The Killing Room

by John Manning

  Inside, peeling off their wet raincoats, Douglas realized they didn’t have a lot of time. It was nearly four o’clock, and the clerk’s office closed at four-thirty. “Clock’s ticking,” he said.

  Carolyn looked at him. “I’m all too aware of that,” she said.

  He knew what she meant. It wasn’t just today’s clock that worried her. The lottery would be held in two days. Time was running out.

  The clerk brought them a large ledger with the word BIRTHS imprinted in gold on the spine. On the top she had placed a computer printout. Consisting of several stapled pages, it was a list of names. The top sheet had names all beginning with A.

  “This helps a great deal,” the clerk told them, tapping the printout. “The original records weren’t indexed. But this was done not so long ago to help you more quickly get to the record you need.”

  “Thank you,” Carolyn said, eagerly flipping through the list to the page containing the S names. “Here she is,” she said within seconds. “Beatrice Swan, born 1911, page 383.”

  Douglas opened the heavy volume and turned to the correct page. There, in faded handwriting, was the entry marking Beatrice’s entrance into this world. Her father was Horace Swan, a farmer. Her mother was the former Jeanne Trudeau, born in Quebec. It seemed terribly odd staring down at the sheet of paper that bore witness to Beatrice’s life, when they knew her only as an anguished spirit, roaming the estate, trapped in eternal grief. But here she was a flesh-and-blood baby, somebody’s daughter. Douglas remembered seeing her that day on the cliffs, and his heart broke.

  Carolyn told him to write down the information as she flipped through the printout. “Now, we need to find a Swan birth in the year 1930,” she said. She flipped ahead a few pages. “Yes! Oh, thank God, yes! It’s here! Baby Swan, born May twentieth, 1930, page 785.” She looked over at Douglas. “It’s marked ‘illegitimate.’”

  “Will it tell us the father’s name?” he asked as he began turning the pages in the old dusty volume.

  “Let’s pray,” Carolyn said.

  But there was no page 785.

  “That can’t be,” Douglas said. “Wait a minute.” He turned back a page. “Page 783, with 784 on the back.” He gulped. “Then it’s page 787, with 788 on the back.”

  “Look,” Carolyn said, her voice betraying her disappointment. “You can see there once was a page here, but it’s been torn out.”

  Indeed, in the gutter of the book, there was a faint remnant of a torn page.

  “Who tore it out?” Douglas asked. “And why?”

  Carolyn made a face. “We might not be able to answer those questions just yet, but we can maybe find out when.”

  She rang the little bell on the counter, and the clerk came back out from her office.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Carolyn said, “but I have a question. When was this computerized index compiled?”

  “I think it was 1990,” she said. “I can look for the exact date if that would help.”

  “It would,” Carolyn said. “Tremendously.”

  The clerk flipped open a ledger she kept behind the counter. “Yes, it was done in the summer of 1990. It was the first year birth records were opened for general research. Now, I don’t like to pry, but why does that fact matter?”

  “Oh, I just wanted to see whether previous researchers had access to this material,” Carolyn explained.

  The clerk smiled. She had white hair and blue cat’s-eye glasses. “I’m a genealogist myself,” she said. “I’ve traced my family all the way back to the May-flower, and then for at least eleven generations in England.”

  “Terrific,” Carolyn said.

  “What family name are you researching?” the clerk asked.

  “My family,” Douglas said. “The Youngs.”

  “Oh!” The clerk’s face lit up. “Such an illustrious history! I remember Howard Young himself coming in here at one point to research the family.”

  Carolyn and Douglas exchanged looks. “Did he now?” Carolyn asked.

  “Yes, indeed. In fact, it was about the time that index was prepared. I remember him using it. He was very grateful for it, said it facilitated his research so much.”

  “I’m sure it did,” Carolyn said.

  They thanked the clerk and headed back out into the corridor of the town hall.

  “What does it mean?” Douglas asked.

  “I think I know now what Dr. Fifer found,” Carolyn said.

  Douglas didn’t understand. “Dr. Fifer? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Until 1990, no other researcher would have been able to find Beatrice’s baby because the records weren’t open. But in the summer of that year they were opened and an index was made-just at the point Dr. Fifer was doing his research. So he found the birth record! I think that was what he was so excited about.”

  “So what happened to the birth record after that?”

  Carolyn smiled. “Don’t you see? Your uncle fired Dr. Fifer, destroyed his notes, then went to the town hall and tore out the birth record himself.”

  Douglas didn’t want to believe it. “Why would Uncle Howie do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know why.” Carolyn admitted.

  “I mean, he wants this curse to end. He would do anything to end it. He’s spent millions of dollars trying to end it.” His voice cracked. “He wouldn’t do anything that might keep that room’s power alive.”

  “For now, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt,” Carolyn said. “Maybe he tore out the record for a good reason.”

  Douglas shook his head. “What do we do know?”

  Carolyn sighed. “I wish I knew. We’re at a dead end. I had hoped to find some information, some clue, that might give us an upper hand in dealing with the force in that room. But we found nothing.”

  She reached into her pocket and withdrew the small amethyst on the gold chain that Diana had sent her.

  “For now, this is our only hope,” she said.

  She started to cry. Douglas wrapped his arms around her.

  “I love you, Carolyn,” he whispered in her ear.

  And he meant it. Never before had he meant anything as much.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  They gathered in the parlor, as always. A fire was blazing, as always. And according to those who’d been part of the lottery before, the thunderstorm that was raging outside was a part of the tradition as well. “Always,” said Philip Young as he carefully wrote the names of the family on slips of paper and dropped them into a wooden box. “There’s always been thunder and lightning whenever the lottery has been held.”

  Carolyn’s heart was in her throat. She had failed. Failed utterly. The family had assembled; the lottery was taking place. Despite all her efforts, someone would spend the night in that room. Mr. Young wasn’t blaming her. In fact, when they spoke about an hour earlier, he had seemed optimistic, grateful even, that Carolyn had discovered the amulet that Diana had promised would protect them. Carolyn wanted to believe in its power, but the memory of Kip’s failure ten years ago remained in her mind. He, too, had thought it was safe. But he had been proven terribly wrong. So Carolyn clutched the amulet tightly in her hands, hoping for the best, wanting to believe. She was prepared to slip it around the neck of whomever’s name was drawn. And though she knew it wasn’t right, she was praying that the name drawn from the box would be anyone but Douglas.

  Carolyn’s eyes glanced around the room as the family members filed in. I can’t think this way, she said, feeling terribly guilty as Dean Young entered with his wife. He has two little children asleep upstairs. How can I hope it will be him, or anyone else, instead of Douglas?

  But she did.

  She couldn’t deny that part of her would exult, would shout a private, inward cheer, if the name drawn was not that of the man she loved.

  She’d been unable to reply to Douglas’s declaration that he loved her that day at the town hall. She’d simply been unable to form the words. The pain and traum
a left over from David was still too real and too fresh. But it was more than that, Carolyn thought. How can I tell him I love him if I might lose him?

  But that was all the more reason to express how she felt.

  The next into the room was Chelsea, her face calm, her body language poised and graceful. How can she not be terrified? Carolyn wondered. Her brother, Ryan, too, sauntering in now, winking at his sister. Are they really so stoic? The two of them took a seat near the fire, not far from their father, who held the box of names.

  Then in hobbled old Mr. Young, helped along by Paula. His face was a mask of pain, his old features twisted like the bark of a knotty tree.

  Finally came Douglas. His eyes met Carolyn’s as soon as he walked into the room. She felt as if she might cry again. She averted her eyes in time.

  “All right,” Mr. Young said, his voice frail and week. “Once more we gather for our terrible duty.”

  He stood, visibly trembling, addressing them all. A flash of lightning suddenly lit up the room, followed by a deep reverberation of thunder.

  “Eighty years ago I stood here among a different group of people. Your grandfathers and great-grandfathers. My father stood in the place I now occupy, a position not of honor but of terrible obligation. Every ten years since we have gathered. We have submitted to this horrible family legacy, one we do not understand.”

  Carolyn could see Philip, standing behind Mr. Young holding the box of names. He sighed, as if impatient. Impatient from annoyance, Carolyn thought, not impatient from fear. As if all of this was one big nuisance, not a matter of life or death.

  Watch him, Diana had said.

  “This year we have hope,” Mr. Young was saying. “Carolyn holds in her hands an object which may mean our salvation. We are grateful to her for locating it.”

  She tried to smile, but was unable to do so.

  “But as she is quick to say, we have no proof that what she holds will protect us. We have had hope before, only to find we hoped in vain. For now, however, let us believe that whoever goes in that room tonight will emerge in the morning alive and well.”

  Carolyn looked over at Ryan. He had closed his eyes. Out of fear…or boredom?

  “And so, let us commence the lottery,” Mr. Young proclaimed. With difficulty he turned and gestured to Philip to approach with the box. Carolyn noticed Linda take Dean’s hand. She understood exactly how Linda felt.

  “Nine times this lottery has been held,” Mr. Young said, reaching his hand into the box. “Nine times I have been spared. Let it be my name I select this time. My name. I am done with my life. Please let it be my name.”

  He withdrew his hand.

  Carolyn braced.

  Her eyes moved over to Douglas. He smiled at her, and mouthed the words again that he had said that day: I love you.

  “Oh, no,” Mr. Young was saying as he looked down at the piece of paper in his hand.

  “Who is it?” Linda called out, her eyes wide with terror as she gripped her husband’s hand.

  The old man looked up, and his gaze told Carolyn what she feared most had come true.

  He was looking at Douglas.

  “I am so sorry, my little hoodlum.” And he began to cry.

  “It’s okay, Uncle Howie,” Douglas said, walking over to him and embracing him. “It’s okay.”

  Paula was sobbing. Linda brought Dean’s hand to her lips and kissed it.

  Carolyn couldn’t move.

  No.

  A voice inside her was saying it was wrong.

  No, it’s not Douglas.

  She saw Ryan and Chelsea exchange a small smile.

  He rigged the lottery.

  It was Diana’s voice.

  Philip rigged the lottery!

  Carolyn’s eyes darted over to Philip, who was moving toward the fireplace with the box.

  Don’t let him dispose of the names.

  Carolyn bolted. “Stop!”

  Everyone in the room looked at her.

  “Don’t turn that box over into the fire!” she commanded Philip.

  “What are you talking about?” he barked.

  “I want to see the names!”

  Philip’s face tightened. “Absolutely not. That is not part of the tradition. Ever since Aunt Margaret began writing the names, the slips of paper were always burned immediately after the lottery took place. We cannot depart from what has always been done.”

  “Give me that box,” Carolyn ordered.

  “You are not a family member,” Philip said, and he began to tip the box over the flames.

  “No, she isn’t,” said Paula. “But I am.”

  She had darted over to the fireplace just in time to snatch the box from Philip’s hands.

  “How dare you?” he shouted. “Give me that box!”

  “Philip!”

  The voice was Howard Young’s. The old man’s eyes were black with fury. His face was red, every vein in his neck and forehead pulsing.

  “Stand aside, Philip,” Mr. Young said. “Paula, bring me the box.”

  She obeyed.

  Carolyn saw Ryan and Chelsea take a few steps toward the back of the room. Philip’s face was bright red as he watched the proceedings in mute horror.

  Paula handed the box to Mr. Young. With his trembling hands he lifted the lid, slipping his long, gnarled fingers inside. He removed each slip of paper and read the name that was on it.

  “Dean,” the old man’s voice intoned. He removed another slip. “Paula.” And another slip. “Douglas.”

  There was a gasp. Douglas’s name had already been drawn. There shouldn’t have been another slip in the box with his name.

  “Howard,” the old man read. His lips curled as he read the two final names. “Douglas.” He paused. “And Douglas.”

  He spun around to confront Philip. Carolyn was stunned that he could move so fast.

  “Four times Douglas’s name was entered in that box! Four times!”

  “Uncle Howard,” Philip said, his hands imploring.

  “And not one slip with the name of Philip!” His eyes were blazing. He spun now to point a crooked finger at the two young people cowering in a far corner of the room. “And neither was there any slip bearing the name of Chelsea or Ryan!”

  Thunder boomed from above the house, as if the point needed any emphasis.

  “How dare you?” Mr. Young growled.

  “Uncle Howard, please…” Philip said.

  “How many years has this been going on?” Paula pushed forward, only a few inches from Philip’s face. “How many years?” Her face contorted in grief and anger. “My father died in that room! Your brother, Uncle Philip!”

  “I haven’t,” he stammered. “This is the first time-”

  “Liar!” Howard Young snarled. “You are a liar, Philip!”

  Chelsea was sobbing in the back of the room.

  “If I had my way,” Mr. Young said, “I’d send you into that room right now, Philip.” He turned away from his nephew, as if he couldn’t bear to look at him. Paula left Philip’s side and helped the old man sit in his chair. “But I don’t have my way,” Howard Young said. “I only have the way that has been passed down to us for eighty terrible years.”

  He let out a long sigh. “The lottery needs to take place again.”

  He closed his eyes as if he wanted to die right there. Then, with apparent effort, he forced his eyes open again. “Dean,” he asked, “will you draw up a new list of names?”

  “No!” Chelsea cried, crumpling to her knees. Ryan stood beside her, his face white with shock and horror.

  “Write the name of every Young in this room,” the old man instructed. “And write it only once.”

  Philip sat down in front of the fire, his face in his hands.

  Carolyn hurried to Douglas’s side.

  “I knew it wasn’t you,” she said, no longer worried if the family discovered their relationship. “I knew it wasn’t supposed to be you.”

  He smiled wanly. “Oh, but
I think it is supposed to be me. Every Douglas Young before me has been called into that room.”

  She took his hand in hers.

  Dean was writing the names. “Hurry along, Dean,” Howard Young commanded. “It is nearly midnight.”

  The old man was once again presented the box.

  He took a deep breath and inserted his hand.

  Carolyn squeezed Douglas’s hand.

  Howard Young looked at the name on the piece of paper he had drawn. “It makes no difference,” he said, almost offhandedly. “Philip’s perfidy was still an act of cowardice and betrayal, one that none of us will ever forget or forgive.”

  He handed the paper to Dean, who looked down at it with shock.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking over at Douglas.

  “You see?” Douglas tried to smile. “I told you it was meant to be me.”

  In the back of the room, Chelsea’s sobs suddenly ceased. Dean returned to his wife, who embraced him. Paula walked over to the window, softly crying. Philip remained on the hearth, his face still in his hands. And Howard Young simply sat in his chair, his face like stone, staring at Douglas.

  “Carolyn,” the old man said.

  She felt like stone herself. She couldn’t move.

  “Place the amulet around Douglas’s neck,” Howard Young instructed. “Then it is time for us to take him downstairs.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The amethyst sparkled as it hung around Douglas’s neck. He looked down at it, fingering it carefully. Then he looked back into Carolyn’s eyes.

  “We’ve just got to believe,” he told her.

  He had asked his uncle for a moment alone with Carolyn. No questions were asked. Everyone seemed to grasp the truth of their relationship. Everyone had filed out of the parlor, led by the humiliated Philip. Uncle Howie had closed the double doors behind him, but not before cautioning, “We don’t have much time.”