by C W Briar
“Think of it as a hunting animal, like a lion or dragon. What do animals—”
“Dragons exist?” Claude interrupted.
“Not anywhere near Pittsburgh, but that’s not important at this time. Animals desire security and food. Take away either of those and you inspire fight rather than flight. We must force its behavior rather than responding to it.”
Rose marched toward me, stepping nimbly over the mess on the floor. In a swift chain of motions, she put her revolver in its holster, stole the lantern from Claude, and plucked two beakers from a crate. She threw them toward the farthest corner. They dashed against the clutter.
Roaring, a slender figure bounded toward me over the tables. It crashed through wood and glass at a frightful pace, and I dove aside to avoid its trajectory. I fired one bullet but knew I missed the streaking beast by a wide margin.
It pounced into a square hole in the wall and scuttled out of sight.
I ran in pursuit and squeezed my head and arms into the hole. When I shined my light up the shaft, I found naught but a swinging length of rope. The creature had escaped.
Emerging from the hole, I asked Claude if his house had a dumb waiter. He stood abruptly. His gaping expression told me he realized our predicament.
We had flushed the deadly monster into the mansion with his sister and servants.
10
I left the lantern with Rose and told her to guard the basement hallway. Then, after taking a wooden box from her bag, I flew up the stairs with Claude on my train. I feared we would arrive at the kitchen to a scene of panic and violence, but Ida and the servants knew nothing of the creature’s presence.
Ida sighed with relief upon seeing her brother. Mrs. Williams, however, quickly interpreted my preoccupation with checking the bordering rooms.
“The creature is in here?” she wailed.
Before I could lie, Claude sounded the warning. “It climbed into the house.”
Ida screamed and backed into a corner. Mrs. Williams raised her shawl and shielded the mistress. Mr. Williams resumed his prayers but did so while keeping watch. Mr. Carlson took up a knife, so I chose him to come with me. I needed someone courageous and ready to fight.
“What about me?” Claude asked.
I flicked off my light-staff, giving the bulb some much-needed rest. “You did well, Mr. Ragiston. It’s your turn to guard the others.”
“I will,” he said confidently. Our brief hunt had left its mark in him.
With utmost haste, Mr. Carlson lit another lantern and showed me to the dumb waiter doors. The first exhibited no signs of disturbance, but as I reached the second floor and shined my light down the hall, I saw a void in the wall. It was a safe bet the, for lack of a better term, “ghoul” had emerged from that hole and now roamed in our proximity.
“Keep watch behind me,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Carlson replied.
I could hear it, the slap of the ghoul’s feet and hands as it skittered over some nearby surface. Yet in spite of the noise’s unsettling nearness, the creature eluded me. I began to fear it possessed an ability to camouflage itself. I was, after all, pursuing an unknown entity.
Keeping to the rug to stifle the noise of my steps, I advanced down the hall. Which room had the creature crawled into? I chose the one Mr. Carlson pointed to. He either had keen ears or keen luck because upon entering, I heard a shuffling noise within.
The room had grand, segmented windows on either side of the fireplace, and one of them was boarded up. A cool, moaning draft seeped through gaps in the wood. Moonlight shone through the other window. It cast a luminous blue checkerboard across the leaf-strewn floor and draped over the empty card and billiard tables. A broken pair of antlers hung above the bar to my right.
As Miss Murphy so accurately described, the creature’s breathing sounded like a pneumonia patient’s. I could hear its forced gasps through bubbling phlegm, but I still could not locate the beast. I raked my staff’s light over the floor, then along the wood beams near the ceiling. I found nothing more than a startled rat.
I reached into my coat and took out the wooden box from Rose’s bag. “Mr. Carlson, would you kindly avert your eyes toward the floor or shut them?”
He lowered his face. “Why, sir?”
“Because I have only one pair of tinted glasses, and these burning oils are quite unpleasant without them.” I opened the velvet-lined box and took out the goggles and ceramic ball. The former I slipped over my head, and their dark lenses devoured what little vision I had. The latter was a sun grenade, a device of my own making. It contains a more violent form of the chemicals we paint onto corpse beetles.
I heaved the grenade against the ceiling, dashing its shell and spraying droplets of liquid sunlight around the room. The incendiary rain stung my scalp and hands, but it also replaced night with radiant day. Not wanting to waste the precious few seconds of light, I sprinted across the room and spotted the creature hiding behind the billiard table.
It looked as hideous and fierce as a ghoul. Its emaciated human body, corpse-like visage, and pallid flesh bore similarities to the awakened dead. However, this being was smaller, about the size of a child of ten, and its features and posture were far more animalistic. It had long jaws like a dog, the hiss of an angry cat, and laid-back ears suited for an immense bat. The sparse quills on its back stood erect and shivered. When it snarled with its scabrous lips, it exposed fangs and a sack of dried fruits in its teeth.
Professor, consider this my confirmation that the creature is no ghoul, but for lack of a better term, I continue to call it as such. I have no previous record of this abomination and thus no official classification for it.
I must confess I faltered in that first moment of beholding the monster. Perhaps I was too eager to study it, or perhaps a detail I have yet to put my finger on caused the distraction. Its golden eyes fascinated me and induced a vague sense of familiarity. Whatever the reason, I was slow to use my weapon, and the elusive creature made an escape.
The ghoul hurled one of the billiard balls at me. I deflected it with my arm, but by the time I aimed my gun at the ghoul, it was bounding on all fours between the card tables. It headed toward the window, dove through one of the broken panes, and vanished outside.
I gave chase and stuck my head through the hole it created. I searched the balcony and lower rooftops, hoping to fire a bullet at the ghoul or at least track its path. When I raised my tinted goggles for a brighter view, the creature lashed out from above and cut the back of my right hand with a shard of glass.
It had used an improvised weapon for a second time, a behavior I have never witnessed from genuine ghouls.
I cried out in pain and surprise. The revolver fell from my grasp, slid down the sloped roof, and plummeted to the ground. It is this same wound which presently forces me to write left-handed. Again, I apologize for the appearance of my recent letters.
With a dexterity that would have made Rose jealous, the ghoul bounded over the balconies and scuttled down a turret to the grass. From there, it scampered through the property’s gate and fled into the streets of Haughtogis Point.
11
Bested by the monster, I withdrew into the parlor room. The sun grenade’s light, which dimmed to mere star-like speckles, was insufficient for me to examine my wound, so I marched to the kitchen. My hosts fretted over the blood running down my wrist. In spite of the roaming beast, Mr. Carlson braved a ride to the doctor’s house. I, meanwhile, wrapped my cut with cloth, then set out to retrieve my gun, my accomplice, and my bottle of wine.
Claude and I found Rose in the cluttered chamber, peacefully arranging vials on the ground. He then showed us the iron basement door that led outside. It was still sealed just like he had said. I undid the lock bar, but a second lock from the other side prevented me from opening it.
How had the creature gotten in?
We returned to the first floor. Ida and the Williamses were lighting every lantern and candle they could
find. Mr. Carlson brought Dr. Torani to the house in excellent time. I gathered everyone in the main hall, and while I waited for the doctor and the wine to complete their work, I inquired about our discoveries in the basement.
“That creature has accessed the pantry at least twice. Is there another entrance you might have forgotten?”
“None,” Claude asserted, and his sister nodded in concurrence. “The basement has only two entrances, and you saw for yourself we kept both locked.”
Mr. Williams added, “The outer door has been locked since the masters were children.” He motioned toward Claude and Ida.
“Was the—ow!” I flinched from a prick in my hand. “The blazes?”
“Steady now.” Dr. Torani pinched my wound shut and pushed the stitching needle through to the other side. I had initially been averse to discussing matters in front of him, but Mrs. Williams assured me the doctor was an old friend and already quite familiar with the goings-on in the house.
Oh, joy for gossip.
I swigged wine and tried to ask my question again. “Was the door kept locked to prevent the children from getting out?”
“No,” Mr. Williams said. “It was because the slaves on the Underground Railroad no longer needed the basement for hiding.”
Out of all my findings about the Ragiston house, its history on the Underground Railroad was the most unexpected. “I am astonished. Pardons to present company, but I did not take Leonard Ragiston for a man of sufficient character to shelter slaves.”
“Not him, but Lady Ragiston did. Bless her, she was a saint. After slavery ended and Mr. Ragiston sent her away, there was little reason to use the hidden door.”
He explained the history of the mansion. Haughtogis Point used to be a trading site for the French fur trappers hunting upriver from Fort Duquesne. During the French and Indian War, traders fortified the village, and they stationed a cannon on the very spot where Lady Ragiston’s statue now stands. They built underground chambers for storing powder and rations. The cluttered room where we had chased the ghoul was one of those chambers, and it predated the mansion.
Fort Duquesne grew to become Pittsburgh, and the Ragiston and Voor houses replaced the trading camps from old Haughtogis Point. The underground chambers gained new importance when Lady Ragiston began to hide fleeing slaves in them. She concealed the entrance from plain sight and erected the statue as a guide marker for those seeking shelter. A collapsed river dock, which I had seen during my tour of the garden, once served as a landing for the slaves who crossed the water by night.
Mr. Williams confessed, “Your impression of Master Ragiston is not inaccurate. He was not prone to generosity, and he complained the lady’s benevolence would bleed them dry. But she kept taking them in, including Mr. Carlson’s mother.”
Mr. Carlson smiled at the mention of her.
Mr. Williams added, “I do believe her persistent philanthropy led to the divorce. She later managed Mr. Rockefeller’s charities until her passing.”
The story calmed Ida. She had been on edge since the ghoul incident, but for a moment, she looked almost at peace. She and her brother shared gentle, reserved natures. They in no way resembled the Ragiston patriarch, who was reputed to be a callous boss and ruthless negotiator.
Mrs. Williams said, “In recent years, Master Ragiston occasionally used the chambers for storage, but nothing more. And he always opened the door himself.”
“I can confirm that,” Dr. Torani said. He tugged and snipped the excess thread from my last stitch. “I ordered medical supplies for Mr. Voor and him, and they opened the door for me when I delivered the boxes.”
“Mr. Voor?” Rose asked.
Dr. Torani nodded. “The gentlemen shared the tunnels because they spread under both properties.”
I knew then nothing mattered more than finding a way into the tunnels. Given the sightings from the Ragiston basement and the sewer holes beneath the bridge, the odds suggested the ghoul navigated by way of those underground passages. It might have even formed a den in the dark, forsaken chambers beneath the village.
An idea occurred to me, and I absentmindedly tried to snap my fingers until the pain from my stitches stopped me. “If Mr. Voor and Mr. Ragiston both let you into the storage chambers, then it’s possible they both had keys.”
“I daresay it’s more than possible.” Dr. Torani dipped his stitching needle in alcohol. “Mr. Voor was the one who took the keys out of his pocket and opened the door. In fact, it was he who placed the order. Mind you, I don’t know what help I can be. I didn’t go into the tunnels. I just left the boxes with them at the entrance.”
“What kinds of medical supplies? We found curious items in the Ragiston basement. Rose, what did you see?”
She answered, “Three beakers, seven flasks, eighteen cylinders, one crucible, two funnels, twelve empty bottles, and jars of chloroform and formaldehyde.”
“Thank you. My lovely human abacus found the items in crates that are far less dusty than the other supplies. They have not been there long, and they seem quite out of ordinary for the home of a mining baron.”
“I purchased the chloroform and formaldehyde,” Dr. Torani said, “as well as scalpels, salves, mandrake, and other things. The vessels probably came from Mr. Voor. He was a chemist, after all.”
My instinct bounded and wagged its tail like a hound that had picked up the scent. Evidence and sightings kept rolling toward the Ragiston and Voor properties. The mansions sat atop a hive of vacant chambers with untold substances stored in them. There could be dozens of chemicals and ingredients in the tunnels, any of which might have lured the creature down there.
“What did they use the supplies for?” I asked.
Mrs. Williams said, “Well, whenever we visited Haughtogis Point, Master Ragiston helped Mr. Voor with his experiments.”
“What kinds?”
“We don’t know. They spent long hours in the Voor house or in the pavilion, and they never discussed the work with us.”
“That never struck you as odd?”
“We were curious,” Mrs. Williams said, “but we honored Mr. Voor’s secrecy. His company depends on research.”
I stood and wavered a bit as my balance sloshed in wine. “I understand Mr. Voor’s motives, but what about Mr. Ragiston? Had he always been interested in chemistry?”
Mr. Williams sat forward in his chair. “With due respect, Mr. Wells, you of all people should know that rich men can spend their time and money on unusual hobbies. Chemistry seems quite sensible compared to chasing monsters.”
I admit he was right.
I asked the young Ragistons for their thoughts. They had stayed as quiet as Mr. Carlson for quite a while.
Claude squeezed one hand with the other. “Forgive me if I am misinterpreting your questions and tone, but it sounds like you suspect my grandfather caused this mess. That would be a terrible charge against my family.”
Both of the Ragistons slumped their shoulders like scolded children. I assured them, “I am not blaming anyone. Just intrigued.”
“Tell them,” Rose insisted. I swear the girl has telepathy.
I sighed. “Fine. Doctor, can I trust you not to share what I say?”
He swore it, so I confessed my suspicions.
“I believe the creature has taken up residence in the tunnels beneath your house, and the experiments might have been the cause. We need to determine if your grandfather created or acquired something that drew it down there.”
They said nothing in reply. In the quiet, the fire’s pops sounded like bangs in the hearth. The conversation unsettled our hosts. I, on the other hand, was flush with excitement and a belly full of exquisite wine. We had made excellent gains on the creature that day.
I swayed to a song in my head as I finished my drink. “We will inspect the hidden door tomorrow. Unfortunately, we also need to ask dear old Timothy if he has the key. I would rather deal with the ghoul than that man. In the meantime, let’s all get some rest.”
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br /> “Rest?” Ida cried. “I don’t know if I will ever sleep again after tonight.”
“That creature could have climbed into this house at any time, and yet it did not.” I recognize in sober retrospect the statement probably failed to comfort her. “It fled once it had the opportunity, so I doubt it considers your house to be hunting grounds.”
I ran my thumb over the blood-stained sutures and swollen flesh around my wound. “Thank you for your fine needlework, Doctor. I should heal in no time, though writing is going to hurt.”
“What about shooting?” Rose asked as I strutted to the stairs.
Yes, holding a gun hurt as well.
12
Professor, it is Sunday afternoon, and I am watching for the creature from the corner tower of the Ragiston mansion. I can see Rose in the street, still in her Sunday dress and jumping rope with the local children. Earlier today, she befriended a stray dog and sat with it for the span of about thirty minutes.
In moments like these, I remember how young she is. She may be an adult, but she so easily slips into the personality of that child I took in from the orphanage, the one missed by all the boys and girls she cared for.
She amuses me, and my sentimentalism surprises me. One can hardly call me a father regardless of what the adoption records say. Perhaps I am simply further on the journey of life than I realize and thus admire her youth. Aging causes people to long for the increasingly distant shores of childhood.
Whatever the explanation, I appreciated today’s hours of normalcy and catching up on writing.
The morning snuck by before we started our work. Rose, as always, attended Mass. Why a girl so bright and logical insists on going to church each week is beyond me. My influences have not dissuaded her from that habit, nor do I try to anymore. I have accompanied her a few times, at her request, and found she genuinely delights in the singing, ceremonies, and teaching.