Lock Every Door (ARC)

by Riley Sager

  “I don’t understand how that’s any concern of mine,” she says.

  “Because you also lived there,” I reply. “At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “You were misinformed.”

  She’s in the midst of turning around and walking away when I reach into my jacket and produce a copy of The New Yorker that’s been rolled up inside it. I tap the address label.

  “If you want people to believe that, then you should have brought your magazines with you when you left.”

  Marjorie Milton glares at me. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m the person living in the apartment you used to own. Only I was told you were dead, and I’d really love to know why.”

  “I have no idea,” Marjorie says. “But I never owned that apartment. I simply stayed there for a brief time.”

  She resumes walking down the sidewalk, the Yorkie trotting several feet in front of her. I trail behind them, not content with the answers I’ve been given.

  “How long were you there?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Apartment sitters are disappearing,” I say. “Including the one who was in 12A after you and before me. If you know something about that, then you need to tell me right now.”

  Marjorie Milton halts, surprising Princess Diana, who trots forward a few paces before being choked by the tightened leash. The dog is forced to take a few backward steps while her owner spins around to face me.

  “If you don’t leave me alone this instant, I’ll give Leslie Evelyn a call,” Marjorie says. “And trust me, you don’t want that. I lived there, which you know already, but I won’t say anything else.”

  “Not even if people are disappearing?” I say.

  She looks away from me, ashamed. Quietly, she says, “You’re not the only ones with rules.”

  Then she’s off again, Princess Diana pulling her along.

  “Wait,” I say. “What kind of rules?”

  I grab the sleeve of her jacket, trying to keep her there, desperate for one single bit of useful information. When Marjorie pulls away from me, the sleeve stays in my hands. Her arm slides out of it, and the jacket falls open, revealing a white blouse underneath. Pinned to it is a tiny brooch.

  Gold.

  In the shape of a figure eight.

  I let go of the jacket. Marjorie stuffs her arm back into it and pulls it closed. Before she does, I get one last look at the brooch, seeing that it’s not an eight at all.

  It’s an ouroboros.

  39

  Two hours later, I’m in the main branch of the New York Public Library, one of many occupying the Rose Main Reading Room. The library itself is bright and airy. Late-afternoon sun slants through the arched windows. Puffy pink clouds adorn the murals on the ceiling. Hanging from it are chandeliers that cast circles of brightness onto the long tables aligned in tidy rows.

  I’m gripped with unease as I contemplate the stack of books in front of me. A sense of darkness closing in. I wish it was because of the books themselves. Old, dusty volumes about symbols and their meanings. But this ominous mood has been with me since the moment I glimpsed Marjorie Milton’s brooch.

  The snake eating its tail.

  Exactly like the painting in Nick’s apartment.

  I said nothing to Marjorie after I saw it. The brooch and its possible meaning left me speechless. I simply backed away, leaving her standing with her dog on the sidewalk. I kept walking, as if the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other would somehow help everything make sense.

  The disappearances and Nick and Mrs. Milton’s short-lived stay at the Bartholomew. They’re all connected. I’m certain of it. An ouroboros of a most sinister nature.

  Which is why I ended up at the library, striding to the help desk and saying, “I need as many books on symbology as you can find.”

  Now a dozen titles sit in front of me. I hope at least one of them will help me understand the meaning behind the ouroboros. If I can learn that, then maybe I’ll have a better idea of what’s going on at the Bartholomew.

  I grab the top book from the stack and flip to the index, looking for entries about the ouroboros. I do the same with the others until twelve open books are fanned out across the table. The arrangement provides a gallery view of the ouroboros in all its many incarnations. Some are as simple as line drawings. Others are elaborate etchings embellished with crowns and wings and symbols within the serpent’s circle. Hexagrams. Greek letters. Words written in unknown languages. The sheer volume and variety overwhelm me.

  I grab one of the books at random—an outdated symbology textbook—and read its entry.

  The ouroboros is an ancient symbol depicting a serpent or dragon forming a circle or figure eight by eating its own tail. Originating in ancient Egypt, the symbol was adopted by the Phoenicians and then the Greeks, where it gained the name used today—Ouroboros, which is roughly translated as “he who eats the tail.”

  Through this act of self-destruction, the serpent is in essence controlling its own fate. Eating itself—which will bring death—while also feeding itself, which brings life. On and on and on for all eternity.

  A symbolic representation of coming full circle, the ouroboros became associated with many varied beliefs, most notably alchemy. The depiction of a serpent devouring itself symbolizes rebirth and the cyclical nature of the universe. Creation rising from destruction. Life rising from death.

  I stare at the page. Key words emerge from the pack, standing out as if they were bold red and underlined.

  Creation rising from destruction.

  Life rising from death.

  All of it an unbroken circle. Going on and on forever.

  I snatch another book and leaf through it until I come to an image of a card from a tarot deck.

  The Magician.

  It depicts a man in red-and-white robes standing at an altar. He lifts a wand toward the heavens with his right hand and points to the ground with his left. Sitting above his head like a double halo is a figure eight.

  An ouroboros.

  There’s another, different one around his waist. A snake holding itself in place by biting its own tail.

  The altar contains four objects—a staff, a sword, a shield adorned with a star, and a goblet made of gold.

  I lean in closer, studying first the shield, then the goblet.

  Upon closer inspection, I realize the star in the shield isn’t just any star. Its interconnected lines form five distinct points, all of them surrounded by the circle of the shield itself.

  A pentagram.

  As for the golden cup, it looks less like a goblet and more like something ceremonial.

  A chalice.

  Seeing it next to the pentagram strikes a bell deep in the recesses of my memory. I leap from the table, leaving the books thrown open across it. Back at the information desk, I summon the same exasperated librarian who had helped me earlier. He cringes when he sees me.

  “How many books do you have on Satanism?” I say.

  The librarian’s cringe becomes a wince. “I don’t exactly know. A lot?”

  “Give me all of them.”

  By five thirty I have, if not all of them, then at least a damn good sampling. Sixteen books now sit in front of me, replacing the symbology texts that have been swept aside. I sort through this new stack, flipping to their indexes, scanning the names in the hope one stands out from all the rest.

  One eventually does, in a scholarly text titled Modern Deviltry: Satanism in the New World.

  Maria Damyanov.

  I remember it from the article I had read about the Bartholomew’s tragic past. All those dead servants and rumored ghosts and Cornelia Swanson’s alleged murder of her poor maid. One of the reasons Cornelia seemed so guilty was because she had once consorted with Damyanov, an occult leader.

  Le Calice D’Or.

  That was the name of her group of followers.

  The Golden Chalice.

&nbs
p; I flip back a hundred pages, locating a telling passage about Maria Damyanov.

  While times of strife cause many to seek solace in their faith, it also forces others to consider the option of appealing to a satanic messiah, especially during eras marked by extreme warfare or plague. Damyanov believed that after forming the heavens and the earth, God abandoned his creations, allowing chaos to reign. To endure this chaos, Damyanov advised her followers to appeal to a mightier deity—Lucifer—who could be summoned not with prayers but with blood. Thus began rituals in which young women would be cut, their blood caught in a golden chalice and poured over an open flame.

  Years later, some of Damyanov’s disillusioned followers hinted at more horrific practices in letters to friends and confidantes. One wrote that Damyanov claimed the sacrifice of a young woman during a blue moon would summon Lucifer himself, where he would grant those present with gifts of good health and immense fortune. The author of the letter then went on to admit that he never witnessed such an act, saying it was most likely a tale created to sully Damyanov’s reputation.

  After Damyanov was arrested for indecency in late 1930, Le Calice D’Or disbanded. Damyanov herself faded from public view. Her whereabouts after January 1931 are unknown.

  I reread the passage, my sense of unease intensifying. I try to recall details of the Cornelia Swanson case. Her maid’s name was Ruby. I remember that. The Ruby Red Killing. She was cut open, her organs removed. Something like that is hard to forget. As is the fact that the murder took place on Halloween night. I can even remember the year: 1944.

  I grab my phone and find a website that gives you the lunar cycle for every month in any given year. It turns out that on Halloween in 1944, the sky was brightened by the second full moon of the month.

  A blue moon.

  My hands start to shake, making it difficult to hold the phone as I do a new internet search, this time for a single name.

  Cornelia Swanson.

  A flurry of articles appears, pretty much all of them about the murder. I click on one and am greeted by a photo of the infamous Mrs. Swanson.

  I stare at the picture, and the world goes sideways, as if the library has suddenly tilted. I grip the edge of the table, bracing myself.

  Because the photo I’m looking at is one I’ve seen before. A sharp-featured beauty in a satin gown and silk gloves. Flawless skin. Hair as dark as a moonless night.

  I saw it in the photo album in Nick’s apartment. Although he identified the woman, he never used her name.

  But now I know it.

  Cornelia Swanson.

  And her granddaughter is none other than Greta Manville.

  40

  I text Dylan from inside the library.

  Call me ASAP! I found something!

  When five minutes tick by and he doesn’t respond, I decide to call him. A theory is forming. One I need to share with someone else, if only so they’ll tell me I’m being crazy.

  But here’s the thing: I’m not being crazy.

  Right now, insanity would be a blessing.

  Outside, I lean against the base of one of the library’s stone lions and dial Dylan’s number. The call again goes straight to his voicemail. I leave a message, urgently whispering into the phone.

  “Dylan, where are you? I’ve been looking into some of the people living at the Bartholomew. And they’re not who they say they are. I think—I think I know what’s going on, and it’s some scary shit. Please, please call me back as soon as you get this.”

  I end the call and stare up at the sky. The moon is out already—full and bright and hanging so low it’s bisected by the spire of the Chrysler Building.

  As kids, Jane and I loved full moons and how their light would stream in through her bedroom window. Sometimes we’d wait until my parents went to sleep and stand in the ice-white glow, as if bathing in it.

  That memory is tainted now that I’ve read what members of the Golden Chalice allegedly did during full moons. Just like the Bartholomew, it’s another piece of my past with Jane sullied.

  I turn around, about to head back inside the library, when a ring bleats from the phone still white-knuckled in my hand.

  Dylan calling me back at last.

  But when I answer the phone, it’s an unfamiliar voice I hear. A woman, her tone tentative.

  “Is this Jules?”

  “Yes.”

  A pause.

  “Jules, it’s Bobbie.”

  “Who?”

  “Bobbie. From the shelter.”

  And then I remember. Bobbie, the kind and funny woman I spoke with two days ago.

  “How are you, Bobbie?”

  “I’m hanging in there. New day, new thoughts. All that Eleanor Roosevelt bullshit. But as much as I like to gab, this isn’t a social call.”

  My pulse, which was just starting to settle down, revs up again. Excited blood pumps through my veins.

  “You found Ingrid?”

  “Maybe,” Bobbie says. “A girl just came in. She looks a lot like the girl in that picture you gave me. But there’s a chance it’s not her. She looks more ragged now than in the photo. In all honesty, Jules, she looks like something dead the cat just dragged in.”

  “Did she say she was Ingrid?”

  “She doesn’t talk much. I tried to buddy up to her, but she wanted none of it. The only thing she told me is that I could go fuck myself.”

  That doesn’t sound like Ingrid. Then again, I have no idea what she’s been through in the past few days.

  “What color is her hair?”

  “Black,” Bobbie says. “A dye job. A crappy one, too.”

  I grip the phone tighter. “Can you see her right now?”

  “Yeah. She’s sitting on a cot, legs pulled to her chest, not talking to anyone.”

  “Those spots that she missed in her hair, do you see any color there?”

  “Let me look.” Bobbie’s voice becomes muted as she pulls away from her phone to get a better view. “Yeah, there’s some color there.”

  “What is it?”

  I hold my breath, preparing for disappointment. Considering the way my life has gone, I’ve come to expect it.

  “It looks to me like a spot of blue,” Bobbie says.

  I exhale.

  It’s Ingrid.

  “Bobbie, I need you to do me a favor.”

  “I can try.”

  “Don’t let her leave,” I say. “Not until I get there. Do anything you can to keep her there. Hold her down if necessary. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Then I’m off, rushing down the library steps and turning onto Forty-Second Street. The shelter is ten blocks north and several long cross blocks west. Through a combination of jogging, speed walking, and willfully ignoring traffic lights, I make it there in twenty minutes.

  Bobbie is waiting for me outside. Still dressed in her work khakis and cardigan, she stands at a noticeable remove from the circle of smokers I saw two days ago.

  “Don’t worry, she’s still inside,” she tells me.

  “Has she talked more?”

  Bobbie shakes her head. “Nope. Still keeps to herself. She looks scared, though.”

  We enter the building, Bobbie’s familiar presence allowing me to bypass the woman at the desk behind the scuffed glass. Tonight, the converted gymnasium is far more crowded than the afternoon of my first visit. Nearly every cot has been taken. Those that aren’t occupied have been marked with suitcases, trash bags, grungy pillows.

  “There she is,” Bobbie says, pointing to a cot on the far side of the gym. Sitting on top of it, knees pulled to her chest, is Ingrid.

  It’s not just her hair that’s changed in the past three days. Everything about her is darker, dirtier. She’s become a shadow version of her former self.

  Her hair, now the color of tar save for that patch of telltale blue, hangs in greasy strings. Her shirt and jeans are the same ones she had on the last time I saw her, although they’re now stained from days of wear. Her face is cle
aner but raw and weathered, as if she’s spent too much time outdoors.

  Ingrid looks my way, recognition dawning in her bloodshot eyes.

  “Juju?”

  She leaps off the cot and runs toward me, pulling me into a strong, scared embrace.

  “What are you doing here?” she says, showing no sign of letting me go.

  “Looking for you.”

  “You left the Bartholomew, right?”

  “No.”

  Ingrid breaks the embrace and backs away, eyeing me with palpable suspicion. “Tell me they didn’t get to you. Swear to me that you’re not one of them.”

  “I’m not,” I say. “I’m here to help.”

  “You can’t. Not anymore.” Ingrid collapses onto the nearest cot, her hands covering her face. Her left one trembles, out of control. Even when she grasps it with her right, it still shakes, her dirt-streaked fingers twitching. “Juju, you need to get out of there.”

  “I plan to,” I tell her.

  “No, now,” Ingrid says. “Run away as fast as you can. You don’t know what they are.”

  Only I do.

  I think I’ve known for a while but wasn’t able to completely comprehend it.

  But now all the information I’ve gathered in the past few days is starting to make sense. It’s like a photograph just pulled from a chemical bath. The image taking shape, emerging from the blankness, revealing the whole ghastly picture.

  I know exactly what they are.

  The Golden Chalice reborn.

  41

  At Ingrid’s insistence, we go someplace secluded to talk.

  “I don’t want anyone to hear us,” she explains.

  At the shelter, that means commandeering the men’s locker room of this former YMCA. Outside, Bobbie stands guard at the door, blocking anyone who might try to enter. Inside, Ingrid and I stroll past rows of empty lockers and shower stalls that have been bone dry for years.

  “I haven’t showered in three days,” Ingrid says, staring with longing at one of the stalls. “The closest thing has been a whore’s bath at Port Authority, and that was yesterday morning.”