Castle of Sorrows

by Jonathan Janz

  You can’t escape the creature in the catacombs!

  A year ago composer Ben Shadeland traveled to the Sorrows, a reportedly haunted island off the California coast, to find inspiration for a horror movie music score. Instead, he found madness, murder, and an ancient evil. His family barely survived the nightmare, and Ben swore he’d never return to the island or its accursed castle.

  Now Ben’s infant daughter has been kidnapped and Ben is convinced that the malevolent creature that lives in the catacombs beneath Castle Blackwood is responsible. Ben joins three federal agents, a sultry medium, and others in an attempt to save his daughter. But what awaits them is far worse than they ever imagined. The creature—an ancient god named Gabriel—has grown more powerful than ever. It has summoned unspeakable monsters to the island—both human and supernatural. And Gabriel won’t rest until he has his revenge.

  Castle of Sorrows

  Jonathan Janz

  Acknowledgments

  Samhain Publishing has been incredibly supportive of me and my writing career. Amanda Hicks and Mackenzie Walton have provided invaluable support and friendship. Samantha Burnett has done a great job of marketing my work. And Don D’Auria has been a steady guide and a friend during the entire process.

  Others to thank include Tim, my pre-reader, for his continued honest feedback and astute suggestions. My agent, Louise Fury, has ben a tireless worker and confidante who has opened doors for me I never could’ve opened on my own. Angela Waters, who has designed all my Samhain covers, has done a wonderful job of bringing my stories to visual life.

  My wife (Monica) and my kids (Jack, Juliet, and Evana) are my support system and the best part of my life. They love me, inspire me, and help me to relax. Thank you for making me the happiest husband and father in the world.

  Dedication

  Juliet, the first six years of your life have flown by faster than I would have thought possible. And for six years you have brought me happiness, laughter, joy, and more love than I thought was possible. You’re an amazing person, and I pray that others see in you all the wonderful things I see.

  This one’s for you, my beautiful daughter. I love you dearly.

  And the gates of this chapel were shut,

  And “Thou shalt not” writ over the door;

  So I turn’d to the Garden of Love

  That so many sweet flowers bore;

  And I saw it was filled with graves,

  And tomb-stones where flowers should be;

  And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,

  And binding with briars my joys & desires.

  William Blake

  “The Garden of Love”

  Before

  It all began with the music. Quinton Early sensed an alteration in his partner during their fourth day on the island. Nothing obvious, just a strange shadow about Agent Moss’s face that had appeared when Early, stuck for a diversion from their investigation of this godforsaken place, had suggested they use the old-fashioned record player to spin some tunes.

  The first album Early had selected had been a collection of Robert Blackwood’s most famous music. The first song was “Forest of the Faun.”

  Caleb Moss’s sunny expression—the guy was always cheerful, which was one of the reasons Quinton was glad Moss had been assigned with him to this investigation—had quickly been replaced by a gloomy, almost saturnine look. As if an old memory were being dredged up in Moss’s psyche.

  “What’s wrong, buddy?” Quinton asked.

  “Turn that fucking thing off,” Moss growled.

  Quinton blinked at his partner. Moss had never spoken to him like that. No one ever spoke to Quinton like that. Quinton was six-five, for one thing, and for another he went two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, and not a bit of that weight was fat. Add to that Quinton’s jet-black skin and the cold-blooded glare he’d perfected, and it wasn’t any wonder folks treated him with respect.

  But Moss had just spoken to him as though Quinton was his servant or something. Quinton felt a dangerous heat begin to build at the base of his neck.

  “If you have a problem with the music,” Quinton said, “you can move to another room.”

  Quinton remained facing the record player, showing he was into the music. And he was. “Forest of the Faun” was a peculiar, atonal piece, but it had a way of reaching into you and grabbing hold. Besides, Quinton reasoned, Caleb Moss wasn’t a bad dude. Was in fact Quinton’s favorite of all the guys he’d worked with over his ten years with the agency. He shot Moss a furtive glance to see if the man had taken him up on his offer to leave, but there Moss still stood, bending over, his hands squeezing the back of one of the couches positioned near the sixth floor studio’s center. Moss’s face was pinched in what Quinton first mistook for concentration, but soon realized was physical pain. Was his partner suffering from a headache? A migraine maybe? If he was—and Moss certainly did look like he was in a hell of a lot of pain—that would explain the disrespectful way he’d spoken to Quinton moments ago.

  The ball of rage between Quinton’s shoulders began to loosen. He reached out, twisted down the volume on the record player. “Hey, Caleb. You don’t feel good, why don’t you go downstairs, rest for a while? There’s nothing we can do anyway with all this rain.”

  It was true too. They’d spent the first three days busting their asses trying to piece together just what the hell might’ve happened here two months ago, taking what the forensics team had given them, crosschecking that information with what little testimony they were able to squeeze out of Ben Shadeland and Claire Harden, two of the three survivors of the bloodbath that had taken place here. The third survivor, the little boy, had been completely ruled out for questioning by the higher-ups; Ben Shadeland, the boy’s father, didn’t want his son Joshua interviewed, and so far the FBI had respected those wishes. If it had been Quinton’s call, he would’ve talked to the kid anyway. As a father of two little girls, Quinton Early understood a father’s protective urge as well as anybody, but this was a special situation. This had been the deaths of ten different people, and these weren’t just any run-of-the-mill lowlifes either. Among the victims were Stephen Blackwood, a perennial member of the Forbes 500; his son and heir Chris Blackwood, who’d supposedly incurred the ire of some very nasty gangsters; Lee Stanley, who just happened to be one of the hottest directors in the world, and who, on a more personal note, had made three of Quinton’s favorite horror films; Eva Rosales, Stanley’s gorgeous assistant; Ben Shadeland’s ex-wife, Jenny, which to Quinton was damned suspicious; and Ryan Brady, a respected commercial pilot and the man who’d stolen Ben’s wife away from him, and to Quinton that part was really damned suspicious.

  Thinking of this massive toll, Quinton wrinkled his nose, glared down at the revolving turntable. The Shadelands’ story was unquestionably bullshit, and a good deal too convenient: Ben Shadeland, rising movie composer, is up shit creek without a paddle. He’s late on his deadline for the new Lee Stanley picture—a movie called House of Skin that Quinton couldn’t wait to see—and he’s losing his wife and son to a good-looking young stud who happens to fly airplanes. Everybody involved goes to the same island, where no one can witness anything should something unpleasant take place. Then Ben, his son, and the woman he just happens to now be engaged to, are the only survivors of whatever happens on that island.

  Quinton’s nostrils flared thinking about it. It was bullshit. All of it. Ben Shadeland’s amnesia story was pure fantasy. And Claire’s fantastic tale about Ryan Brady going postal and killing everyone?

  The biggest, smelliest mound of bullshit he’d ever inhaled.

 
Caleb Moss was gesturing vaguely in Quinton’s direction, his words too low to be intelligible. Quinton turned the record player down to near inaudibility and said, “What’s the matter, pal?”

  “Coming…he’s coming…he’s…”

  Now what the hell was this?

  Not bothering with the turntable any longer, Quinton hurried over to where Moss was now slumped over the couch back, his body shuddering as if in the grips of some sort of seizure.

  For the first time, Quinton began to worry.

  For one thing, there was no medical help on the island. Hell, there was no help on the island. There was only Quinton Early and Caleb Moss, and the nearest doctor was back on the mainland, eighty miles away in Petaluma. Shit, they might as well be on another planet. And forget calling anybody. Their cell phones might as well be paperweights here on the Sorrows. Their helicopter ride back to California wouldn’t arrive for another three days. If something happened to one of them between now and then, they were on their own.

  Caleb’s convulsions worsened, the jerks and spasms first growing more pronounced, and soon becoming violent.

  “Oh shit,” Quinton muttered. He feverishly scanned his memory for what little first aid he knew…

  Check the patient’s airway. He grabbed hold of Moss’s shoulders, made to flip the man over onto his back, but it was like trying to wrangle a bucking horse. Man, Quinton thought, this was even harder than corralling his two-year-old daughter when she didn’t want a diaper change.

  Moss’s body twisted, writhed.

  “Dammit, come on,” Quinton breathed.

  He finally got a good grasp on Moss’s shoulders, and, careful not to let his partner’s head crack against the floor, he eased Moss down as well as he could. Moss’s feet drummed, his hands flopping about like he was doing some trendy new dance. One knee shot up, nailed Quinton in the ribs. A flailing wrist gave him a smart whap in the nose. Quinton’s eyes began to water.

  Quinton wrestled Moss’s arms down, but his partner’s body was like an enormous pressurized fire hose made intractable by the flow of water pulsing through it.

  “Calm down, damn you!” Quinton yelled. From across the room, it seemed like the record player had been cranked up again, and now the music was anything but beautiful. Far from it, the song had become grating and unpleasant. Dissonant and perhaps even mocking. And how the hell was Quinton supposed to check Moss’s airway for obstructions when he couldn’t even get close enough to the man’s face to see his airway?

  “I said,” Quinton muttered, “calm…the hell…down.”

  Moss’s hips lifted off the floor, bucking Quinton into the air like some inexperienced cowboy, the motion taking him so by surprise that he damn near smashed down on Moss before he could catch himself. His arms free, Moss resumed his weird, chaotic dance moves and promptly whipped Quinton across the mouth, busting Quinton’s bottom lip wide open.

  Jerking his head to the side and spitting out a stream of bright red blood, Quinton crawled grimly forward until he sat astraddle Moss’s midsection. Then, hating himself for it but not knowing any other way to help his partner, he gripped the jagging arms and lifted them above Moss’s head until they were pinned against the floor. For a crazy moment Moss reminded him of one of the Village People in that “YMCA” song; lying on the ground with his arms up, Moss looked like the A.

  And speaking of music, what the hell was up with that record player? Quinton hadn’t touched it since racing over here to help Moss, but now the thing was blaring as though Quinton had cranked it up full blast. And not only was the volume twice as loud as it had been earlier, now it was repeating the same song—“Forest of the Faun.” Quinton was no vinyl aficionado—he’d been born during the era of the cassette tape and had graduated to compact discs by his eighth birthday—but he’d never heard of a record player with a repeat track mode. And even if such a player existed, this machine looked old enough to have been made when his grandma was a little girl.

  Bloody lips pressed together, Quinton wrapped one huge hand around both of Moss’s wrists to bind them together. Then, pinning the man down with his superior weight, he reached toward Moss’s mouth with his free hand.

  Moss’s teeth clicked and snapped, almost as if he were eager to eat some of Quinton’s fingers. Moss’s body writhed beneath him, the power surging beneath Quinton’s big frame terrible in its vitality. What in God’s name was wrong with Moss? The man had no irregular medical history, at least not that Quinton knew of. Was it something Moss had never told him about? Or a condition of which Moss had been previously unaware?

  Whichever the case, this was bad. Really, really bad. Maybe even dying bad if Quinton didn’t locate the source of the problem fast.

  Terrified he’d lose his fingers but knowing Moss could choke on his own tongue if he didn’t act, Quinton reached toward Moss’s snapping jaws. He’d just about gotten hold of his partner’s cleft chin when Moss’s big brown eyes snapped wide, his body arching in a long, trembling convulsion. Despite Quinton’s girth, he felt himself lifted two feet off the ground as Moss’s hips rose.

  Then both men landed with a bone-jarring thump.

  It hurt Quinton’s testicles something fierce, but despite the sickly ache issuing from his groin, he was transfixed by the sight of Moss’s face.

  Moss’s eyes were wide open. They were glazed with a look of utmost terror.

  Moss fainted.

  Quinton managed to get him down to Moss’s room on the third floor. A part of him, the part that bristled whenever his wife would waste their money on something frivolous, thought picking out suites on the lavish fifth floor was impractical and not a little extravagant. The bedrooms on the third floor, he’d argued, were just as good, and they’d be located in the most central part of the castle.

  But now he was grateful for Caleb Moss’s affinity for the nicer things because it saved Quinton the trouble of lugging the guy down more flights of steps. Quinton was in great shape—he bench pressed more than anyone he knew in the Bureau. But controlled weight was one thing; dead lifting an over-two-hundred-pound man was another matter entirely. And by the time he deposited Moss on the immense four-poster bed, Quinton was sweating and huffing like a chronic asthmatic.

  Quinton stood erect, mopped sweat off his brow and looked around to see if he could find anything to make Moss more comfortable. The guy seemed to be breathing evenly now, the convulsion definitely having run its course. Quinton had received solid marks in every level of schooling he’d been through, but now he wished he’d paid more attention in high school health. He was pretty sure they’d covered this sort of thing. It seemed to him that Moss might be an epileptic. Couldn’t that occur due to some sort of accident or fall? Yeah, he thought. It could be a brain lesion, and that could bring about a seizure. There were petit mal and grand mal seizures, and this one was without a doubt a grand fucking mal. In fact, if there existed an even greater classification—great grand mal or maybe grand slam mal—he was pretty sure Moss had achieved it.

  Quinton wondered what else he could do. There was an untouched salad sitting on the nightstand. A fork lay next to the big bowl, which contained not only lettuce and cherry tomatoes, but sliced cucumbers, mandarin oranges, walnuts, spinach—all kinds of shit. He’d made fun of Moss for hauling all that fresh produce to the island, but now Moss’s salad looked damned tasty. Maybe he’d eat it while he waited, tell Moss it was his fault for losing consciousness, and it was Quinton’s payment for lugging his sorry ass down all those stairs.

  Smiling, Quinton’s gaze fastened on the bathroom door. Maybe he should get a cool washcloth, fold it a couple times and lay it across Moss’s forehead, the way Quinton’s own mother used to do when he was younger and feeling puny.

  Yeah, Quinton thought, that would make Moss feel…

  He stopped, half in, half out of the bathroom.

  Music echoed through the walls.<
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  No, Quinton thought, the hair on his neck suddenly standing up straight. The music wasn’t echoing through the walls. It was bleeding through the walls. Why he should imagine it that way, he had no idea, but it was the only word that seemed to fit. The style was similar to “Forest of the Faun,” but this tune was undeniably darker and tinged with a deeply sinister undercurrent. Augmenting this impression was the bizarre liquid quality of the notes, the manner in which the strings and woodwinds seemed to ooze out of the old stone surrounding him.

  Quinton hurried back into the bedroom, his heart a thudding mallet.

  The music was growing louder, the percussion deepening, so loud now it battered his eardrums. Quinton threw a helpless glance down at Moss, who seemed damnably serene. How can he not hear that? Quinton wondered. The music wasn’t loud, it wasn’t earsplitting, it was absolutely thunderous, the kind of sound that makes you jump in fright. Holy shit, he thought, if he didn’t get the hell out of this castle soon, his eardrums would burst.

  He took a tortured step toward the door, then paused and stared back at Moss. Caleb didn’t seem bothered by the music, but what the hell did he know? He was recovering from whatever the hell had happened to him earlier. Or maybe he’d just hated “Forest of the Faun” that much and was now relaxing pleasantly because he liked this track more.

  The music swelled, that peculiar underwater quality only increasing with the volume.

  Hands clamped over his ears, Quinton decided he’d been humanitarian enough for one day. He’d lugged his damned partner down the stairs already; did he have to carry him down four more flights with that mind-destroying symphony hammering his ears?

  Screw it, he thought and plunged through the doorway. A powerful wave of guilt swept over him as he moved farther and farther away from Moss’s door, but the decision was made and he wasn’t about to go back now.

  He started down the stairs, his long, muscular legs moving with the speed and grace that had made him a football star at the University of Florida. Those were the days, he thought, rushing even faster now. It had sure beaten life in the FBI. In fact, he was tired of being gone from his wife and his kids so much, even if his wife did hold out on him way too often. Maybe if he got a job with regular hours and less travel, she’d be less inclined to have headaches and suffer through menstrual periods that went on for three weeks. He made it around another flight of spiral stairs, thinking if his wife really bled as much as she claimed, the woman needed to be checked for hemophilia.