by Ron Ripley
When Emmanuel spoke again, it was without mirth.
“You would destroy my home?” the dead man asked, his voice harsh.
“We would,” Frank answered.
Emmanuel let out a sharp laugh. “I always admired honesty. It was far more potent than any lie I could ever tell. The truth was eminently more powerful. A brutal tool, if you knew how to wield it. I can say, in all honesty, then, that I appreciate yours. I hope you shall, in turn, appreciate mine when I tell you that I plan on driving each of you mad. Are you ready?”
Before Shane could respond, Marie spoke for them all.
“Do your worst,” she said, and brought her shotgun up to her shoulder.
And the building shuddered in response, knocking the three of them to the hallway’s floor.
Chapter 46: And Each is Alone
Frank pushed himself up onto his hands and knees as he said, “Shane.”
When Shane didn't respond, Frank spoke Marie's name, and when she too didn't answer, Frank got to his feet. He reached out in the darkness, and his hand struck a wall where there shouldn't have been one. Frank turned to the right, arm still outstretched, and it remained in contact. He continued to pivot, stopping only when his hand came into contact with a door.
With his right-hand stationary, Frank reached out with his left and found another wall, closer than the first. Cautiously he extended his left hand above his head and found a wooden bar.
I’m in a closet, he thought.
Part of him wanted to take his backpack off and get out a match to confirm his suspicion. All that would do, he knew, was waste a match. And he didn’t know if he would need them all.
Frank trailed his right hand down the door, found the cold metal of a doorknob and turned it. First to the left, then to the right. The catch resisted and didn’t open until he twisted the knob hard and put his shoulder against the door.
With an audible groan, the door popped open, swinging out and smacking against a wall. Light filtered in around the edges of boards haphazardly nailed to a window.
Frank remained where he was, taking in the entire room before moving into it.
There was an old bed extending from the right wall. Battered and dust covered furniture occupied the free space.
After he stepped out of the closet, his attention was drawn to an antique vanity. Beneath a fine coating of gray dust, were the various accouterments of a lady. Art Deco jewelry, makeup, silver combs and brushes.
Frank was both fascinated and repelled by them. A strong, demanding part of him was screaming for him to reach out and pick them up. At least one of them.
He shook his head and took a step back.
A sigh caught his attention, and he turned around. His eyes darted about the room, seeking the source of the sound.
Yet he saw nothing.
He took a step away, and it was then that his gaze fell on the bed. Beneath the old blankets, he saw a form. The barest hint of a person.
A body, hidden and tucked away from the light of the day.
Frank was about to turn away when the sigh sounded again.
It came from the body.
Without knowing why, Frank took a step towards the bed.
What if there’s someone under there? he asked himself. What if they’re trapped here and need help?
Frank reached the bed, grasped the edge of the top blanket, and pulled it back. Dust rose up in a huge cloud, momentarily obscuring his view.
He covered his mouth and nose with his free hand, waiting for the dust to settle enough for him to see.
When it did, he found there was still another blanket to be turned up. This one was a deep red, unaffected by the passing of time. Once again Frank stretched out his hand, took hold of the blanket, and pulled it back.
A sheet, silver and shining like the moon might in a summer sky, greeted his eyes.
The form of a woman was revealed, the chest rising and falling in a slow, easy rhythm.
“Hello?” Frank whispered.
The sleeper didn’t respond.
“Hello?” he repeated, a little louder.
Beneath the sheet, the woman moved slightly, but then returned to the same position.
Frank didn’t bother asking a third time. Instead, he eased the sheet back, away from the face, and took a surprised step backward.
The woman was dead.
And not recently dead.
She had been dead for decades.
Her cheeks were sunken in, as were her eyelids. The lips were smeared with a dark red lipstick that matched the second blanket. Blonde hair, the color of straw, lay sprawled across a silk pillowcase.
The thin straps of a nightgown rested against the stark lines of her bony shoulders. Her chest, still covered by the sheet, continued to rise and fall. The scent of cinnamon greeted his nose, and Frank wondered what he had revealed.
As if in answer to his question, the woman’s head turned, her dead and closed eyes fixed upon him.
The lips parted, and a foul air was expelled as she said, "Hello."
Fear, raw and unforgiving, crashed over Frank and he fought against a primal urge to run.
Instead, he planted his feet, ignored the terror, and managed a weak, “Hello.”
The dead woman’s mouth formed a smile, nothing more than a slash in skin that cracked and crumbled with the movement.
“How did you get into my room?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Frank answered.
“Did you not come through the door?” she questioned.
“The closet,” Frank replied. “I came in through the closet.”
The woman let out a small giggle.
“Oh,” she said, “then it was Emmanuel who sent you. My, what a pleasant host he is. Always so thoughtful. So considerate. He always sends me someone, well, tasty. Mr. Borgin sent me a woman before. A delightful girl. She went quite mad, I am afraid. I was disappointed that she didn’t last longer. Will you?”
“Will I what?” Frank asked.
“Last longer,” the dead woman said. She rose into a sitting position, the sheet falling down to her wasted lap. Stick thin arms and near skeletal hands appeared, the fingers toying with the fabric.
“Tell me,” she whispered, “that you’ll last longer. So much longer than the last one.”
Frank clenched his hands into fists, felt the cold, hard comfort of the iron rings he wore and nodded.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I’ll last longer.”
Frank stepped towards the dead woman and swung. His right fist crashed into her skull, which collapsed beneath his hand and plunged the room into darkness.
Chapter 47: Drinks in the Parlor
“How was your ride up this evening?”
Marie blinked and looked around, confused. Bright light dazzled her, making it difficult to see.
“Hello, Marie,” the unknown man repeated. “I say, are you quite all right?”
“Um, yes,” she lied. “I’m fine. Everything’s okay.”
“I don’t think it is,” the man said. A hand, firm and confident, took her by the arm and helped her to sit down.
“Here,” he said, “take a sip of this.”
A cold glass was pressed into her hands, and Marie accepted it. The stranger guided it to her lips, and she obediently took a drink. She recoiled, the liquor bringing tears to her eyes and a cough to her lips.
“Let me turn a light out,” the man said.
A moment later, a click sounded, and the light that had made it impossible for her to see was gone.
Marie blinked, pink and red dots flickering through her vision.
The sound of something being dragged across the floor caused her to wince, and the stranger chuckled.
“You know,” the stranger said, “I think your ride up was a bit more distracting than you’re letting on.”
Marie shook her head and was finally able to see the man who was speaking.
He was handsome and familiar. The man, who looked to
be in his early thirties, had a square jaw and fine cheekbones. Blue eyes were marked by laugh lines and his dark black hair, short on the sides and a bit longer on the top, was combed to one side.
“Drink up, Marie, drink up,” he said, holding up his own glass.
Marie nodded and took a drink, the second sip of the strong liquor going down easier than the first. She relaxed and looked around.
Beautiful paintings hung on wood paneled walls while stone busts stood among leather bound books. Heavy, dark draperies concealed a pair of windows, and a large, well-stocked liquor cabinet dominated the entire left wall.
“Our friend Francis has gone to see Genevieve,” the man said, finishing his own drink and setting the glass down on a marble table to his left. “I suspect she may keep him a bit. She’s always been sort of fond of dashing young men.”
Marie nodded, took another, longer drink and settled down into the comfort of the chair.
“Now,” the man said. “Tell me, did you have a long ride up?”
“No,” she said.
“I’m surprised,” he said. “Getting out of Boston can be so difficult.”
“We didn’t come out of Boston,” Marie corrected, her words slurred. “Nashua. In New Hampshire.”
“Ah,” the man said, nodding knowingly. “No wonder you had a rough ride. Half of the roads aren’t fit for a horse let alone a Ford. And the recent thaw hasn’t helped the conditions at all. You know, the three of you could have left a message for me at the post office. They would have sent a runner to inform me if you had to cancel.”
Marie was horrified at the thought. “No. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Well,” he said, smiling. “I appreciate you keeping your engagement. I do so enjoy the company.”
Marie watched as he stood up, went to the bar, and took down a bottle of what looked like cognac. He carried it over, winked at her as he uncorked it, and topped off her glass. The aroma was potent and appealing.
She waited until he had returned to his chair before she took another drink.
“Tell me, Marie,” he said. “Do you like my home so far?”
She looked at the elegance of the parlor, vaguely recalled a stone building that resembled a castle, and nodded.
“So do I," he said with a sigh. "It cost me a terrible amount of money to build. But it was worth it. It was terrible that I had to marry for the money, she was a wretched woman, mind you. However, in the end, it was worth it. Decidedly so."
Marie nodded her agreement.
“You’re a very amicable woman, Marie,” he said. “I hope your friends are as pleasant as you are.”
“They are,” Marie assured him. “Well, Frank is. Shane can be testy. A little difficult.”
“You know,” the man said, leaning forward, “I suspected as much. He looks like, how do they say, like a hard case? I must say that while he would probably be a good man in a fight, that’s not really what we look for here.”
“He can fight,” Marie agreed. “He likes to fight.”
“Of course he does,” her host said, sitting back once more. “You only have to catch the glint in his eye to realize that.”
“Frank’s a nice man,” Marie continued. “Used to be a monk.”
“Really?” the man asked, a conspiratorial grin on his face. “You don’t say.”
Marie nodded. “And a soldier.”
“My,” the man said in a soft voice, “he’s duality in the flesh. Peace and violence combined in one body. I do hope Genevieve is careful with him.”
“He’s good,” Marie said. She took another sip of the cognac.
“Do you like that?” the man asked, grinning.
Marie nodded.
“It’s a Croizet,” the man said. “Exceptional. Monsieur Croizet began producing it shortly after Napoleon seized power.”
“It’s good,” she said.
“Yes,” the man said, chuckling. “It certainly is.”
A tremendous bang sounded, and the door in the wall behind her host shuddered in its frame.
Marie, drunk as she was, felt certain the look of surprise on the man’s face mimicked her own.
The door was slammed into again, and then it burst open.
A tall, naked man ran in. He was old and lean, his body muscular and the skin scarred and pockmarked. In his right hand, he carried a small, black object that looked like a coffin-head nail.
“Hello, Emmanuel,” the naked man said, and he sprinted at her host.
Emmanuel sprang to his feet, yet even as he did, the old man reached her host and lashed out with the nail. It struck Emmanuel’s temple, and the man vanished.
And so too did the façade of the parlor.
Marie was in a poorly lit room, the only semblance it had to the well-appointed parlor was the liquor cabinet and the naked man.
Horrified, Marie looked down into the glass she held and saw an ancient, fetid liquid. Small insects squirmed at the surface of the liquor.
Marie hurled the glass across the room, leaned over the frayed arm of the decrepit chair she was in, and vomited onto the threadbare carpet.
Chapter 48: In the Basement
Shane stood in darkness so complete it was as if the sun had never existed.
Around him, he heard scratching, a steady, repetitive noise. A dank, mildew smell filled his nostrils, and he could almost taste rot on the back of his tongue.
His heart thumped, and his blood picked up its pace within his veins.
He adjusted the rings on his fingers, shrugged his shoulders beneath the straps of his pack and closed his eyes.
An unknown creature moved towards him, the sound of scratching joined by that of dragging.
Shane slipped his right hand into his back pocket and withdrew his knuckle-dusters. They clicked against his iron rings, and he resisted the urge to take off the pack and retrieve his shotgun. Firing it would be counterproductive, he knew. The noise would deafen him, and the blast itself would do little if any good.
A soft voice spoke to him from the darkness.
“Hello?”
It was a woman. There was fear and panic in her voice.
“Hello,” Shane replied.
“Oh my God!” she sobbed. “I’ve been down here for days!”
A chill washed over him, and Shane knew she had been down there for longer than a few days.
“Why don’t you do me a favor and stay where you are?” Shane asked. He put no comfort in his words and the woman sensed it.
“Why?” she asked in a low, pitiful tone.
“It’ll work out for the best,” Shane said.
“I need help,” she pouted, and he heard her move towards him.
Shane grinned, and the woman stopped.
“Why are you smiling?” she demanded.
“How can you see me?” he asked in return.
She hesitated, then laughed.
“Oh, I see you very well,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Not anything you need to worry about,” he responded.
“I want your name,” she spat, all humor gone from her voice. “Give it to me.”
“No,” he answered.
When she spoke again, it was from only a short distance away, her voice near the floor.
“Tell me your name!” she hissed.
Within Shane, he felt a tug, a desire to step forward and to crush the dead woman.
But he remembered Mr. Johnson’s letter.
Shane remembered the man’s warning of doing the opposite of what his instinct told him.
With a chuckle, Shane turned around and walked away.
The dead woman let out a stream of profanity, most of which he couldn’t understand. She screamed for him to turn around, to return and to name himself.
Shane ignored all of it, just as he ignored his own primal urge to destroy her.
Her voice fell away as he continued on. The echo of his footsteps came closer and closer, and he realized that the walls had begun to close in.
He found himself in a narrow passage, his shoulders brushing against the stone on either side of him. Occasionally his feet tripped over an unseen object, and he would stumble.
But he never fell.
The temperature continued to drop until his teeth chattered as he walked. In spite of the chill in the air, Shane could still smell the foul, rank odor of mildew. Then the pungent scent of vinegar was detected a moment before the walls fell away and Shane came to a stop.
He listened and heard murmurs.
“Why are you here?” a man asked. “Have you come to fetch a bottle?”
“No,” Shane answered. “I’m passing through.”
“You’ve come the wrong way then,” a woman said. “You’re in the wine cellar.”
“Still,” Shane said, “I’m passing through.”
There was silence for a short time, and then the woman said, “Won’t you ask us for directions?”
“No,” Shane said.
“Do you know where you’re going?” the man asked.
“No,” Shane said.
“You can’t see anything,” the man added.
“Nothing at all,” Shane confirmed.
Suddenly the woman’s voice was near his right ear.
“And you’re not afraid,” she murmured. “Robert, he’s not afraid.”
"I can see that, Marta," Robert said, sighing.
“You’re not blind, are you?” Marta asked.
“No,” Shane answered. “Leastways, not yet.”
“Tell me,” Robert said. “Why are you here?”
“I’m going to burn this place to the ground,” Shane stated.
The man and woman laughed, but the laughter trailed off quickly. When the woman spoke again, it was from a little further away.
“You’re serious,” she said.
“Yes,” Shane agreed.
“Why?” Robert asked. “Why are you going to do that?”
“Because it needs to be done,” Shane answered.
“That, it does,” Robert said in a low voice.
“Someone’s taught you the trick,” Marta said. “About not listening.”
