Elizabeth Webster and the Portal of Doom

by William Lashner

  “By the way,” he said, “how is Dr. Fergenweiler?”

  “Retired to Florida,” I said. “Here’s a tip, Dad. If you’re going to lie to get someone out of school, it helps to know a little bit about her life.”

  His car was white and boring, a hybrid something, dirty on the outside with a mess of papers and cellophane wrappers across the back seat. Tragic, really. As soon as we reached it, he climbed into the driver’s seat without a word and slammed the door. I stood outside, waiting. I was entitled to know a few things before I got in the car. Was he taking me to the movies? Was he taking me to a boarding school? My parents seemed to think boarding school was the answer to everything, and I was beginning to think so, too.

  After a few moments he got out of the car and leaned over the roof. “Well?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just get in, Lizard Face.”

  What did I say? What could I say? Every time I had something I needed to say to my father, it got clogged up in my throat and the only thing that got through was a whine or a joke or, best of all, a whiny joke. But even that was now beyond me.

  “Look, I don’t want to do this any more than you do,” he said.

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  “Because Barnabas told me you promised her.”

  “I promised who?”

  “You promised the banshee that you would personally do what you could for her son.”

  I thought about it. “Okay, yeah,” I said. “Maybe I did. So?”

  “As a licensed barrister of the Court of Uncommon Pleas, you should know to be more careful with your promises. So put your huff in your pocket and get in the car.”

  “Put my what where?”

  “Elizabeth, please,” he said. “I’m trying here.”

  “You’re not trying very hard, that’s for sure.”

  “Get in before the woman at the front, who is right now looking out the window, starts giving us the stink-eye.”

  I turned around, waved at Mrs. Haddad, and then opened the car door.

  It was a quiet ride. I always thought I could out-silent a rock when I put my mind to it, but I couldn’t out-silent my father. Of all the things I inherited from him, that might have been the best.

  As we drove out of the neighborhood and into the countryside, the road began to spiral left and right. We passed horses in sunlit pastures and a brick church with a pointy steeple. I had never before been on this route, but you had, though you might not recognize it in the bright sunlight. Imagine it on a rainy night with lightning splitting the sky and a horse-drawn carriage teetering around the corkscrew turns. Maybe the granite arch will do the trick.

  Carved into the stone above us was the name LAVEAU.

  “Why are we stopping here?” I said.

  “Barnabas found census records that put a Keir McGoogan at this address in 1920, two years after the date of his death certificate,” said my father as he looked through the windshield at the gate. “Same spelling, same birth date and birthplace, with his employment listed as ‘Indentured Servant.’”

  “That’s peculiar.”

  “Not as peculiar as the owner of the property, a Marinette Laveau. She keeps appearing on the census records, the same name, but the birth date keeps changing. According to the records she’s the fourth generation, but there’s only ever one person by that name at this address. You know how the black widow spider kills to mate? Maybe the Laveau women kill to inherit this house.”

  “Must be some house. I bet there’s a pool. I bet there’s a butler.”

  “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but spiders can be dangerous. Let me do all the talking. Your promise means you need to be here, but not that you have to say anything.”

  “Be seen but not heard. You and Mom have been telling me that since I was a baby.”

  “Well, maybe today for once you need to listen.”

  There was a thick iron gate embedded in the stone arch and beyond the gate a paved driveway that curved into a patch of overgrown woods. We couldn’t see anything past all the trees, but in the sky beyond, a flock of big black birds was circling. My father opened his window, leaned out, and pressed the button on a speaker installed on a post in front of the gate.

  Through the gate I could see a kid raking leaves into a messy pile. He saw us, too, but he pretended he didn’t, though not very well. He was about my age, maybe younger, definitely smaller, with a red plaid jacket and a blue baseball cap. As my father kept pressing buttons—he was good at that, my dad—I hopped out of the car and approached the gate. I stepped onto a horizontal slat at the bottom and held on to the vertical iron rods as if they were prison bars.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey yourself,” the boy said without looking up from his raking. “I’m willing to bet you’re lost.”

  “I’ll take that bet,” I said.

  He looked up. “How much you got on you?”

  “How much of what?”

  “You know, fish-skins, jingle-jangle, coin.”

  “Just my lunch money. Four dollars.”

  “That’s hardly worth the effort, then.” The boy talked out of the side of his mouth, like he was trying to sell me a stolen ferret.

  “Do you know a Mr. McGoogan?” I asked. “Keir McGoogan. Does he live here?”

  “Why you looking for that old gump?”

  “We just are.”

  He jerked a thumb to point behind him. “He should be up there, somewhere, with the rest of them.”

  “Up where?”

  “The château, it’s called. It’s like a castle but creepier. I’m not sure I’d go up there if I was you.”

  “I don’t have much choice.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  My father was now talking to the box, but I was more interested in the boy. He had large ears and a narrow face, with two front teeth that were big and cockeyed. And he raked the leaves like he was an actor raking. A bad actor, actually, with a lock of red hair slipping from beneath his cap.

  “Hey, you,” I said. “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “Well, now, why aren’t you in school?”

  “My dad lied to get me out.”

  “Must be nice. But some of us have to work for a living.”

  “Is that what you’re doing? I couldn’t tell. I’m Elizabeth.”

  He stopped his raking, tilted his head, and looked right at me through the bars. “I’d have bet you’d be older.”

  “Then that’s the second bet you would have lost,” I said.

  As soon as I said it the gate started shaking before swinging me away from the raking boy. As the boy waved goodbye, my father leaned over in the front seat and spoke through the open door.

  “Quit playing around,” he said to me, “and let’s go.”

  There was a butler waiting for us outside the great red door of the Château Laveau.

  “Welcome, Eli Webster,” the butler said in a strange high-pitched voice that sounded like a penguin gargling mouthwash. “I am Egon. I’ll be taking you to Miss Myerscough.”

  The butler was almost enough to put me off butlers completely. He was tall and skinny, with scraggly gray hairs falling from the sides of his skull. Bluish in color, he looked more like a corpse than any corpse I had seen in the movies.

  As the butler spoke, I looked around. Large stone wings on either side of the main building surrounded us like a closing fist. When I glanced to my right I saw faces staring out of the dark second-floor windows before they quickly disappeared. The birds I had seen in the distance wheeled and dove above the house. They had little heads, red and featherless, and they grunted while they circled, as if they were hungry and waiting for the butler to die. Or for us.

  “We came to talk to Marinette Laveau,” said my father. He was still in his raincoat and held a leather briefcase, looking very official.

  “The countess is not available during the day,” said Egon. “But Miss Myerscough has agreed to
meet with you. You should be honored. Most unexpected visitors are turned away at the gate.”

  He pushed open the big red door and stepped inside before facing us again. Behind him was darkness. His eyes glowed strangely. He just then seemed hungry, so hungry I wanted to give him a cupcake.

  “Come, come,” he said. “We mustn’t keep Miss Myerscough waiting.”

  When we stepped inside, Egon closed the door behind us and turned the lock with a snap-click.

  THE CHTEAU LAVEAU

  We followed the butler down a checkerboard of white and black marble. The front windows were covered with heavy drapes. Beneath the staircase that rose from either side of the hallway stood a line of large rectangular boxes set upright and draped in black.

  “What’s inside the coffins?” I asked.

  My father glared at me for speaking at all, but Egon simply said, “They’re not coffins, Elizabeth Webster. They’re cages for the pets.”

  “Puppies?” I said. “Hamsters?”

  “Birds,” said Egon.

  “Cute.”

  And it did sound cute, little canaries and songbirds, until I noticed crunching sounds coming from the covered coffins, as if beneath the coverings monstrous creatures were cracking bones in their beaks.

  “Maybe not so cute,” I said softly to my father.

  “What did we talk about?” said my father.

  “I’m just saying,” I said. “Nice pictures, huh?”

  High on the hallway’s walls hung huge portraits of a series of tall brown-skinned women in various outfits changing through time. As we walked behind Egon and the women stared out at me from their somber canvases, I realized they were all paintings of the same woman, taken at about the same age, with the same long black fingernails and the same fierce and haughty expression.

  And in each of these paintings, standing behind the tall woman was another woman, pink-faced and wide-shouldered, with a single braid of blond hair lying beside the collar of her own ever-changing collection of dresses. In each portrait she clasped her hands together and smiled tightly like an impatient guidance counselor.

  “This is the sitting room,” said Egon as he led us into a high-ceilinged room with a grand piano. Two chandeliers hung from the rafters. “Would you like some tea as you wait for Miss Myerscough?”

  My father said, “No that won’t be—” before I interrupted him.

  “Tea would be great!” I said. “I’m a bit thirsty, and I’m sure my father is, too. Thank you, Egon.”

  After Egon bowed stiffly and left, my father looked at me as if I was dressed as a teapot. “Since when do you get so excited about tea?”

  “Don’t you know that detectives always ask for something to drink,” I said, “so they can’t be pushed out before they get all their questions answered?”

  My father thought about it for a moment. “That’s almost clever, Lizzie Face. Where’d you learn that? TV?”

  “Natalie,” I said.

  Over the fireplace hung another of the series of paintings I had seen in the center hall. Here the woman in black was dressed in a modern evening gown with sequins and a scarf. Très chic, no? Her chin was up, her eyes peered down at me like she was peering into me. I could almost feel her digging around in there. Behind her stood the woman with the braid and the tight smile, this time in a bright print dress.

  I was still staring up at the portrait when the blond woman walked into the room. She was wearing the same dress, with the same braid over the same shoulder.

  “I am Miss Myerscough, and you are the Websters, I am told,” said the woman in a clipped British accent. “I am sorry the countess will not be able to meet with you, but that could not be helped. I also told Egon not to bother with the tea. I don’t expect you’ll be staying long enough to enjoy it.”

  “No tea?” I said.

  “No tea. Now sit.”

  My father tried to say, “I’m sure we can work—”

  “Sit!” she shouted, and like two middle schoolers faced with a substitute from hell, we sat, my father and I, side by side on a couch facing the fireplace with a low table in front. Miss Myerscough sat in a chair across from us, crossed her legs, and clasped her hands together. One of her very sensible black shoes wagged with impatience.

  “So,” she said, “what’s all this nonsense about Keir McGoogan?”

  “We’re looking for Mr. McGoogan,” said my father, his voice calm as a nut. “He would be well over a hundred by now.”

  “Undoubtedly dead, then,” said Miss Myerscough.

  “You would think. But we have reason to believe he’s still around. His mother hired our law firm to represent him.”

  “His mother, oh my,” said Miss Myerscough. “Am I supposed to believe she’s alive, too?”

  “No, she’s good and dead,” said my father.

  “So, what then? Her ghost hired you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How competent of the ghost. And to think we sometimes have a hard time getting a plumber. And why is she here?” Miss Myerscough said, pointing at me. “Are you babysitting or practicing law, Mr. Webster?”

  “This is my daughter,” said my father. “She’s the one who spoke to the ghost.”

  She looked at me. “Come closer, dear.”

  I didn’t move off the couch. Something about Miss Myerscough petrified me. Was it a coldness in her eyes, was it her big white teeth? My father had warned me not to speak, but he needn’t have worried. Just then I’d have sooner swallowed my tongue than use it to say anything to the bizarre Miss Myerscough.

  “The last record concerning Mr. McGoogan that we could find,” said my father, “had him at this address, listed as an indentured servant.”

  “When was that record?”

  “Nineteen twenty.”

  “Well, if that’s the best you can do, you have wasted your trip. Good day, Mr. Webster.”

  “If we could just have a few moments to talk with Ms. Laveau,” said my father, “that might simplify—”

  “Did you not understand?” said Miss Myerscough. “Should I be speaking French? Time to go!” She rose to her feet and smiled tightly. “Egon will show you out.”

  Egon now stood in the doorway, thin and hungry, with a huge black raven perched on his right arm. “This way, please.”

  As I rose, my father looked at Egon and his bird, then back at Miss Myerscough. I assumed it was time to go. I was hoping it was time to go. Please let’s go. A shouting Miss Myerscough, a black bird, a hungry butler. I wanted to run out of there like I was running from gym class. But my father remained calmly on the couch. Following his cue, I sat back down.

  “Who exactly are you?” he said.

  “I am the countess’s personal assistant,” said Miss Myerscough.

  “So you make her plane reservations,” said my father, leaning back and resting his arms on the back of the couch, “and get her gowns dry-cleaned. I’m impressed.” It was a show of rude arrogance that was middle-school-worthy. I was almost proud of him.

  “Egon!” shouted the woman. As she yelled, the raven flew off Egon’s arm and flapped its wings twice, circling the room before landing on the shelf above the fireplace. The bird opened its beak and cawed.

  “Ma’am?” said Egon.

  “Take care of our visitors.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Egon before turning around and leaving the room. What was he getting? A shotgun?

  “Do you have the authority to speak for Ms. Laveau?” asked my father, still leaning back as the bird on the mantel stretched its wings.

  “I assure you I have every inch of her authority.”

  “That’s good to know.” He bent over, opened his briefcase, and took out an envelope. “This is a complaint entitled McGoogan v. Laveau, in which we are suing your countess for the tort of false imprisonment, along with an emergency injunction, already granted by the court, that provides for the immediate release of Keir McGoogan from these premises.”

  Just as he lifted the
envelope to hand it over, Miss Myerscough flapped her hand. The raven jumped off the mantel, flew right at us, and grabbed the envelope in its claw. It swooped up until it landed on one of the chandeliers, the envelope still it its grasp. The chandelier swung.

  “Too bad,” said Miss Myerscough. “You’ll have to try again later.”

  “Not according to the uncommon law,” said my father. “In the case of Hardenhead v. Fowler, the court held that acceptance of documents by an avian agent constitutes valid service of process. McGoogan v. Laveau is now alive, scheduled for the next session of the Court of Uncommon Pleas in this district. The countess knows where to find the courtroom. When we filed this with the Prothonotorius, the clerk told us that Marinette Laveau has been sued a number of times, including for assault of a Class Three wraith, illegal concealment of a Mongolian death worm, and theft of blood.”

  “Theft of blood?” I said, looking at my father.

  “Apparently it’s a thing,” said my father.

  I turned and tilted my head at Miss Myerscough. “Theft of blood?” Just then a full flock of birds flew into the sitting room, scattering everywhere, diving past our heads. One was so huge it had to stretch its wings straight backward as it whooshed sideways through the door. Its head was black, with a white ruffle about its neck, and its claws were big enough to latch on to my head. It soared around until in landed heavily on the piano. A few of the strings inside twanged. I recognized the bird from a video about the Grand Canyon they made us watch in environmental studies. A condor!

  There were now so many birds in the sitting room it smelled like the bird enclosure at the zoo. They were huffing, and rustling, and dropping little gifts of white now and then. It was a good thing my father was wearing his raincoat.

  “Release Mr. McGoogan into our care pending the trial,” said my father, ignoring the brigade of birds, including the one that had taken a perch right behind him and, for some reason, was stepping on and off his head. “Then we’ll happily leave you alone.”

  My father’s bravery in the face of the bird swarm gave me a shot of courage. “I saw faces staring out of some windows,” I said. “It was, I have to say, a little creepy. Is this some sort of prison for the damned?”