by John Manning
And there-there was the candle!
She grabbed it as the darkness settled in again. She fumbled for the matches, her hands trembling so much she worried she wouldn’t be able to light one. But she managed and lit the wick of the candle. A small, flickering circle of light enveloped her. She sat back on the couch, her heart thudding in her ears.
The memory of that hand-
It was real, she told herself. It moved.
No, she argued with herself. It was just the candle I was feeling. It was just my imagination again.
She lifted the candle and stood. She was far too anxious to stay seated. Whatever might come, she would face it on her feet. But as she moved into the center of the room, she realized she was stepping in something sticky.
Was rainwater dripping in from the walls?
She lowered the candle.
And she could see plainly that it wasn’t water.
It was blood.
Jeanette screamed.
She spun around, just as another bolt of lightning illuminated the room. And there, on the far wall of the living room, just as she’d imagined her, was Beatrice, impaled by that pitchfork, her blood dripping all over the floor.
Jeanette screamed again.
In her terror and panic, she dropped the candle. She was returned to utter darkness.
This can’t be happening! This can’t be real! I am a student of philosophy at Yale University! I am a liberated woman! I am a child of the twentieth century! This cannot be real!
But her shoes still made sticky, squishy noises in the blood on the floor.
From somewhere in the room came the sound of crying.
A child.
A baby.
Jeanette was paralyzed with fear. Her mind could no longer process what was happening. She simply stood there, trembling, terrified-
Until the door blew open-and she saw the man with the pitchfork again in the doorway.
Jeanette turned and ran. The room was small, but suddenly it seemed cavernous. Such a small space-and yet she ran and ran, for many minutes it seemed, down an endless corridor that stretched farther and farther off into the distance. How could this be happening? How could she keep running for so long? What had happened to this room?
Behind her, the man’s footsteps echoed as he pursued her. Thunder clapped overhead. Jeanette just kept on running, down that impossibly long corridor.
Finally she reached what seemed to be the end. There, in front of her, illuminated by a burst of lightning, sat a baby, its round button eyes staring in terror up at Jeanette. The baby began to cry. She tried to speak, but she found herself slipping in the blood on the floor. As she tumbled down face-first, she saw a pair of men’s boots hurrying toward her.
She screamed.
Now there was nothing. No sound. No man. No baby.
Her heart thudding in her ears, she began to crawl across the floor. She looked up and saw the window. If she could only get to the window. If she could only pull herself up there somehow and open the window and squeeze herself outside into the rain. She might be safe then.
Or would the man still follow her, across the grounds, over the cliffs?
Something was moving in the dark. In a matter of moments, Jeanette was sure, the man would stand over her with his pitchfork as she lay there helpless on the floor.
The window.
It was her only chance.
No guarantee.
But a chance.
She forced her eyes to look up at the window.
She got to her knees, and then to her feet.
The window. She had to make it to the window.
FORTY YEARS LATER
Chapter One
Carolyn Cartwright had met the strange old man with the crooked back only once before, when he’d made his way slowly into her office in New York, one arm swinging at his side, his little tongue darting in and out of his mouth, constantly licking his lips. She had watched him approach her desk with a mixture of fear and fascination. This was the man Sid had told her would change her life.
Now, stepping out of the cab, Carolyn glanced up at the strange old man’s house. It was magnificent, just as he had promised. A forty-room stone mansion high on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Carolyn could hear the waves crashing below.
“You sure you don’t want me to wait?” the cabbie asked her again.
Carolyn leveled her eyes at him. It was all too much like those creaky old horror movies she used to watch as a kid: the dark old house, the locals warning the newcomer to stay away. The cabbie hadn’t exactly warned her to turn back, but he had muttered a few times under his breath about Howard Young being crazy. “Richest man in Maine they say, ayuh,” the cabbie told her in his heavy upstate accent. “And all his many far-flung relatives are just waiting for him to kick so they can divvy up the spoils.”
Carolyn was not about to engage in idle gossip. She just paid the cabbie and told him that waiting would be unnecessary. “As I mentioned,” she said, “I’m here as Mr. Young’s guest for a couple of days. I’m doing some work for him.”
“Ayuh, so you said, though you never did say what kinda work you had with such a strange old man,” the cabbie muttered, taking her money. He handed her a business card in return. “You be sure to use that number on there if you need to make a fast getaway. I’ll be back up this hill as fast as I can. A pretty girl like you alone in that big old house with that man…” He shuddered.
The cabbie’s words frightened Carolyn, though she wouldn’t admit it. Mr. Young unnerved her, too. The day they had met in her office, she had sat watching him warily. His rheumy old eyes had moved back and forth; his slithery little tongue had kept darting between his lips. He was ninety-eight years old, he told her, but he insisted that his mind was clear. Jeanette wasn’t so sure. The things he said to her that day, sitting in front of her desk, his gnarled hands clasping the wolf’s-head handle of his cane, had made little sense to her. But Sid had assured her Howard Young could be trusted.
And for what Mr. Young was paying her, a little unease was worth it.
Carolyn thanked the cabbie one more time, then gripped her bag and turned to walk toward the house. The sun was low in the sky. Long dark shadows stretched across the grass. Ancient oak trees, their branches bent and twisted by decades of wind off the ocean, surrounded the house like sentinels. Built of granite and brownstone, the house seemed to become less distinct as she approached rather than more, the edges of its stone façade smoothed and muted by time and salt air. The only lights in the entire place were scattered along the lower floor, just to the east of the front door. The glow that emanated from the windows wasn’t strong, however. It flickered, almost as if cast by candlelight.
The evening was cool, with a fragrance of impending autumn in the air. Soon those mighty oaks would drop their leaves, blanketing the great lawn with their brown and orange debris. It would turn cold and wet. She was very glad that her business here would be long done by then and she’d be back in her own little apartment in New York.
She reached the front door and lifted the metal knocker in the shape of a wolf. She banged hard against the wooden door three times.
It was as if the old man had been waiting behind the door. Immediately after knocking Carolyn heard a creak, and the door began to swing inward.
“Hello,” she said, feeling silly that her heart was fluttering in her chest.
The door opened fully to reveal Howard Young. He stood slightly hunched over, large brown spots marking his face and hands. He was dressed in a silk paisley smoking jacket and gold ascot tie. He was already studying Carolyn with his yellow, watery eyes, just as he had that day in her office. She wasn’t sure what he was looking for in her face, but he seemed to be intent on finding something. Finally, he smiled.
“Hello, Miss Cartwright,” he said, in the same dry, cracking voice Carolyn remembered, like old leaves being crunched underfoot. He opened the door fully and stepped aside so she could enter.
Carolyn walked into the foyer. A gleaming marble floor led to a curved marble staircase and elegant gold banister ascending to the second floor. A chandelier with thousands of pieces of sparkling cut glass hung from the high ceiling. “One of the richest men in the nation,” Sid had told her after Mr. Young had left her office that day. “Probably in the world.” Looking at his house, Carolyn believed it.
And where did all of Mr. Young’s money come from? “Real estate,” Sid told her. “He owns vast tracts of property throughout New England and in other places around the country. The family’s property, holdings date back to the early twentieth century, when they bought up entire blocks of cities. He owns a whole section of southern Florida. And when you’re as business savvy as Howard Young, you know when to buy, when to sell, when to invest, and where to invest. He’s got a magic touch in the stock market. The Young family money has been making money for them for almost a century. I always hope that by hanging around him some of his Midas touch might rub off on me.”
Carolyn smiled to herself, remembering Sid’s words. Howard Young was gesturing to her to follow him through the foyer toward the parlor. Their footsteps echoed across the marble. Certainly the house had the smell of old money. Carolyn’s eyes fell upon upholstery and draperies that she was certain had been in the family for decades, maybe even a century. Portraits of people in nineteenth-century clothing hung along the walls. There was even a suit of armor standing at the foot of the staircase.
“I trust your flight from New York was uneventful,” Mr. Young said as they walked.
“Yes, it was.”
“And a cab was easy enough to find at the airport?”
“Oh, yes,” Carolyn assured him.
“And the driver knew where the house was? We’re kind of isolated, as you can see.”
Carolyn smiled tightly. “He was aware of the place,” she said.
Mr. Young stopped walking and turned, with some difficulty, to look at her. His lips turned up slightly at the corners. “Was he now?”
“Indeed he was,” Carolyn told him. “I think he rather enjoyed playing the part of the coachman delivering Jonathan Harker to Castle Dracula.”
Mr. Young laughed, an odd little sound down deep in his throat. His tongue darted in and out of his mouth again. “They always do,” he said, and resumed walking.
Carolyn smiled to herself, still not quite believing she was there, that she had come all the way up to this windswept, godforsaken place. She wouldn’t have agreed to the job if Sid hadn’t encouraged her.
“I know he’s eccentric,” Sid had said, sitting down opposite her desk three weeks ago in her office, “but Howard was very impressed with you. He wants you for the job. And he’s offered to pay you very well.”
He had indeed. And Carolyn sure could use it.
“It’s just the two of us here today,” Howard Young informed her as they passed through double doors into the parlor. A fire blazed, obviously the flickering glow Carolyn had seen from outside. “I’ve given the entire staff the day off. I wanted no eavesdropping. What we have to discuss, as you know, Miss Cartwright, is utterly secret.”
Ah yes, Carolyn thought. The old man’s “secret.” She looked over at him as he shuffled along ahead of her. There was some kind of secret about this house that even Sid knew nothing about.
“But you’re his lawyer,” Carolyn had said to Sid. “I’d think you’d know all his secrets.”
“All of his legal and financial secrets, yes,” Sid told her. “But this thing about his house…it’s old family lore, that’s all I know. Going back generations. Howard has assured me it’s nothing illegal. I’m supposing it’s something historical about his family, and Howard is very private about his family.”
The old man gestured for her to take a seat on the divan in front of the fireplace. She smiled as she did so, placing her bag at her feet. “Now let me see if I understand your message,” she said. “Whatever it is that you’re hiring me to do, you want it completed in a month’s time. Is that correct?”
“It needs to be taken care of before the last week of September.”
“And why is that?” Carolyn asked.
Howard Young was watching her again with those yellow eyes. “That is when my nieces and nephews are arriving for our regular family reunion.”
“I see,” Carolyn said, even if she still didn’t.
“You travel lightly,” Howard Young observed, seeming to notice her small, solitary suitcase for the first time.
“Just a couple changes of clothes and my toothbrush,” she said. “Oh, and some pads, pencils, and a tape recorder.” She grinned. “That’s all I’ll need, right?”
The old man returned her smile. “Depends on how much we get done in the next couple of days,” he said.
Carolyn shifted uneasily on the divan. Two days. That’s what she had told him she could give him. Two days. Whatever the job entailed, she assured him she could finish it in New York.
“Would you like a drink, Miss Cartwright? A glass of sherry, perhaps?”
“Thank you,” she said. “And please. Call me Carolyn.”
With difficulty, Mr. Young hobbled over to the small bar that sat beneath a pair of rifles mounted in an X on the wall. They looked old, perhaps First World War vintage, but they were in perfect condition, the silver shining, the wood polished. Mr. Young poured two glasses of sherry, and handed Carolyn’s over to her. She accepted it, smiling again, hoping her unease didn’t show too much.
Howard Young struggled to a chair that was undoubtedly his, a tall, well-worn wingback. On a side table rested several books, an assortment of prescription bottles, and a pair of eyeglasses.
“Enjoy,” he said, lifting his sherry to her as he sat down. They both took a sip. The liquid tasted strange, like no sherry Carolyn knew. Sweet, dry, but bitter as well. She set the glass on the coffee table in front of the divan.
“I’m very anxious to hear more about the project you want me to work on,” she said.
Mr. Young was studying her again with those ancient eyes. “In good time,” he told me. His raspy voice suggested it was rarely used anymore. Carolyn imagined even communication with the servants was infrequent. Surely they knew their jobs and probably had been doing them for decades.
“First,” Howard Young said, “I would like to learn a bit more about you. If we are to work together, I must make sure we are a perfect fit.”
Carolyn raised her eyebrows. “I thought that was the reason you came down to New York, to scope me out after Sid recommended me. And I thought I passed muster.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Oh, you did. But-”
“But?”
“I came back here with a few lingering concerns. Don’t worry. If I decide you’re not right in the end, I’ll more than compensate you for your time and trouble.”
“What are your lingering concerns?”
“You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”
It was like an accusation. Carolyn was momentarily at a loss at how to respond.
“When Sid referred you, I had the image in my mind of a middle-aged lady,” he continued. “I expected you to be wearing a plaid business suit with a skirt and sensible black shoes when I met you.”
Carolyn felt defensive. She couldn’t remember how she’d been dressed the day Mr. Young had come to her office, but today’s ensemble seemed appropriate enough. Sharply pleated khakis, a black turtleneck, low-heeled, open-toed black shoes, and a simple strand of pearls around her neck.
“Well, I’m sorry if I disappointed you,” she said.
He shook his head. “Not disappointment. Merely mild surprise.” He smiled again. “A man my age is never disappointed by a pretty woman.”
Carolyn’s smile was once again awkward.
He returned to being serious. “As you know, Sid referred me to you because of your work as an FBI investigator.”
She nodded.
“And I was delighted to learn how you had been a specialist in
some very unusual cases.”
Again she nodded. “That specialty continued when I opened my own private investigation service in New York, which is how I met Sid.” She laughed. “He hired me for several of his…well, stranger cases.”
Mr. Young was nodding. “Indeed, Sidney has been an ideal lawyer for me. He has contacts all over the world.” He folded his long, twisted fingers in his lap. “And he asks only the most essential questions. He understands the need for secrecy.”
“Well,” Carolyn said, “Sid has represented many very high-profile clients, like yourself, who don’t want their personal business being thrown open to the prurient interests of the public. And I can assure you, Mr. Young, that my experience has also taught me the value of keeping secrets.”
He had gone back to studying her face, as if he saw something there-or wanted to. “You must have been very young when you started at the FBI.”
“It was right out of college.”
“And you said you were there for…four years?”
“Mr. Young,” she said, smiling. “If you are trying to discern how old I am, I can simply tell you. I’m twenty-six.”
He smiled and took another sip of his sherry. “And you are currently working as a freelance investigator?”
She nodded. “I take on investigative projects if someone like Sid refers me to them.”
“Why did you leave the FBI? It would seem to me you had a promising career there.”
She smiled tightly. “Personal reasons.”
The old man nodded, almost as if he knew what they were. “I told Sid I was looking to hire a smart, thorough, critical thinker to help me with my project and, just as importantly, to write up an account of it all. Those were the criteria. And yours was the name immediately at the tip of his tongue.”
He had told her as much that day in her office. “Well, as I said, I’m grateful to Sid for his confidence…”
“What matters,” Mr. Young continued, “is that I find someone whom I am able to trust with my deepest secrets. And also one who…” His voice trailed off as he seemed to search for the right words. “Who understands the world isn’t always governed by forces we can see and hear firsthand.”
