by Ron Ripley
“Yes,” Shane said.
“Good,” Marta said. “Very good. We never learned. Robert and I came here to visit Emmanuel. We had become good friends when he would summer in Newport. He invited us up to see the Vermont foliage.”
“We never left,” Robert said, his voice thick with bitterness. “His servants brought us down to the wine cellar, and they left us here. Emmanuel said he enjoyed our company so much that he wanted to see if we would age as well as his fine wines.”
“We did not,” Marta added.
In the distance, Shane heard a scraping sound. The first ghost he had encountered was on the move.
“That’s Abigail,” Marta said with disgust. “A new arrival. Far too gauche. She has an interest in you?”
“So it would seem,” Shane said. He resisted the desire to go into the passage after her.
“Follow your path,” Robert said, “and burn the rotten heart out of the Keep.”
“Not everyone will want you to,” Marta said.
“I know,” Shane said. He started forward again, focused on the opposite of what his heart told him.
“We will, however, pass the word along to those who want Emmanuel to suffer,” Robert added. “There are more than a few of us here.”
Shane nodded his thanks.
“Will it hurt him?” Marta called after him.
Shane hesitated and said over his shoulder, “I don’t know.”
“I hope it does,” Marta said, her voice filling with hatred and rage. “I hope he feels every last moment of it.”
Shane nodded and continued on his way.
I hope he will too, Shane thought.
Ahead of him, he saw a faint light, and in a moment he came to a fork in the passage. To the left, he could see a hint of a door. The passage to the right was black.
Shane plunged on into darkness.
Chapter 49: An Ally
“Hey,” the naked man snapped. “Pull yourself together.”
His voice was hard and commanding, in spite of the fact that he stood in front of Marie without a shred of clothing on.
Marie nodded, tried to spit the lingering aftertaste of vomit out of her mouth and got to her feet. She wavered for a heartbeat, but she got herself under control and looked about the room.
It was a far cry from the beautiful parlor she had imagined herself in a few minutes earlier.
“We need to get out of here,” the man said. “Before Emmanuel comes back. He’s not going to be happy with me.”
“Do you want my sweatshirt?” Marie asked, starting to remove her backpack.
“Why?” the man inquired. “Is it bothering you that much?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I wasn’t sure if you were cold or not.”
“Can’t worry about the cold right now,” he replied. “Name’s David, by the way.”
“Marie,” she responded. “Thank you.”
He gave a curt nod. “Thank me after we get out. What do you have in that bag of yours?”
She gave him a quick run-down of the pack's inventory, and he gave a small, tight smile of appreciation.
“Mind if I have something a little bigger than my nail?” he asked, holding the small piece of iron up.
It was then Marie saw the cuts and scrapes on the old man’s flesh. Some of it was fresh, others were scabbed over. He was dirty and looked exhausted.
“How long have you been here?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Probably between four and five days.”
Marie examined him and saw none of the tell-tale signs of dehydration or starvation.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Have you eaten?” she said.
David nodded. He held up a hand though and said, “Don’t ask that. Now, about that extra bit of protection?”
Marie took off her pack, dug through it and removed a length of iron chain. When Shane had given it to her, he had muttered something about the Slater Mill and had left it at that.
When she passed it over, David dropped the nail to the floor, wrapped part of the chain around his hand and nodded in approval.
“Good,” the man said. “Let’s get out of here. Do you know where we are?”
She shook her head. “No, but I didn’t come alone. There were two others with me. Emmanuel said something about Frank being with a woman named Genevieve?”
David shuddered, and in the thin light, Marie saw goose-bumps erupt across his flesh.
"If he's lucky, she killed him quickly," David said, glancing at the ceiling. Then he looked back at Marie and asked, "Were your friends armed like you?"
“Yes,” she answered.
“Maybe he made it out then,” David muttered to himself. He nodded. “Yes. He could have. And what about your other friend? Did Emmanuel say anything about that one?”
“I don’t know about Shane,” Marie replied. “He didn’t say where he was.”
The house shuddered, and Marie reached out and steadied herself with the help of the chair.
A high, keening wail went ripping through the air, and Marie felt a cold wind as it went racing by her face.
David let out a grim chuckle. “Evidently your friend Shane was in the basement.”
“How do you know?” Marie asked.
“That was Abigail who went by,” he answered.
“How can you tell?” Marie asked, shaking her head.
“I just can. Come on. Genevieve’s on the fourth floor,” David said, adding, “if Emmanuel hasn’t shifted the house again.”
Without waiting to see if she would follow, David turned and left the room. Marie shook her head and questioned her sanity as she followed a naked man out of the parlor.
David led her into a murky hall, a narrow affair with gray wallpaper hanging in curls to reveal horsehair plaster. A few picture frames, each askew, hung on thin wire from the walls.
“Straight to the end,” David said over his shoulder. “If everything is right we should find a stairwell.”
“And if it’s not?” Marie asked.
"Then it's not, and we don't," David said.
Marie rolled her eyes. The man sounded exactly like Shane, and another Shane was not what she wanted.
She passed a large, gilt frame, most the gold stripped from it by time. Within the frame itself was an old mirror, the silver backing spotted and faded. When she looked into it, she saw a careworn version of herself, and then a black hand snapped out of the mirror and grabbed her by her hair.
Before she could pull herself free, the hand yanked her forward, smashing her forehead into the wall.
Marie felt her legs give out, her hair was released, and she slid to the floor, unconsciousness rolling over her.
Chapter 50: Another Good Deed
David didn't know why he did it, but when he heard Marie's head smash into the wall, he turned and went back for her.
While she slid down to the floor, the thing in the mirror climbed out.
He had seen it once before, and only from a distance. A teenage boy had gotten into the house, and David and Harlan had heard the boy's screams. They had been there for a routine check on the property, to clean up whatever debris the dead had turned the living into. David and Harlan had the unfortunate experience of seeing what some of Emmanuel’s darker friends had been capable of.
David’s dreams had been plagued by the experience for years.
The black form which stood above Marie was sexless, its face without features.
David remembered the way it had stripped the flesh off of the boy's face, and he lashed out with the chain.
The iron hummed through the air, ripped through the dark creature and smashed into the wall. Horsehair plaster exploded, dust and particles raining down on the unconscious woman as the creature vanished with a shriek that left David's head pounding.
He staggered back, the sound striking him like a blow. The chain bounced off his leg, cold and painful as a
bit of skin was pinched between a pair of links. David forced himself forward, and he dropped down into a squat beside Marie.
Blood dripped from numerous small cuts on her forehead, and when he lifted up her eyelids, only the whites were revealed. David stayed beside her for a moment and considered what he should do. Every ounce of him screamed for him to strip her of her equipment, take at least a few items of her clothing, and get out.
David didn’t though. It felt wrong on a deep, primal level and in a way he had never heeded before. He took a deep breath and picked Marie up, slinging her into a fireman’s carry. David staggered a little, more from bearing her weight with his bare feet than anything else. With his free hand he steadied her, and with the chain dragging on the floor in the other hand, David made his way towards the door he hoped would be there.
Chapter 51: Through Borgin’s Keep
Frank hated to fight the dead.
In his mouth, he could taste the fetid dust of Genevieve and for a moment, he wondered how much of her he had inhaled.
He remembered the lighter in his back pocket, reached for it, took it out, and flicked it into life. The small flame produced enough light to show him that Genevieve’s remains were scattered on the bed, beneath the sheet. He shrugged his pack off, knelt down and rummaged through it, pulling out the salt and lighter fluid.
“That wasn’t nice,” Genevieve said with a pout.
Frank stiffened as he snapped the lighter shut, extinguishing the flame. Her voice came from across the room.
“Did you think striking me with iron would cast me from the house?” she asked.
Frank stood up, holding onto the lighter fluid and the salt.
“No,” he answered, opening the salt container and spreading some of it out over her remains.
“What’s that for?” Genevieve asked with a laugh. “Are you planning on eating me? While you may have come to the right home for that, I’m not exactly an appealing meal anymore.”
“Sure you are,” he replied. “You just have to be basted.”
With a flick of his hand he opened the lighter fluid and sprayed the liquid onto her remains.
“And will you cook me?” she asked, her voice filled with humor. “Even then I won’t make much of a meal.”
“No,” he agreed, “you won’t.”
He flicked the lighter, watched the flame burst into life, and then tossed it onto the bed.
The result was instantaneous.
A deep blue fire engulfed the bed and illuminated the room. Across from him, on the other side of the burning bed stood Genevieve. In life, she had been a stunning woman, her features pale and powerful, her cheekbones standing out.
Yet even as he admired her, Frank watched as the flames devoured her form.
He took a step back, the fire on the bed growing hotter. A quick glance around the room showed an old blanket crumpled on the floor and he snatched it up. The old fabric was harsh and sharp in his hands, but he clenched it in his fists as he waited.
With a final scream Genevieve vanished and Frank leaped forward. He threw the blanket onto the burning bed. While smoke caused his eyes to water and his throat to burn, he extinguished the flames, smothering them with the blanket.
When he was finished, Frank staggered back from the bed, picking up his gear before turning his attention to the door.
It was locked.
His booted foot served as an effective lock pick as he kicked the door out of its frame. Rotten wood sprayed out into a bright, circular room where decrepit chairs were positioned against the walls. Two other closed doors offered a passage out, or perhaps into another room.
Or nowhere, he thought.
Frank took off his backpack, opened it and removed his shotgun. He double-checked that it was loaded, flicked off the safety, and then stuffed his pockets with shells before he put the backpack on again. A glance up showed the room’s illumination came from a glass ceiling. Steel lines formed a spider’s web with panes of dirty glass in each.
Frank brought the shotgun up and fired both rounds of rock salt into the ceiling.
Whether it was due to the age of the glass, or the force of the blasts, Frank didn’t know, but several of the panes shattered. Fresh air raced into the room and helped him to focus.
As he took deep breaths, Frank reloaded the weapon and looked at the two doors.
He discovered an urge to try them both, and he knew that neither was what he wanted.
Yet they were the only way out of the circular room, except for the door he had entered from.
Frank half turned and looked at the room he had exited and saw that it wasn’t the same.
Instead of the boudoir he had left, Frank found a set of stairs.
That’s not right, he thought, a prickling sensation racing along his spine. He knew the room shouldn’t have changed. And as his instinct had urged him to try the doors, so too did it scream that he should ignore the newly revealed stairs.
“Oh, Hell,” he murmured, and he turned and entered the small stairwell.
The air smelled of cedar wood as if he had stepped into a closet, and he shivered, remembering the closet he had recently left. In front of him, the stairs descended into darkness, the lack of light further down raising the hackles on his neck.
Clutching his shotgun, Frank fought his fear and walked down the stairs. Old boards creaked beneath his feet, and a faint noise reached his ears. The farther he traveled, the darker the stairwell grew, and the louder the strange sound became.
Soon, Frank realized the noise was a voice, and that person was speaking. He hesitated, tried to decipher the words and found he couldn’t. Frank moved down a few more steps and discovered the unseen speaker was engaged in a discussion in a foreign language, although Frank didn’t understand it.
He stepped down and the stair gave way beneath his feet. With a curse, he stumbled and crashed into a wall. His face slammed into something hard, and he felt a hot rush down his left cheek. He threw out an arm to catch himself but it twisted, and he felt his forearm break. Frank ground his teeth together to keep back a shout of pain and curled in to brace himself for the rest of the fall.
He bounced from stair to stair, cradling his broken arm against his chest and trying to protect it. After a few seconds, he slammed into another wall and came to a stop. His broken bone throbbed relentlessly, and his head roared with pain. Frank's right hand still held onto the shotgun, and while he may have lost a few shells, he could feel the remainder in his pockets.
Get up, he commanded. Get up and get moving.
Frank pushed himself up, and a cold, driving force struck him in the stomach. He spun, crashed into the wall with his broken arm first, and fought to maintain his balance.
Using the wall as a support, Frank managed to stop himself from another fall, but whatever had hit him, did so again.
This time the blow was aimed at his right arm and landed on his forearm. The muscle went numb, his fingers relaxed, and the shotgun clattered onto the floor. Before he could bend down and try to find it, he heard it kicked away.
An unseen fist drove into the side of Frank’s head and sent him to the floor with a thud.
Stretched out prone in the darkness, Frank struggled and failed to get to his feet.
“Now,” a man said, “let’s see how strong you are without your weapon, shall we?”
Before Frank could answer, a cold hand wrapped around his broken forearm and squeezed.
The pain was enough to thrust him into madness.
Chapter 52: Not Stopping
Shane walked into a dining room. It was almost fifty feet in length, and at the far end was a tall white door. A long table, smeared with dust, occupied the center of the room. The walls on the left and right were lined with built-in china cabinets and behind the glass were hundreds of pieces of dinnerware.
By the time Shane had taken a dozen steps into the room, he noticed there were no chairs around the table. Part of him wanted to know why, and he hesitat
ed a split second to think about it.
When he did, the door behind him slammed closed.
Centered in the tin ceiling above him was a huge chandelier. Cut crystals hung from the arms and they rattled as the dishes in the cabinets did the same.
On the far wall, a mirror shimmied on its hook and then fell to the floor. It bounced, spun, and landed on its back, the glass facing up.
The white door opened, and Emmanuel Borgin entered.
Shane watched as the dead man went to the head of the table and sat down as if in a chair. Emmanuel gestured, and the dark light fixtures on the walls burst into life, causing Shane to blink and resist taking a step back.
Emmanuel grinned at Shane, a great, toothy gesture which revealed the man’s teeth. Each was a disturbing yellow, and each had been filed down to a fine point.
“Would you care to join me?” Emmanuel asked.
Shane shook his head.
Emmanuel shrugged and mimed the act of removing a napkin from the table and placing it on his lap.
"I have been assured by my cook," Emmanuel continued, "that this evening's meal will be exceptional. We have a leg of lamb that has been allowed to season, and she informs me that it couldn't be a finer piece. Aged just right, you know."
Shane stepped up to the table, took his backpack off and set it down on dusty wood. He opened the pack, made certain the shotgun’s handle was accessible and looked at Emmanuel.
“Where are your bones?” he asked.
Emmanuel was caught off guard by the question and let out a delighted laugh.
“Oh, you’re a forward one,” the dead man said, nodding with pleasure. “Oh, you are, you are. I must admit, I was surprised when you made it up and out of the wine cellar. When you slipped away from Abigail, it wasn't unsuspected. She's rather new you see, to this whole death business. David did her in, which I suppose was a kindness in the end. To the both of them. She didn't need to squirm around anymore and, well, David did need to eat after all."
When Shane didn’t react to the hint at cannibalism, Emmanuel clapped his hands and laughed.
