this old town’s mystery. As much to give my life some direction as to learn about my father. Maybe the two things are tied up together. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been kind of aimless. You’ve changed me, sweets. You’ve given me a direction and I’m going to show you what I can do.

  I’ve determined that the only way past that NO TRESPASSING gate is to come up from the cliff side. Cravenwood stands on a huge expanse right at the top of the cliff, overlooking the ocean. I can approach from behind, and maybe find the old man lurking around somewhere. He apparently doesn’t live at the main house, which is all boarded up anyway. That much I learned from the lady at the post office this morning. He lives in a smaller house on the estate, deep in the woods. The post office lady told me he picked up his mail irregularly—no mailman could make the trek all the way up that hill, she said—but that his box was currently empty. So I’m assuming he got my letter. What good that will do, I’m not sure. But at least he’s hopefully expecting me.

  So wish me luck, babe. I’m going to find a path among the rocks and scale the side of the cliff. Good thing we took that mountain climbing class last fall in Colorado. This isn’t nearly as steep or as tall, but it’s still a little daunting. You’d be so proud of how butch I’m being.

  Okay, here I go. Keep your cool with the drag queens, Minter. I love you!

  May 5 (cont.)—I’m in his house, Minter! I’m writing by candlelight. What a story I have for you!

  So I made it up the cliff without too many problems. If I looked down and saw the drop below me, my knees went a little weak, but I managed okay. Only once did I slip, but there were a lot of tree limbs and brush growing out the sides of the cliff that I was able to easily steady myself. I’d say it took about twenty minutes to scale the side. Not bad, huh?

  It was probably about ten-fifteen, ten-thirty. I headed toward Cravenwood, which from this side looked less creepy and more simply run down, battered by decades of sea wind and salt air. Most of the windows were boarded over, except for the ones highest in the tower. It looks like a Newport mansion, only completely run down. It’s too bad, because it’s a fabulous house.

  I have to admit my first thought was about my father. I wondered if he’d ever been in that house, if it was here that whatever happened to him happened. I couldn’t stop thinking about him, in fact. I felt his presence—as if he were nearby—oh, I don’t know. It was odd. Hard to describe.

  I know I haven’t talked to you about my father much, Minter, except to say that I’ve long been obsessed in finding out what happened to him. Truth is, I hardly remember him. I remember a few little things— nice things, like going to the zoo and riding in the way-back part of his bumpy old station wagon. And sharing our birthmarks—you know that little purple splotch on my chest that looks kind of like a dragonfly? Well, my dad had one, too, in just about the same place as I do, and I remember feeling pretty special because it was something we shared.

  But Dad apparently had other special people in his life. He began having an affair with Megan when I was just four or five. I guess that’s where he’d go when he didn’t come home at night. It was a rotten thing to do to a little kid, abandoning me like he did—but my mother (as you know all too well) is not an easy woman to live with. I remember once how she threw a frying pan at him. While she was frying eggs in it! Maybe that’s when she found out about the affair. I don’t know.

  My dad was kind of a wanderer like me. It was in his blood, I suppose, the same way it’s always been for me. He jumped from job to job, too. Starting an antique shop in Maine was just the sort of thing he’d do. And he’d probably have left it, too, eventually—if whatever happened to him hadn’t happened.

  Mr. Craven said that my father was a good man. That meant a lot for me to hear. I mean—

  Okay, so I’m getting ahead of myself. Yes, I met Mr. Bartholomew Craven. And really, Minter, he’s really such a nice old guy. Mrs. Haskell was right. He’s just lonely. He was thrilled when he realized I’d actually come to see him—and he’s asked me to stay the night! I think it’ll be kind of fun, what with there being no modern conveniences. I have to pee in a bucket in an outhouse, Minter! You’d be freaking out not having running water! I told Mr. Craven about you—I think he might be gay—at least he didn’t flinch when I described you as my lover. I told him about the time we went camping and you insisted on bringing a battery-powered hair dryer with you. He got a good laugh out of that one.

  Not that it started out so pleasantly, though. Let me back up. There I was, wandering around the boarded-up mansion, when I got the distinct sensation that someone was watching me. You know how that is. You feel eyes on the back of your head and you keep turning around quickly, looking behind you. A wind had kicked up, and there on top of the cliffs, with the salty air sharp in my nostrils, I sensed I was not alone.

  I heard a twig snap behind me. I glanced off toward the woods and saw a figure there, a tall, hulking figure of a man. It disappeared into the trees so quickly that I immediately convinced myself it had been an illusion, a play of the morning sun against the leaves. I tried to forget it, but thoughts of my dream returned, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.

  I looked up. I could make o
ut nothing in the windows of the tower. I snuck around to the courtyard and peered through slats in the boards that covered the windows into a large, empty parlor. There was no sign of life, no evidence of anyone who might live in such a foreboding place.

  That’s when the hands gripped me by the shoulders from behind.

  “Hey!” I shouted, struggling to turn around. But the grip was unbelievable, holding me firmly in place. I smelled something rancid. Whoever held me had the foulest breath I’d ever encountered. It grunted as I continued to try to twist out of its hold. Finally I slipped free, turning to face it.

  It was a man, but barely so—surely the creature that had been lurking in the woods. He was tall, with a wide shoulder span, but he was slumped over, as if his back had been broken and never correctly healed. His face was mangled, with deep purple scars. There was only a left eye, his right socket grotesquely empty. His nose was crushed into pulpy folds of flesh, and his mouth was twisted and off-center. His hair was black and uncombed, and his clothes were equally as dark, torn and soiled. Looking up at him, I couldn’t speak.

  “Leave me alone,” I finally said. “I didn’t mean to trespass. I’m just looking for Mr. Craven. He’s expecting me.”

  The man-thing growled. He studied me with his beady one eye, tilting his misshapen head as he did so. He grunted again, then pointed in the direction of the woods.

  “Look, like I said, if I’m trespassing, I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to get up here to see Mr. Craven. He has no telephone—”

  The beast made another sound in his throat, more insistent this time, pointing again toward the woods.

  He was a deaf-mute, I suddenly realized. He was reading my lips and trying to tell me something.

  “Is he there? In the woods?”

  The deaf-mute made a rough sound of affirmation.

  I thought this very strange, you can be sure of that. No way was I wandering into the woods with some hulk who’d nearly split my collarbone in half. But then he withdrew an envelope from his shirt pocket. It was brittle and flaking. On its face was written my name, Jeremy Horne, in a spidery handwriting of an earlier time. I opened it and unfolded the old yellowed parchment inside.

  My dear Mister Horne,

  Should you arrive to visit as your letter to me suggests, I hope you will forgive me for not being able to greet you myself. I am consumed with writing the history of the Craven family, a vocation which demands my full and undivided attention every day from early morning until dusk. I humbly request that you allow my manservant, Hare, to escort you to my home, where, if you are so kind as to wait for me, I will be most glad to entertain you come sunset. Please have no apprehension of trusting Hare, for, despite his rather frightening appearance, he is a gentle soul and utterly devoted to me.

  With kindest regards and a welcome to Cravenwood,

  I am,

  Yours sincerely,

  Bartholomew Craven

  I looked up into the beastly face hovering over me. “I—I could come back later,” I suggested, “if he’s busy—”

  Hare made a ferocious sound, gripping my upper arm. He pointed again, but not toward the woods this time. Rather, he was directing my attention to an automobile parked on the side of the house. It was an old black model, some kind of ancient Ford, vintage 1935. I surmised quickly that what Hare was trying to tell me was that wherever Mr. Craven lived, I’d need to get there by car, and that I could make the trip either now or never. I swallowed, telling myself that all this simply added great color to my eventual story. Mr. Craven had said not to fear Hare.

  But should I be fearing Mr. Craven?

  I followed Hare to the car. He opened the back door for me and I slid inside. The interior was perfectly restored, with gleaming new leather. Odd that I should think of my father again in such a moment, but maybe not. My father had loved cars, and one of my few memories is of him restoring an old Mustang. He would’ve loved this car.

  Hare walked back around and slipped in behind the wheel. As he started the ignition, I glanced at my watch. It was only a little after eleven o’clock; I was facing the prospect of twiddling my thumbs for practically the entire day as I waited for Mr. Craven to finish up with his writing project. Oh, well, maybe I could snoop around the place, pick up some clues as to what happened here thirty years ago, what sort of cult they were all a part of. That was, if Hare wasn’t constantly breathing his rancid breath down my neck.

  Turns out, he didn’t hang around long at all. We drove through the woods for about half a mile, finally stopping at a much older house than the boarded-up mansion. This one looked Georgian, with broken columns lining a cracked portico. The house was in terrible disrepair, with the surrounding trees having grown nearly through it. Ivy obscured most of the windows and the branch of a large oak had imbedded itself into the roof. Hare unlocked the front door with a rusty old-fashioned key and gestured for me to enter. I did so, looking around at the dark, cobwebbed interior. Then Hare closed the door behind me and disappeared.

  “Hare?” I called—ridiculously, of course, since he was deaf. I tried the knob of the door. It was locked. He had locked me inside the house!

  I panicked, Minter. Can you blame me? I began to beat on the door with my fists, convinced I’d been tricked, that I was about to suffer the same fate as my father, whatever that had been. I turned and ran to an inner door, finding it was locked as well. I ran to the top of a flight of stairs, only to find my way barred there by another secured door. A door with a grated window leading into the basement was likewise bolted. I was confined to the small parlor, and in the dusty darkness I could hear the rustling of bat wings.

  “The window,” I said to myself. A large picture window, crosshatched with panes of old lead-plated glass, looked out into the woods. Ivy crept up much of it, but I could still see freedom beyond. I would smash the glass, I would break free—.

  But I couldn’t, Minter! Try as hard as I might, I couldn’t even scratch the glass. Might it have been that the panes of wood that held the glass in place were too resilient? Or might there be something—something unexplainable—that made the glass unbreakable?

  I flopped down into a frayed armchair, out of breath. I’m pretty strong, Minter. You know that. I work out at the gym four times a week. But I was useless against that old glass and wood. Useless!

  I looked back down at Mr. Craven’s letter. I had kept it in the pocket of my jacket. He asked me to wait for him until sunset. I could do nothing but trust him, to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  But he’d sure as hell have some explaining to do when I saw him! I mean, you don’t just lock your guests in! What if there was a fire? What if I got sick and needed medical attention? What if I had to take a pee?

  Which, I suddenly realized, I did. And not a bathroom anywhere.

  I tried to distract myself. Maybe there was something in this room I could discover about my father’s disappearance. Whatever nastiness he’d gotten involved with concerned the Cravens. That much the old sheriff had been sure of. “We could never pin anything on them,” he’d told me. “But all the mysterious things that happened in town, all the deaths, had some link back to that family.”

  I stood up from the filthy old chair and walked over to the bookcase built into the wall. I scanned the titles of the moldy volumes that rested there, draped in cobwebs. Histories of New England with publishing dates from the early nineteenth century. Books on whaling, on the great shipping fleets of Maine. And then—my breath literally caught in my throat, Minter—books on sorcery! Witchcraft. Spells and incantations. A set of volumes on the I Ching. One book was even called Practical Satanism.

  Is this what my father had faced? I flipped through the volumes. Hideous pictures of witches being burned at the stake and incubi slipping into the darkness to seduce their unsuspecting victims. There was nothing particular to this place, however, nothing about Cravenwood or the Craven family, nothing to connect my father. . . .

  Just then I heard a so
und. I glanced around, only to see the inner door close once more. I heard the latch slide into place on the other side. Hare had been in the room; he had snuck in so quietly I hadn’t heard him. The stench of his foul breath lingered—as did a tray of food placed upon a table. Steaming rice and expertly seared pork loins, freshly steamed snap peas and carrots. A bottle of spring water and a carafe of wine. And, at the foot of the table, a chamber pot.

  I looked closer at the meal. Another note from Mr. Craven rested against the carafe of wine.

  My dear Sir,

  In my absence, please accept this meal with my kindest regards. Please feel free to make yourself at home and enjoy any of the books from my library. And given my singular lack of modern conveniences, please accommodate yourself with my rather quaint tool of centuries past. Hare will take care of everything. I look forward to joining you this evening.

  With anticipation of our eventual meeting,

  I am, yours sincerely,

  B. Craven

  I couldn’t resist laughing. Using that chamber pot to relieve myself took a little getting used to, but I sure felt better afterward, Minter. Then I replaced the lid and set it against the far wall, turning my attention to the food. My fear had largely evaporated at this point; I was dealing with an eccentric writer, that was all. But his invitation to enjoy the books from his library—Practical Satanism, perhaps—still left me a little unnerved.

  I must have dozed off after lunch, flipping through a history of the town, my eyelids growing heavy as I read about Isaac Craven, sea captain, who’d founded the place back in 1690. . . .

  I opened my eyes suddenly. How long had I been sleeping? It was the strangest sleep, Minter. I kept hearing music, a tinkly kind of sound, like from an old music box, and it felt as if I were moving down long, winding, cobwebbed corridors. I can’t remember all the specifics of the dream, but it felt as if I were on a mission: searching for something, something I knew was at the end of the corridor, as I moved down this way and then that, finally leading to a door, I think, a door that I opened—