by Tom Deady
Coleridge
“Deady breathes new life into the traditional gothic mystery.”
— Lee Murray, award-winning
author of Into the Mist
“All of Tom Deady's fans will love Coleridge, and anyone who hasn't read him before should start with this one. It's highly engaging and fascinating to read!”
— John R. Little, author of
The Murder of Jesus Christ and The Memory Tree
“A haunting and heartbreaking novella, Coleridge is another impressive entry in a growing canon of Tom Deady's unforgettable horror fiction. A must-read for fans of slowburn thrillers, creepy houses, and Gothic horror.”
— Gwendolyn Kiste, Bram Stoker
Award-winning author of The Rust Maidens
Coleridge
by
Tom Deady
Copyright © 2019 Tom Deady
Front Cover Design by Kealan Patrick Burke
Formatted by Kenneth W. Cain
Edited by Kenneth W. Cain
All rights reserved.
Funeral For A Friend / Love Lies Bleeding
Words & Music by Elton John & Bernie Taupin
© Copyright 1973 Dick James Music Limited. Universal/Dick James Music Limited.
All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured. Used by permission of Hal Leonard Europe Limited.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The roses in the window box
Have tilted to one side
Everything about this house
Was born to grow and die
Oh it doesn’t seem a year ago
To this very day...
—Elton John “Funeral For A Friend / Love Lies Bleeding”
This book is for all my readers, except one (you know what you did)
ONE: The Visitor
Dalia stared at the faces in the flames. She cocked her head, so close to recognizing them, but always just out of her grasp. There were other shapes there, too, but like the faces, they remained a mystery. Still, they were there.
The fieldstone fireplace had been the centerpiece of the restoration, but that was before. When it represented her and Zadie’s love and their mutual accomplishment. Now she viewed it with a mixture of admiration and contempt. She smiled thinly. Her world existed only in the before and after. It was what separated the two that she didn’t care to reminisce. Rubbing her scar, she pushed the thoughts away.
She finished her tea and rose from the couch with an exaggerated sigh, moving to the window. She felt decades older than her thirty-three years. The faintest sparkles of snow flurries danced in the wind under a dirty-gray sky. It was Saturday and the shop would be busy, otherwise, she might just hunker down. The snow wouldn’t amount to a major storm, it was the day itself. Seven months tomorrow, she thought, as she pulled on her winter coat.
Thirty minutes later, she stepped inside her small craft and curio store, Bygone, struggling to close the door in the rising wind. The hand-made dolls danced crazily on their strings, suspended all around the shop. She flipped the sign to “Come in, we’re open!” and made her way to the counter. The normally appealing aroma of candles and incense was cloying, making her stomach clench. She ignored the feeling, mentally listing the things she needed to do between customers.
As if on cue, the bell jingled and a middle-aged man entered the store in a gust of frigid air and swirling snow. He removed his hat, an old-fashioned bowler, and fastidiously shook the few clinging flakes from it. He nodded at Dalia, unwrapping his scarf. Her first impression of the man was that he might be the fussy type, until she saw his eyes. They were hard and intense, the eyes of a gambler, or perhaps a judge. He offered her a switchblade smile before speaking.
“Curse this foolish weather,” he muttered, “not fit for man nor beast.” His neatly trimmed beard glistened grayish-white with ice crystals as if to emphasize his point.
Dalia maintained her smile as the man swatted snow from his trousers and stomped his shoes on the mat. He wore an outdated three-piece wool suit under his overcoat. Instead of a tie, he sported an audacious red silk ascot that looked completely out of place on the otherwise conservatively dressed man.
“You come to abide by it. Makes the summer months that much sweeter.”
The old man scowled, and Dalia took a step back. A tickle of unease slid toward fear. Who is this man? “Can I help you find something? Other than a change of climate, of course; I have no such sway.”
“Not something, miss, someone. A Dalia Cromwell.”
Her smile faltered. Something about the way he said her name chilled her. “I— I’m Dalia,” she said flatly, licking her suddenly-dry lips. She rubbed her wrist. Dalia had expected the man’s expression to soften, but it remained bitter, like he’d tasted something bad. He sucked in a breath through small, sharp teeth.
“Then I presume we’ve got some business to discuss.” He looked around the shop, occasionally wincing as his gaze caught something he found distasteful. “We can converse here or at the house.”
Dalia frowned. She didn’t know what he meant by ‘at the house’ but she didn’t like the pretentious sound of it. “Here is fine. I’m not in the habit of inviting complete strangers to my home.”
At this, his face changed, his teeth flashing. Dalia looked away. The man knew something and had intentions to use that something against her.
“I can see by your face that my visit wasn’t expected.” He ran a hand through his silver hair. “I had hoped Zadie would have explained things, but I see she hasn’t the sense to do that much.”
Dalia gasped, her face burning at the slight to her lover. “Who are you and what is your business here?”
The man regarded her, expressionless. Yet Dalia felt like he was peeling back layers of her soul with his eyes.
“My name is Miles Slade. Zadie is my daughter.”
A tight fist clamped on Dalia’s guts and squeezed. She struggled to take in a breath. There was no resemblance in this man’s visage to her dear Zadie. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Mr. Slade, if that’s even your real name, but I think our conversation is over. Zadie’s father passed away when she was just a child, and her surname was Williams.” Dalia glanced toward the door, silently hoping for more customers to come in from the storm.
Slade took a step toward her, eyes narrowed, carving deep lines in his forehead. “I can assure you, Miss Cromwell, I am who I say. Zadie is my daughter, no matter what lies she spews.”
A seed of doubt lodged in Dalia’s heart. Could Zadie have lied about her own father? About her own name? Wait, had he spoken of her in the present tense? Did he not know? She took in a long breath and let it out slowly, not relishing a confrontation but not willing to let his words go. “It will do you good to watch your tongue when speaking of Zadie. She meant the world to me.” She took a cruel pleasure in the impact her words had on him.
“She’s moved on, then?” He spoke carefully, tiptoeing around the real question.
Dalia bowed her head, biting her lip. “Moved on. Yes, that’s one way of putting it. Zadie is dead, seven months tomorrow.”
The man wobbled, then his knees unhinged and he sl
umped to the floor. Dalia went to him, but he was already getting to his feet, still unsteady.
She planted her feet and crossed her arms. “Speak your business and we’ll part ways, but I’ll hear no more of your impudence.”
The man’s face had lost all its former sternness and confidence, though it remained tight. Now, he just looked like a feeble old man and Dalia regretted her harshness toward him. No, she corrected herself, finding his eyes. They looked hungry.
“Have you moved from the house on Ellsworth Road, then?
Dalia locked on his eyes despite the unnerving coldness of them. “Not the first question I’d expect from a man who was just told of the passing of his daughter,” she sneered.
Slade’s mouth opened, then closed without a word. He lowered his gaze. “I was unaware of Zadie’s passing, and a lot of other things, it seems. You were listed as a business partner on the deed to the house.”
His words stung, but Dalia knew it was true. When they had decided to restore the old house, it was indeed as partners. The rest came later. “Apology accepted, but I still don’t understand why you’re interested in our house.”
His fierce countenance returned. “I’m afraid you shan’t enjoy hearing about my interest in Coleridge. It seems Zadie kept secrets from us both.”
Dalia’s eyes narrowed. “Coleridge? I’ve never heard that before?”
Slade’s face finally softened, though his eyes remained as cold and gray as the winter ocean. “I think we have a lot to converse about, Miss Cromwell. I fear you’ve been misled, and what you don’t know could be dangerous.”
Dalia’s chest tightened and she drew short breaths between tightened lips. It wasn’t enough that the love of her life had died at such a cruel, young age, but now her remembrance would be tainted? Her body began to tremble. Then the bell above the door tinkled. She nodded at the two women who entered.
The old man, Slade, glanced at them with a frown. He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Dalia. “I’m staying at the Wayfarer Inn. Please, call me when you can speak, I beg you.”
She only had to look in his eyes to know he meant it. Then he was gone.
g
That night, Dalia sat in front of the fireplace listening to the wood crackle and enjoying the warmth thrown her way. There was only one thing missing. This had been their favorite spot, and Dalia still found comfort there. Outside, the storm continued in spite of the weathermen’s earlier predictions that it would blow out to sea. She held Miles Slade’s card in one hand and a steaming mug of tea in the other. The phone sat on a small end table next to her, her gaze flicking between the card, the phone, and the fire. Part of her wanted to toss the card into the flames and watch it burn. In the end, it was the phone that won out.
Slade picked up on the first ring. “Miss Cromwell, good evening.”
Dalia paused, picturing the man pouncing on the phone at the first sound. “Good evening to you, Mr. Slade.” She considered a comment about the weather but let it pass. She wasn’t interested in making this a friendly chat.
“I apologize for my abruptness this morning, Miss Cromwell. I’d like to start over, if you could forgive me.”
Dalia considered his words. He sounded sincere, but he also wanted something from her, and that often bred false manners. “I’ll take it under advisement. For now, please say what you have to say.” Slade didn’t answer right away, and the silence stretched to the point she thought the storm might have taken the lines down.
Finally, he said, “I’m afraid the substance of our dialogue is going to open some wounds, or perhaps pick at the scabs of old ones. I hate to impose, but parleys such as these are best held face-to-face.”
A knot snapped loudly in the fireplace, causing the flames to blaze brighter. Dalia almost dropped the phone. The unease she’d felt at the shop returned threefold, gnawing at her belly.
Slade continued. “I assure you, Miss Cromwell, the reason I’ve searched so long for Zadie is as important to you as it is to me.”
Dalia knew she was being baited, but she also knew Slade wouldn’t stop until they talked. No sense putting it off. “Very well. Tomorrow—”
“I would like to come over this evening. It’s best to get this over with.”
Dalia shivered, feeling like he’d somehow read her thoughts. But that was silly. “That is not an option.”
He cut her off again, “I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“No means no, Mr. Slade—” But the line was dead. I’ve made a terrible mistake. I should have thrown his card away.
Dalia stood as if to do something, but didn’t know what. She licked her lips with a dry tongue and stared at the fire, all rational thought gone from her head. Is that a face in the flames? Is it Zadie? She squinted as if that would bring the face into clearer view, but it remained indistinguishable. Dalia thought of their first “picnic” by the fireplace.
g
A loud pounding pulled her from the hypnotic flames. Dalia moved sluggishly toward the door as the pounding grew more urgent. “Hold your horses,” she murmured. She pulled the door open as far as the security chain would allow and was greeted by a blast of glacial air and Miles Slade. He bounced up and down on his toes like a kid waiting for a piece of candy, at the same time trying to peer over her shoulder into the house.
“Good God, woman, I’ve been knocking for nearly ten minutes,” he barked.
Dalia stepped back, brows furrowed. “What are you doing here, Mr. Slade?” She glanced past him at the heavy snow dancing in the glow of the porch’s light. Fire and ice.
Slade frowned, his own eyes narrowing. “We spoke on the phone, Miss Cromwell. You agreed to discuss Zadie, the house?”
Dalia sighed, watching the white puff of her breath dissipate in the freezing air. The phone conversation had happened. Right before she’d seen something in the fire. She blinked, suddenly aware of Slade’s hard stare.
“How did you get here so quickly? In this weather…”
Deep creases formed on Slade’s forehead as he regarded her dazed countenance. “It’s going on an hour since you called. Are you feeling well, Miss Cromwell?”
Dalia shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I’m feeling poorly, Mr. Slade. I’m sorry you came all this way, but I’m afraid—”
The door exploded inward, knocking Dalia back. Slade stepped in and closed the door behind him, sliding the deadbolt home.
Dalia crab-walked backward before scrambling to her feet. She touched the spot on her head where the door had grazed her but felt no blood. Then she turned to run for the phone.
Slade was on her before she’d taken three steps, snatching a handful of hair and pulling her to a stop.
“We have business to discuss, Miss Cromwell. It can go easy or it can go hard, but I will get what I came for either way.”
Dalia threw an elbow behind her, but Slade was ready for it. He grabbed her arm with his free hand and twisted it violently behind her. She moaned in pain as he pushed her toward the couch, then sent her sprawling onto it with a shove. She scrambled around, ready to attack, but he was already looming over her.
“I assure you, Miss Cromwell, this will not go in your favor.”
Dalia clenched her fists, but the cold menace in Slade’s eyes held her in check. Wait for the right moment. “What do you want?”
Slade smiled, its ugly arrogance almost enough to make her change her mind and leap.
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Isn’t this better?” His tone was that of a teacher scolding a poorly behaved child.
Dalia remained silent, her lips a tight slash on her face. Her eyes drifted back to the fire behind Slade, searching.
Slade removed his overcoat and hung it on the ornate rack by the door.
Zadie had purchased it at an estate sale, ecstatic at how it fit the décor of the house.
He strode back toward her, surveying the room as he approached, then taking a seat in the
Queen Anne chair. “I’d like to get right down to business so I can be on my way, Miss Cromwell.”
Dalia pulled her eyes from the fire. Had she lost more time? How long had Slade been sitting there? “Very well, then. Something about the house?” Dalia snuck another look at the fire, but it was still only a fire.
Slade followed her gaze to the fire, frowned, then spoke. “If you don’t mind, Miss Cromwell, could you tell me about Zadie? And her passing?”
Dalia blinked in surprise. She opened her mouth to tell Slade she wouldn’t discuss it with him, then reconsidered. Keep him talking, wait for your chance.
Slade’s voice was small, no longer that of the pompous businessman, but the voice of a grieving father. Could this really be Zadie’s father?
“I don’t know what you want, Mr. Slade, and I don’t believe you’re who you say you are, but I’ll tell you about Zadie.”
Slade nodded and gave another tight-lipped smile, but said nothing.
“Not because I owe you anything. Your behavior at the store was undignified at best and your actions here, in my…our home, well…” She trailed off, unable to articulate her anger, her outrage at the situation. “I first met Zadie…”
TWO: The House
Dalia had arrived at the open house early, hoping she’d be the only one to show, or at least the first. She couldn’t have been more mistaken. There was already a line and the street was filled with cars, the drivers jockeying for parking. She hurried to the back of the line, shaking her head in amazement. The air was redolent with the scent of pine and lilacs. The yard was a jungle, but brimming with spring colors that clashed with the drab house. How could this many people want to buy a rundown, hundred-year-old house?
She recalled opening the newspaper the week before and being enamored with the pictures of the derelict house. Now, she stared at the old place, her mind buzzed with ideas on how to restore it. It was set far enough back from the street to allow a modest horseshoe driveway. The house rose three full stories but was not any traditional New England architecture she was familiar with.
