Masters of Midnight

by Michael Thomas Ford

  And I saw standing in front of me a very old man.

  “Mr. Horne,” he said.

  I was too surprised to say anything in reply. The room was now dark, lit by dozens of candles offering their flickering light.

  “I’m sorry if I awoke you. You must have dozed off. I do apologize for keeping you waiting so long.”

  “Mr.—Craven?”

  “Yes, my good man. Bartholomew Craven, and I welcome you to Cravenwood.”

  I stood up. “Mr. Craven, I appreciate your hospitality, but having me locked in here—”

  “Locked? But you were not locked in, my good sir.”

  “I was! I couldn’t leave this room.”

  Mr. Craven studied me carefully, giving me time to do the same to him. He was indeed very old, with a gray pallor to his deeply lined skin that gave it nearly the same look and texture of the dry, flaking parchment he used for his letters. His cheekbones were high, giving a hollow look to his face, and his eyes were deepset and brown. His dark suit was well pressed and tailored, but somewhat frayed and tattered. His hair was white and wispy, what was left of it.

  He walked suddenly to the front door and opened it quite effortlessly. “You see?” he asked. “It is not locked.”

  “But it was!”

  He gave me a confused expression. “I can’t see why Hare would lock you in. How dangerous that would be. Perhaps he did so accidentally. I shall speak with him.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. I wasn’t sure he was speaking the truth.

  He raised his eyebrows imploringly. “But there was no harm, then? You enjoyed your lunch, I see. And I do apologize for my lack of modern facilities.” He grinned, nodding at the chamber pot. “I shall show you later where there is an outhouse in the back courtyard. It might be a bit more preferable than this.”

  I wasn’t sure I could trust him, but I wasn’t going to waste any more time trying to prove or disprove the door being locked. I had questions I wanted answered. Things I wanted to know.

  “Why do you live this way, Mr. Craven?” I asked. “Without electricity? Plumbing? A telephone?”

  “I am a creature of the past,” he told me. “I have never felt comfortable with modern technology. I prefer to think I am living in another time. The eighteenth century, perhaps, when this house was first built.”

  I said nothing, just looked around the room.

  “You find me eccentric,” he was saying. “I suppose I am. But I prefer it this way. Just myself, and my books, and my writing, and—”

  He was distracted by a sound behind him.

  “And of course, Hare,” Mr. Craven said, gesturing for the beastly servant to enter. He emerged from the shadows with a bottle of wine and one glass on a tray. He set it down and proceeded to uncork the bottle.

  “May I offer you some wine? It is a very good vintage.”

  I nodded (you know how much I love good wine, Minter) and Mr. Craven gestured to Hare, who poured me a glass. He handed it to Mr. Craven who passed it over to me.

  “Aren’t you joining me?” I asked.

  He smiled. “No. I never drink . . . wine.” He walked over to a sideboard and withdrew a small bottle and a sherry glass. “I prefer port.” He poured himself some of the thick red liquid.

  Hare had disappeared back into the shadows. That suited me fine; the guy creeped me out. He had locked me in here, I was sure of that—but whatever devious reasons he had for doing so, I wasn’t sure. Still, I wouldn’t press the issue with Mr. Craven; I’d just ask my questions and get out of there.

  We shared a toast. “To your first visit to our fair estate,” Mr. Craven said.

  I sipped the wine. “It’s—magnificent,” I told him. It really was, Minter. Like nothing I’d ever tasted.

  “It is very old,” Mr. Craven told me. “More than a hundred years. I have several still in the wine cellar.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “The Craven family have always been connouseurs.” He eyed me over his glass of port. “But you didn’t come here to ask me about wine.”

  “No.” I steeled myself. “Mr. Craven, I want to find out what happened to my father.”

  “Yes. You mentioned that in your letter.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Oh, yes. A good man. He really tried to make a go with his antique shop.”

  “What happened to him, Mr. Craven? Do you have any idea?”

  “The police could never uncover any clues to his disappearance.”

  “But what about you, Mr. Craven? I was told you knew him. I was told you knew both him and his wife, that they were often guests of yours.”

  He smiled at me. “That is true. And did your police informants suggest we were all part of a cult?”

  I hesitated. “Yes,” I said finally. “They did.”

  “And did they say what kind of cult?”

  “No.”

  “I wish I could tell you that we were—oh, I don’t know, what cults are out there? Hare Krishnas? Branch Davidians? Moonies?” He laughed. “You see, I do manage to keep up with news of the modern world to some degree. Hare brings me a newspaper from the village occasionally.” He looked at me kindly. “But I know of no cult that your father and his wife belonged to. I’m sorry, Mr. Horne. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  I sighed. “But it was around the time of all sorts of unsolved murders . . .”

  “It must be difficult,” he said. “Not knowing what happened. I suppose all sorts of ideas would start to fester in your mind. You look for any connection, any link, anything to help you understand why your father walked out on you.”

  I looked up at him. First I was angry, Minter. Angry that he would suggest that. But there was something in his old eyes, babe—something kind and compassionate and wise. I found myself unable to look away from him.

  “I lost my father at a young age, too,” Mr. Craven said. “Oh, not in a physical sense. But he was cold and domineering. He didn’t approve of the choices I made in life. I used to imagine that my real father had been a pirate, and he had just gone away and that someday he would return. I was able to create all sorts of stories about him that way in my imagination.”

  I was still unable to take my eyes off him.

  “Are you married, Mr. Horne?” he asked me suddenly. “I don’t see a ring.”

  “Uh—” I finally averted my eyes from his face, looking down at my hands. “No, I’m not married.”

  “But attached, though?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I’m attached.”

  “And not to a woman,” he said, which, as you can imagine, Minter, shocked the stuffing right out of me.

  “No,” I admitted. “To a man. How did you know?”

  Mr. Craven smiled. “I have been blessed with intuition. It rarely fails me. More wine?”

  I held out my glass for a refill. It was so good, already giving me a soft, happy glow. I was starting to warm to Mr. Craven. And my gaydar was definitely beginning to hum.

  “Would you like to see his picture?” I asked, suddenly wanting—almost needing—to take him into my confidence, to share with him some intimate parts of my life. Why I felt that way, who knows? The wine? All I know is I wanted to show him your picture, Minter.

  Mr. Craven was beaming. “Yes, certainly. I’d love to see what he looks like.”

  I withdrew my wallet and flipped open to your photo. I noticed the way the old man gazed at it, the way his thin, cracked lips slightly parted.

  “What is his name?” Mr. Craven asked, not looking up at me.

  “Minter.” I watched as he raised questioning eyes to me. I laughed. “Yes, an odd name. It was his mother’s maiden name. His parents gave it to him as a middle name, and he liked it better than his first.”

  “Which is?”

  “Irwin.”

  Mr. Craven smiled.

  “Well, he is a striking young man.” He paused, lifting his eyes toward the ceiling for a moment, pressing his fingertips together. He returned
his eyes to mine. “Might I show you something? In the upstairs corridor?”

  I was curious, so I nodded, following him as he led me out of the parlor and up the staircase, holding a candelabra out in front of him to give us light. The doorknob at the top of the stairs, locked earlier, turned easily in his hand, and we walked into a dark dusty hallway. He paused about halfway down the length, lifting the candelabra to illuminate a portrait.

  “This was my friend,” he said. “My kinsman and my friend.”

  I strained my eyes to make out the portrait in the candlelight. It was of a handsome young man, dark, with large eyes and full lips. I knew right away what had made Mr. Craven think of it.

  The portrait looked nearly identical to you, Minter!

  “It’s remarkable,” I said.

  “Isn’t it? They could be twins.”

  I looked closer at the painting. There was no doubt about it. But even more curious than the resemblance was the fact that the man was dressed in clothing of centuries past. His hair, too, was pulled back, styled in the way I’d seen in drawings of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Over two hundred years ago! Mr. Craven was old, but come on, this was ridiculous!

  I was denied the opportunity to point it out to him, however, by a sudden and horrendous clap of thunder. It sure storms often in these parts, Minter. And what storms they are! This one pounded against the house without so much as a gale of warning. Lightning crashed, illuminating the corridor. Mr. Craven headed quickly back down the stairs to find Hare, giving him commands without uttering any sound: just moving his lips, I supposed, because Hare was, after all, deaf. The rain came then, hard against the roof.

  “I shouldn’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Craven,” I said. “If that’s all you truly know about my father—”

  “But you can’t leave in a storm like this,” he said. “I insist you spend the night. Getting back through the woods in such a torrential downpour would be far too treacherous.”

  “No, really, I—”

  “Besides, I don’t know when Hare will be back to drive you. I’ve sent him on an errand. Something urgent I just remembered.”

  He was looking me in the eyes again. I’m not sure what came over me, Minter, but suddenly the idea of staying overnight in this creepy old house just seemed fun. It was like it was the best offer I’d had in ages. Funny, isn’t it? I guess we need to get out more, babe.

  But I have to admit it’s been kind of cool. The thunder and lighting kept on for some time, and Mr. Craven and I sat in front of the fire. He kept drinking his port and I nearly polished off that bottle of wine all by myself. I’ve got a pretty good buzz going, but nothing where I can’t think straight. I mean, I’ve written all this down, haven’t I?

  Mr. Craven remembered only a few more things about my father. He was a good man, hardworking, and he had a beautiful wife. Where they might have gone he couldn’t imagine.

  “It was a bad time here,” he said. “You mentioned the murders. Who could blame them for leaving?”

  “And so there’s nothing to the sheriff’s theory of some kind of cult? Nothing at all?”

  He smiled kindly over at me. “There was no cult I ever knew of.”

  So I’ve hit a dead end. I was so certain that Mr. Craven held some answer, but I guess he doesn’t. He can’t be lying. His eyes are so sincere. I like him, Minter. I trust him.

  It’s past midnight now and the storm still comes and goes. I’m finally getting sleepy. Mr. Craven led me to a room that seems freshly cleaned and aired out, as if he’d been expecting me to stay all along. There’s a chamber pot in the room and a basin with a jug of water. He lit some candles, and in their light I can see that the bed linens, although old, have been freshly laundered and are of a very high quality. I wish you were here with me in this bed, Minter. It’s very comfortable and for some reason I’m very horny. I’ll call you tomorrow when I leave here, lover. What a day it’s been. Suddenly I’m so sleepy. It’s as if

  May 6, 3:15 a.m.—Weirdness, Minter. I must have fallen asleep as I was writing. Just zonked right out. And now, at the very same time that I was awakened last night, I’ve seen something else unexplainable. There was a noise outside my window that startled me awake. The storm was over and the night was still. But I was sure I heard the sound of something crying. Something not human—

  I leapt out of bed and looked out the window. Below, entering through a back door of the house, awash in moonlight, I spied Hare. And in his arms he carried a struggling, kicking, mooing calf. A calf! They disappeared inside the house below.

  Bizarre, isn’t? I want to write this down because I have the strangest feeling that if I don’t, I won’t remember it in the morning. Now I’m so sleepy again, Minter, I’m not sure that I

  May 6, 5:45 a.m.—It’s only now that I find I finally have the strength to write again. Could that wine have given me the most peculiar hangover of my life? I saw things, Minter. Things that I—

  Okay, let me try to collect my thoughts. I must have fallen asleep once more as I wrote in this journal. It was right after I saw Hare carry the calf into the house. And I was right: I had indeed forgotten about it until I read what I had written in here.

  I fell asleep in some kind of deep stupor. But then I woke up—at least, I think I did—maybe it was a dream—oh, Minter, I don’t know! I remember leaving my room and walking down the corridor. I was looking for something. I don’t know what. A bathroom, maybe? It was like I was sleepwalking.

  I turned the corner and entered into this room. There was an old canopy bed and a small table with a vanity. A woman’s room, but covered in dust and cobwebs. I just stood there, in the middle of the room, looking around. Why had I come there? I think, if I had been sleepwalking, I awoke a little at that point, because I remember thinking I shouldn’t be walking around so late at night without Mr. Craven’s permission.

  And then I heard a sound. The creaking of a door. Off in the shadows of the room, a partition in the wall slid back, and a woman emerged. She was like nothing I’ve ever seen before, Minter. Tall, dark, beautiful—but something wasn’t right about her. She was pale, and there was something burning in her eyes, something wild, like an animal—

  A hungry animal.

  “Who are you?” I called out.

  She came toward me. Her arms were outstretched. She wore a sheer white gown, and I could see her breasts through it. I backed away from her. She touched me. She opened her mouth as if she’d kiss me—

  And then I must have blacked out. It must have been a dream, Minter. That’s the only way to explain it. An alcohol-induced dream. I remember other scattered images—Mr. Craven was in the dream, too. He was telling the woman to leave me alone, that I wasn’t hers, that I would be no good to her—

  Next thing I knew I was back here, in bed. I got up to write this all down, because again, I feel if I don’t that I won’t remember it in the morning.

  You always say we should keep a dream journal, Minter. Right beside the bed so we can write them down while they’re still fresh. You say they can teach us things, our dreams. Well, what do you make of this one?

  I’m afraid you might think I’m just being my usual hysterical self, drinking too much and getting all caught up in fancy daydreams. But I swear these dreams felt so real, so authentic. I can’t help but think about those books on witchcraft downstairs. You’re always so rational, Minter. You don’t believe any of those ghost stories we watch on the Sci-Fi Channel. No such things as alien abductions or near-death experiences or communicating with the dead. I find all that stuff fascinating. I have ever since I was a kid and I was an expert on horror lore, gleaned from watching all the Universal and Hammer fright flicks. Dracula, Frankenstein, the Mummy, the Wolfman . . . “Even a man who is pure at heart, and says his prayers by night, may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the autumn moon is bright . . .”

  What sense would you bring to these experiences I’ve had? Oh, right now, Minter, I’d give anyt
hing for your logical, skeptical mind. I’m a dreamer; I’ve always known that. Truth has mattered less to me than fantasy or imagination. But that has meant no career, no direction, and no boyfriend who’s lasted longer than a few weeks—until you, Minter.

  So I think I’m at a turning point. Whatever’s happening here is meant to teach me something. I’m here to discover something about myself. Something about my own truth. About my direction in life. Whether my experiences have been the stuff of dreams or the cold facts of reality, they are meant to show me the way. I believe that. I have come here not only to find my father, but my fate.

  May 7, 11:15 a.m.—Another note from Mr. Craven this morning, this one left propped outside my door. He apologized for not being able to join me for breakfast, but said Hare would bring me food in the parlor downstairs. And something else, too, Minter—he wrote that if I waited for him to finish his work today, he’d give me some information he’d “just remembered” about my father. Well, that was sure incentive enough to keep me hanging around this strange old place for a few more hours.

  Breakfast was surprisingly good. Scrambled eggs and bacon and freshly baked bread, brought in to me on a silver platter by a shuffling, silent Hare. Was he the cook, too? I hadn’t seen any other servant so far. The coffee was hot and strong, which went a long way toward banishing that hangover and those strange dreams. But thinking about them again, Minter, I admit they still unnerve me.

  So I decided to wander around the grounds a bit. No locked doors today. It’s a gorgeous spring day here. Birds in the trees are chattering back and forth like excited schoolchildren in a playground. The sun is warm and all the leaves have popped, bright green, fresh and new. I can hear the crash of the surf at the bottom of the cliffs. How I wish you were here to experience all this with me, sweets.