The Haunts & Horrors Megapack: 31 Modern & Classic Stories

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Let me guess,” Wilson’s skepticism had been replaced by enthusiasm, “the sun, the moon and the key.”

  Prescott nodded, smiling, “Look at this,” he pointed at the shelf, “there’s a tiny space between the key and the wood behind it. I would’ve missed it entirely if I hadn’t scrapped away a coat of the varnish.”

  After a melodramatic pause he said, “Gentlemen, I believe what we’ve found is a rudimentary combination lock.”

  “A lock? What’s it locking?”

  Prescott winked at me, and slipped the blade back into the thin crack, scratching at the multiple layers of varnish. Wilson found an ivory-handled letter opener in a coffee mug colourfully celebrating the 1967 centennial. He began working his way around the oak moon in a similar fashion, levering the wood forward ever-so-slightly as he moved.

  But everything stopped when a series of muffled, metallic clacks, followed by a hollow thunk, reverberated from behind the wall.

  Wilson stumbled back, eyes wide, dropping the letter opener, almost falling over a short, wire-framed wastebasket. He pointed at the moon, which had flipped itself over and grown about two inches out of the shelf on a rotating steel cylinder.

  I looked at Prescott, “What was that you’d said about ‘rudimentary’?”

  “Perhaps I spoke a bit too soon.”

  Wilson swept up the letter opener, and started prying at the sun, pulling it away from the wood little-by-little. I took my knife from Prescott and did the same with the key.

  After a minute, and more deep, disconcerting sounds from behind the shelves, all three symbols were reversed and protruding.

  We stared. I couldn’t help wondering when they were last in the same position. And looking at them it dawned on me, “They seem to form handles.”

  Prescott agreed. Consulting the drawing in his notebook he said, “I believe the numbers associated with each of the characters represents the order in which your ‘handles’ are to be turned.”

  It made sense, so we arranged ourselves accordingly; Wilson at the moon, Prescott on the key, which left me holding the sun.

  Prescott pointed, giving me the go-ahead, “The sun first.”

  It took effort. The device hadn’t been used in eighty-odd years. The cylinder creaked, somewhere metal groaned, then the mechanism abruptly locked into place, the metallic clacking returning, Prescott shouting at Wilson over the sound, “Okay Dan, now you!”

  Wilson put his back into it, his face contorted with exertion. It turned, there was more metal-on-metal ratcheting, and whatever hidden gears were at work locked into place. Then the old Doctor tried to turn his key, the noise louder, Wilson rushing to help him. The key flipped, and the sound was suddenly a cacophony. Then it stopped; there was a brief moment of silence. This was followed by an enormous wooden clunk, and we watched, stunned, as the wall slid apart. With an ear-splitting crack, the varnish separated along a brilliantly hidden seam running the length of the shelf’s center support. Dust rained.

  Once all had settled, we saw a narrow opening just wide enough for a person. A glance at the floor revealed the wall had traveled on a foot wide bronze track.

  Wilson crouched to inspect the opening, “It fit together perfectly, undetectably. The workmanship is incredible, truly incredible. And I think we have the answer to at least one of our questions—the Roundhouse Lodge was evidently involved in the design and construction of this building.”

  “We may’ve answered one question,” Prescott peered into the darkness beyond the entrance, “but I’ll bet we can come up with a few more…”

  * * * *

  Wilson found a flashlight in the old filing cabinet. The beam led us single file through the extraordinary entry.

  I was struck by an unusual sensation, the strange feeling of having swapped one reality for another. And there was the smell; musky abandonment, earth and an organic, intangible undertone. Almost immediately we came to a rough-hewn rock wall, the light finding a stone sconce fashioned into an ugly, skull-faced gargoyle. The thing held a cobwebbed, half-burnt candle. I lit it, and after God knows how many years it came to life, a warm orange glow filling the space.

  The ceiling was low, certainly lower than the room we just left. We were on a small landing, the wall in front of us curling around a sharply descending, spiral staircase. I realized it was sheer luck we’d stopped to light the candle. If we hadn’t, Wilson might have slipped over the edge and down the stairs.

  He hesitated, his gaze jumping between us, “I tellya, had I known this was going to be one of my duties, I might’ve re-thought that run for Master.”

  We shared a nervous, short-lived chuckle, and when the silence became awkward Wilson shrugged, following his beam down the stairs.

  Prescott faced me, and maybe it was the dim light, but he looked as young as he ever had. He smiled, “It’s been quite the journey,” and with a comical, oddly touching tip of an invisible hat he turned, trailing after Wilson.

  I cast a glance at the stone sconce. The gargoyle clutching the candle gave me its terrible, frozen leer.

  I hurried to pursue the Doctor, my hand catching a pock-marked wooden banister held in place by blackened, wrought-iron supports. Wilson’s silhouette obscured the light, and I fought claustrophobia while shadows whispered ominous warnings. We said nothing, each of us cornered by our own thoughts. The few moments spent traveling those steep, twisting stairs stay with me, and I doubt they’ll be forgotten soon.

  Wilson stopped at the bottom, his voice sudden, echoing, “It’s a doorway.”

  Prescott and I crowded onto the stair above Wilson. His flashlight gave partial illumination to an arched entry, and occasionally vague definition to the blackness beyond. Two more stone sconces guarded the arch, one on either side, each bearing candles. Unlike the horror at the top of the stairs, these were sculpted into tools of Masonry; on the right a plumb rule, on the left a builder’s level.27

  I lit the candles.

  The brick work around the arch was smooth, perfectly proportioned, and stood in stark contrast to the rough rock surrounding it. Prescott called for additional light in the lower right corner, pointing out a series of Roman numerals chiseled onto a block at the base: MCMXXIII.

  “1923,” Wilson kept the beam trained on the spot, “a cornerstone maybe…? If so, that places the building of this passage a year before Doric Lodge.”

  “Makes sense doesn’t it?” I went with the simplest explanation, “Put the stairwell in first, and then use the construction of the lodge around it to mask the building of this—”

  “And what exactly is this?” Wilson aimed the light through the arch, “Perhaps it’s time we found out.”

  With that he disappeared into the chamber. Before we could move to follow, his panicked voice bounced back, “My God!”

  I paused long enough to trade an anxious expression with Prescott, and then I rushed after Wilson with the Doctor on my heels. I stopped in my tracks just inside the arch, Prescott plowing into me, pushing me forward.

  We were frozen, our eyes riveted to—

  (What was I seeing? Was someone there?)

  —the thing caught in the flashlight’s beam.

  “Jesus…!”

  Prescott’s voice slapped us.

  It took a moment, but my mind eventually pieced together the bits of morbid information it was reluctantly being fed…

  We were staring at a corpse.

  It was seated in an old oak swivel chair, the kind I’ve always wanted, facing us with a ghastly, skeletal grin. The rest of its features had long ago given way to time; only the gray, ragged remnants of a face remained. Dirty white hair extended to the shoulders. It wore an ancient, turn-of-the-century suit, its hideous hands—all bones and fingernails—stretching from the cuffs.

  Prescott brushed passed me, moving into the light, calling Wilson to bring it closer so he could examine the body. The initial shock of the discovery wearing off, I began to take in my surroundings.

  Like
all Masonic lodges the chamber was a perfect square, maybe fifteen feet by fifteen feet. The arched entry lay in the north, the body in the east. The wall opposite, the wall in the south, was a smooth, white and pale pink marble,28 its only decoration another sconce and candle, this one in the form of a builder’s heavy-setting maul;29 an unintentionally fitting tool for the room.

  I sparked the candle. In the west were a couple of empty wooden boxes, each stamped with the Seagram’s logo. In the east, beyond the corpse, was a dust-covered roll-top desk,30 and occupying the entire wall behind it a red, crushed-velvet banner embroidered with a once gold, now copper, almost rust-coloured symbol, reproduced here from Dr. Prescott’s notebook:

  “The insignia of the Roundhouse Lodge.”

  Prescott glanced at me, “Naturally. The circle and lines most certainly represent a roundhouse. The lines even look like railway tracks. And if that isn’t enough, the Harris cipher in the center of the square and compass signifies an ‘R’ and an ‘H’,” he returned his attention to the cadaver, “this man was murdered…he’s been shot in the head.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  Wilson’s tone suggested a statement rather than a question. I could relate.

  A frowning Prescott used his pen to hold open the dead man’s coat, reaching inside to check the pockets, coming back with what looked like a cheque book.

  In fact it was a wallet.

  The leather cracked, flaking the instant Prescott opened it. Wilson gave him more light.

  Prescott produced a small, age-battered, decay-stained paper; a Doric Lodge membership card. He scanned it, his eyes victorious. He thrust his chin at the corpse, “Gentlemen, meet the elusive Mr. Charles Walter Galt.”

  * * * *

  After that things moved in a surreal, if not crowded blur.

  Wilson called the police. I guess someone had to. We couldn’t very well just leave the poor bastard in his unmarked, makeshift crypt. We told the cops we’d found the Roundhouse Chamber accidentally while cleaning. We could see no sense in giving them the near-impossible-to-believe truth. For their part the cops didn’t really buy it, but it played well to close the file on an old cold case.

  Of course the press had their go around.

  There was a front page story in the Nugget, complete with a photograph of Wilson, Prescott and myself standing on the steps into Doric Lodge with the building looming behind us. The headline:

  MASONS FIND SKELETAL REMAINS

  Prescott had it framed, and put it next to the December 1927 Nugget in his study.

  The story was picked up by a major Toronto paper. They even used the same photo, just smaller.

  Meanwhile, the lodge took a vote and decided to keep the media out of Doric 323. Consequently, very little information was made public about the Roundhouse Chamber;31 that being said, the number of visiting Masons sky-rocketed.

  Every Brother in the region sooner or later made their way through Doric Lodge to tour the hidden chamber and its winding staircase. Our lodge became a Masonic tourist attraction. Brethren from as far away as Europe, Australia and Asia trekked from their respective countries to see the Roundhouse Chamber.

  And everyone had a theory.

  A polite, well-spoken gentleman from England turned up and gave an entertaining lecture elaborately tying Galt’s murder to the Knight’s Templar, Rosslyn Chapel, the Great Pyramid of Giza, the constellation of Orion, the P2 scandal, and ultimately, to extraterrestrials from somewhere near the Sirius star-system.32

  Given the discovery and contents of a love letter in Galt’s wallet,33 some suggested the murder was a crime of passion. Of all people, Bill Decosta was a proponent of this theory. We often argued over it during our Sunday get-togethers. Decosta had the dates all figured out, and they put the young woman at the tender age of seventeen when she’d written the letter. Additionally, the racy letter was from a girl proven to be the daughter of a Past Master in Galt’s time. This romantic but improbable theory had the Past Master (and presumably a member of the Roundhouse Lodge) discovering the affair between Galt and his daughter, luring Galt to the chamber, and then killing him.

  I didn’t buy it.

  Another interesting, though misguided bit of conjecture had Galt as the lynchpin in a bootlegging ring, and his murder the result of a gangland dispute. The whole theory was built around the Seagram’s boxes34 we’d found in the chamber. Only one part of the problem with this conclusion was the fact Ontario had voted to repeal prohibition in 1924, three years before Galt’s death.

  The most intriguing theory was put forth by Dr. Prescott.

  One warm evening the spring following our discovery, Wilson and I were in Prescott’s study for drinks after lodge. It was one of Wilson’s last meetings as Master, and the mood was celebratory. Prescott, who’d been unusually quiet for the better part of the night, interrupted our libations and light-hearted conversation with, “I’m relatively certain I know what happened to old Charlie.”

  Wilson finished his drink, the ice clinking as he placed the glass on Prescott’s desk, “How’s that then?”

  “I have reason to believe Galt was involved in the Cobalt train robbery of 1909, that he was in fact, the inside man.”

  Prescott opened a file folder, sliding some research papers at us.

  I didn’t need to read them. Everyone in the area knew the story of the legendary train robbery.

  In the opening years of the twentieth century, Cobalt was one of the Northern Ontario’s main economic centers. The town was booming, and boasted the country’s largest silver find.35 The metal was shipped out by rail, and on Monday, December 27th, 1909 a five man gang of armed bandits hit the train and made off with five hundred thousand in cash (at the time a fortune)36 and twenty-five, ten-pound bars of pure silver bullion.37

  The planning had been careful; they robbed the train the first work day back after Christmas; they knew the security schedule; they knew exactly when to hit the train; and they somehow knew both the money and bullion were there.

  The thieves were never caught.

  Over the years the police and the public had become convinced there must have been an inside man, someone who would’ve had all the information the robbers needed…someone who worked for the railway.

  “I looked into it,” Prescott posed one of his rhetorical questions, “do you know where Galt was in 1909?”

  “Lemme guess,” I poured myself more of his pricey scotch, “Cobalt?”

  “Not only was he in Cobalt, but he was employed by the Temiskaming & Northern Ontario Railway,38 who’s head office has always been in North Bay. It wasn’t until 1922 Galt went back to work for the CPR.”

  “So what?” Wilson folded his hands in his lap, “So he worked for the same railway? That’s a far cry from being the inside man on a heist.”

  “Agreed,” said Prescott, “but he was in a managerial position which would’ve allowed him access to all the necessary information. An interesting coincidence,” Prescott bent, opening a drawer in his desk, “especially when you consider I found this in the old Roundhouse roll-top.”

  He hefted a cloth-covered object onto his desk, pulling aside the material to reveal shining metal. It was a ten-pound bar of silver bullion, and stamped onto the surface:

  McKinley & Darragh Mining Co. Inc.

  Cobalt, Ontario

  190039

  * * * *

  Brother Charles Walter Galt was finally laid to rest next to his wife and son in Terrace Lawn Cemetery that same spring. The lodge purchased the casket and the plot, and Galt was given a full Masonic funeral service with several national and provincial dignitaries of the Craft in attendance.

  We decided to quietly keep the bar of silver, storing it in Dr. Prescott’s wall-safe; not for its monetary value, but rather as our own private souvenir from the haunting of Doric Lodge. We’d occasionally take it out to keep us company during our sessions after lodge, and I think it was Wilson who began informally calling us “Silver Lodge 190
9”.

  A beautiful summer passed in a languid haze. I made a trip to British Columbia to check in on my aging parents, and was surprised to find our discovery had made news out west. My mother had clipped the article from the oddities section of The Vancouver Province, proudly displaying it on a bulletin board in her kitchen.

  In September I was elected the Junior Warden of Doric 323, and Dr. Prescott was appointed Chaplain; a position he found ironic, if not slightly disturbing. Worshipful Brother Wilson, now a Past Master, was kept busy with his wife’s third pregnancy and visitations to area lodges.

  By the time we met to mark the one year anniversary of our discovery, an air of happy normalcy had settled over Doric Lodge. Dr. Prescott pointed out it was the first year he could remember none of the brethren had come to him with tales of a strange figure in the north by the third degree tracing board.

  That night I slept the dizzy slumber of the partially inebriated, and when I woke my mind clutched at the fading fragments of a dream.

  I’d been alone in lodge with Galt. He was in the Chaplain’s Chair. It’s vague now, the memory dissolving into an idea, but I remember a discarnate whispered, “Thank you.”

  * * * *

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  First off, Doric Lodge 323 is entirely fictional, as are the characters in this tale. But there’s enough truth here I feel I should point it out.

  Doric Lodge is loosely based upon the North Bay Lodge of Ancient Free & Accepted Masons No.617 G.R.C. The lodge building as described from the outside is accurate (although it hardly “stands solitary”). Within North Bay Lodge 617 there is a document commemorating the veterans of World War I. Everything I’ve written about the Roundhouse Lodge and the Roundhouse Chamber is fictional. There is no hidden passage in the North Bay Lodge…at least as far as I know. Everything I’ve said about North Bay’s history is accurate, as is my source material (with the exception of the volume Vanishing History: Historic Buildings of Northern Ontario, its associated author and publishing company are fictional; this was based upon a calendar I once saw…although the North Bay Lodge is one of the city’s oldest buildings, and Northern Ontario does have a bad habit of destroying its historic buildings). The silver robbery, as I’ve described, is fictional. There was a railway robbery in Cobalt, but much later, in the 1930’s, I believe. Everything regarding the railways is entirely accurate. And while there is no photograph of Rev. Silas Huntington and John McIntyre Ferguson with Sir William Van Horne, it could’ve easily happened. All three were very real, and contemporaries. William Van Horne really did put the railway across Canada (The Last Spike and The National Dream by Pierre Berton are both wonderful books), and Ferguson really did stake the townsite for North Bay, as well as build its first home. Silas Huntington has a historic plaque outside the first church in North Bay, which still stands today. And Rev. Huntington really did found North Bay’s first Masonic lodge (something I discovered after writing this story). Everything about the Cobalt mines and Cobalt itself is true. I don’t know if the McKinley & Darragh Mining Co. was real, but it certainly could’ve been. James McKinley and Ernest Darragh were the men who first discovered silver in the Cobalt region. Baycrest Mental Health Facility is entirely fictional, as is its history. Everything I’ve written about Freemasonry, including the Harris Code, is true. The Masonic volumes I’ve mentioned are real. The Georgia Guidestones exist, and are as strange as described. Jim Miles’ book, Weird Georgia: Close Encounters, Strange Creatures, and Unexplained Phenomena is real, as are Robert Anton Wilson and his book Cosmic Trigger, and the books mentioned regarding parapsychology. Everything about The North Bay Nugget is true…oh, and King Albert I of Belgium really was crowned on December 23, 1909.