Return to Daemon Hall- Evil Roots

by Andrew Nance

  “I know that stuff was real,” Lucinda said, waving her fork. “But I don’t believe in the ghosts grabbing contestants, Mr. Tremblin trapped in mirror-land, oh, and my favorite: the football player sucked down a sink. I mean, come on.”

  It did sound stupid when put into words; however, Demarius kept arguing. “We were there. We saw. We—we—Mr. Tremblin?”

  The writer shrugged.

  Millie took a sip of water. “There are strange things out there. But to be honest, it’s easier to believe that you suffered some kind of mass hallucination, or you’re lying.”

  “Lying?”

  “You get more publicity if people think it really happened.”

  Demarius, in frustration, flung himself back in his chair.

  “There’s no argument that will change a made-up mind, Demarius,” Ian Tremblin said. “It would be a different matter if we could take them to Daemon Hall.”

  “But you can’t, since it burned down,” Matt countered, and then his eyes lit up. “Hey, if you guys set the fire, like in your book, you’d be in major trouble.”

  Arson is a serious crime and certainly not something that I should casually confess. I looked to Demarius, but he kept his head down, focusing on the table. Mr. Tremblin, however, gazed at me and gave his head a little shake.

  “Well, what about that?” Lucinda asked. “Why weren’t you guys arrested?”

  Good question, why didn’t they lock us up? The answer is simple: because we lied. Before we set the fire, everyone who took part—Demarius, Chris, Kara, and I—agreed that we would keep our involvement secret at all costs. Ian Tremblin was the only one who knew our plans. When the time came, we set up alibis and committed the crime. Mr. Tremblin said that it’s sometimes best to hide in plain sight and insisted that I use what happened as a way to end the book.

  Of course I can’t tell Millie, Lucinda, and Matt all that; instead, I repeated the lie we told the police, the falsehood that kept us from facing arson charges. “When Daemon Hall caught on fire, Mr. Tremblin thought the idea of us setting it would make the perfect epilogue. I spoke with the police and told them I was using a fictionalized account of the fire in my book. They couldn’t have cared less. I don’t think anyone minded that the place burned down.”

  Lucinda held up her glass and glared at me over the rim. “Hmm, you say the book is true, but now you admit a big part of it is bogus.”

  Demarius looked miserable. I could tell he wanted to tell them the truth, that we were the ones who set the fire. He looked at me and I shook my head. Demarius sighed. “Yeah, well, the rest of the book is true.”

  Ian Tremblin said, “Anyhow, I liked the epilogue and insisted the publisher add it just before the publication deadline.”

  “So, the infamous Daemon Hall is ashes now?” Millie asked.

  “Naw,” Demarius said. “It’s a shell of a house. Those stone walls stayed up, but just about everything inside was gutted.”

  Mrs. Amalfi swept in bearing a tray of something that looked wonderfully sweet.

  “Ah, let’s continue this later,” Ian Tremblin said. “Antonia has brought her marvelous tiramisu! After which we’ll return to my house and freshen up. At eleven we’ll meet in my favorite room at Tremblin’s Lair: the library.”

  We arrived at the library. Demarius, Millie, Lucinda, and Matt carried their stories in black notebooks that Ian Tremblin had provided. No one seemed to notice that I didn’t have one. Ian Tremblin was in his smoking jacket, and the rest of us had changed into lounging clothes.

  The library was located in the back of the house and was hexagonally shaped with a high ceiling. Six freestanding bookcases towered over us and radiated from the middle of the room. From above they would resemble spokes in a wheel. They held thousands of books—tens of thousands. The reading area was in the hub and included several plush chairs. A brass plaque was affixed to the end of one of the bookcases. I read it aloud.

  BOOKS TO THE CEILING,

  BOOKS TO THE SKY,

  MY PILE OF BOOKS IS A MILE HIGH.

  HOW I LOVE THEM! HOW I NEED THEM!

  I’LL HAVE A LONG BEARD BY THE TIME I READ THEM.

  —ARNOLD LOBEL

  Demarius laughed. “You already have the beard, Mr. Tremblin.”

  “Didn’t Arnold Lobel write the Frog and Toad books?” Millie asked.

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “I loved those when I was a kid.”

  Smiling, Ian Tremblin said, “I still do. In fact, I’d love to have that poem on the home page of my Web site. We’ll need permission and to attribute it to Lobel, of course.”

  “I’ll take care of it when we’re done,” Matt said. “What’s the password to get into your Web site utilities?”

  Tremblin looked at everybody. “I’m sure I can trust all of you. It’s Afghanistan banana stand.”

  Matt snickered. “Not likely to forget that.”

  Millie grinned. “Afghanistan banana stand—rolls right off the tongue.”

  Demarius laughed, then his smile faded when he looked to the center of the room where a pedestal stood. Next to it was something both familiar and unsettling: the candelabrum Mr. Tremblin had brought to Daemon Hall for the first contest.

  Demarius eyed it warily. “I can’t believe you went back for that.”

  “Not until it was morning. I was helping the police search for Wade, and after we checked the study, I went ahead and took it with me. There’s a sentimental attachment.”

  He turned and held out his hand, indicating the hundreds of volumes on one of the bookcases. “These are collectibles: first editions, antiques, rarities, that kind of thing.” Some were bound in cloth, others in leather. Some titles were written by hand and some used gold leaf. There were those that looked ancient and ready to fall to pieces, and others, while obviously old, were in excellent shape. “Please don’t touch these, they’re easily damaged. This room is climate-controlled for their preservation.”

  “Here’s the good stuff.” Demarius stood before another bookcase. “Neil Gaiman! Here’s Stephenie Meyer and Garth Nix. Scott Westerfeld anyone?”

  “Perhaps later, Demarius. Now is the time to show all of you what will be the most important book during our contest.” Ian Tremblin led us to the pedestal in the middle of the library. “Wade, examine this, please.”

  The volume on the pedestal was the size of an unabridged dictionary and covered in cracked brown leather. At first I thought it was without a title, but I looked closer and saw faint brown smudges that were nearly invisible letters.

  “Try this.” Mr. Tremblin handed me a large magnifying glass.

  I bent over the book deciphering the title letter by letter. I felt a cold jolt and the little hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I lifted my gaze to the others.

  “What is it?” Millie asked.

  Smiling, Ian Tremblin said, “I’ve always believed that a good book transfers the reader to another place and time. I think Wade is experiencing a similar sensation.”

  “What’s the title?” Demarius asked.

  I took a deep breath and told them, “Book of Daemon Hall.”

  Demarius groaned. “Aww, I thought we were done with that place.”

  “No worries, Demarius, we won’t leave Pennbrook.” Ian Tremblin turned to me. “Yours is not the first book on Daemon Hall, Wade. See for yourself.”

  I touched the book. Though it sat in a cool, climate-controlled room, the cover felt warm, like flesh.

  “Open it,” Millie said impatiently.

  I cautiously turned to the first page. At the top was an illustration of a skull. Two crossed pens were drawn underneath, the kind you have to dip into an inkwell. Below those were handwritten words, one over the other.

  “Titles?” Lucinda asked.

  “Looks like it.” I read them aloud. “‘The Entering,’ ‘A Promise for Bones—’”

  Matt interrupted, “That’s the title you gave me, Mr. Tremblin.”

  “‘The Go-To Gu
y,’ ‘A Patchwork Quilt,’ and ‘The Leaving.’”

  Demarius looked from the page to Ian Tremblin. “A table of contents?”

  He nodded. “I gave each of you, judges included, a title to use in developing a short story. They were taken from this book.”

  Matt picked at his face. “Why write stories for titles that already have stories?”

  I turned to where the first story should start, but other than the title, the page was blank. I flipped through until I got to another title, but still no story.

  “Have a seat for a history lesson on the Book of Daemon Hall.”

  We got settled, everybody else putting their notebooks by their chairs.

  “After the publicity of our contest last year, I was contacted by a book dealer who claimed to possess a volume entitled Book of Daemon Hall. This was over eight months ago. Since then I’ve learned little.”

  “I’m surprised you could find anything about an old book like that,” Millie said.

  “Via the internet, I discovered that the Daemon family historical papers are archived at the University of Chicago; the school was founded by John D. Rockefeller, who partnered with Rudolph Daemon’s father on various business ventures. The Daemons made substantial donations to the school, which is why their family papers are kept there. At the university I learned the history of the home’s construction. Millie, as a Nanticoke, you’re aware of the legend of Oaskagu, the black land upon which Daemon Hall was built.”

  “Anyone who read Wade’s book knows about that,” Lucinda said.

  Millie nodded. “It’s Nanticoke lore. In fact, Oaskagu is the setting for my story.”

  Ian Tremblin widened his eyes. “Really?”

  “When I sat down to write, it seemed the only possible locale. What I know about Oaskagu comes from my grandfather.”

  “A historian of your people?”

  “My great-great-grandmother was the last person who could fluently speak the Nanticoke tongue. His interest started with her, and he kept gathering knowledge until he knew more about Nanticoke history than just about anyone.”

  “Let’s see what he taught you.” Ian Tremblin focused on Millie and spoke slowly. “There was a tree where Rudolph Daemon located his home. This tree, on the dark lands, was described as towering, black, and—unique.”

  Millie leaned forward in her chair. “That’s funny.”

  “Funny strange or funny ha-ha?” Demarius asked.

  “Funny interesting. Oaskagu’s evil supposedly came from a spirit that either lived in or took the shape of a giant tree, what they called Oaskaguakw, or dark tree. I’m wondering—could those two trees, Daemon’s and the Nanticokes’, be the same?”

  Lucinda rolled her eyes. “You talk like all this is real.”

  “This is history, Lucinda. It plays into the Daemon Hall estate, a place some of us have experienced.” Ian Tremblin spoke forcefully. “You don’t believe, fine, but you can’t deny history. Rudolph Daemon had the tree cut down and pulped some of it. It was turned into paper, from which he had that made.” He pointed at the Book of Daemon Hall.

  “No offense,” Matt said, “but what’s the big deal about a blank book?”

  “We all know the fate Rudolph Daemon suffered, right?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Demarius said. “He went nuts and killed his family.”

  “His madness started about the time he had the book made to chronicle the history of Daemon Hall. Yet he claims never to have written in it. The book, according to him, filled itself with insane histories of the surrounding land.” Seeing our puzzled expressions, he spelled it out for us. “Rudolph Daemon claimed that the book wrote itself.”

  “Ha! Give me a break,” Lucinda exclaimed.

  “I’m just telling you what Rudolph Daemon thought.” The writer shrugged.

  We were quiet until Demarius said, “I’m confused. Nothing’s in the book except for the titles. If it wrote itself, where are those stories?”

  “Obviously there were no stories. The pages are and have always been blank, but to Daemon, a man in the throes of madness, it appeared to be filled with historical accounts of unimaginable horrors. I believe, in his mental state, Rudolph put those titles in and imagined anything else he saw written there.”

  “So, besides a contest, you’ll put our stories in the book?” I asked.

  “Yes, which will keep the unsettling spirit of Daemon Hall in our competition without our actually having to go there. I had you write stories based on the titles in the book. Millie, Lucinda, and Matt will be judged on those entries. The winner, like Wade in my last contest, will have a book published in my Macabre Master series. And though Wade and Demarius are judges, they will tell stories based on the other two titles.”

  I squirmed in my seat. The pressure from not writing a story was turning out to be about a hundred times worse than any homework I’d ever neglected.

  “After the contest everyone’s story will be handwritten into the book. Why? you may ask. Because there’s nothing more pathetic than an unfinished book, especially one with the frightening potential of this one. Millie, you were assigned the first title, ‘The Entering.’ Please do us the honors.”

  Millie picked up her notebook from the floor and carried it to the pedestal, where she placed it on the open pages of the Book of Daemon Hall.

  “Hold on.” I went over to the Día de los Muertos candelabrum, what had been our sole source of light during that night in Daemon Hall. It was made of black metal with candles mounted at the top on a slanted S shape held up by interwoven bars. El Día de los Muertos means “the Day of the Dead.” It’s a Mexican holiday, in honor of which several pottery objects had been imbedded in the framework: skulls, skeletons, and coffins. Two matchbooks sat on a lantern at the base of the candelabrum.

  “Turn out the lights,” I said to Demarius.

  “Excellent idea, Wade,” Ian Tremblin noted.

  I waited for full darkness, then struck a match and lit the candles. Shadows flickered over our faces. We could just make out the freestanding bookcases and nearby chairs, but the rest of the library had been swallowed in gloom.

  I glanced from Lucinda to Matt to Millie. “In Daemon Hall we learned that some things are best read by candlelight.”

  THE ENTERING

  There was a proud people known as the Kuskarawaok, who lived south of the great Iroquois Nation, north of the Tuscarora tribe, east of the Lenape and Munsee, and southwest of the island-dwelling Wampanoags. Because they flourished along the rivers near the sea, they were called Nantego, meaning tidewater people. When Captain John Smith arrived, their name was anglicized into Nanticoke. Their numbers dwindled in the early 1700s, and by the 1800s the tribe was close to extinction. But for a handful of words, the language is forgotten, and when words are lost, stories fade like vague dreams. Even so, there is a tale that is still handed down from one generation of Nanticoke to the next.

  * * *

  Leaves crunched under my feet as I hurried through the forest. A full moon turned forest colors of green and brown into hues of blue and gray. I ran as Father taught me. “Place your eyes ten paces ahead, so that when you reach where your eyes have been, your body will know how to go.” When the growth got too thick, I attempted Father’s more difficult instruction: “Use your mind’s eye to see that to which you are blind.” I slid through the woods quickly and fought the desperate urge to look behind, for that would slow me, and if I slowed, I would join Father in death.

  * * *

  Little Fox, like her name, was small and solitary. She had somber, dark eyes and black hair, some of which was braided while the rest fell down her back, and she wore leather leggings and a breechclout instead of the knee-length skirt of Nanticoke women. The boys liked to tease her, saying she wanted to be a man, but the truth was she longed to be a warrior. Girls couldn’t train with the boys in the skills of fighting and the hunt, but her father, Silent Wolf, respected her need and taught her the use of the bow and war club. She and her fath
er were close, even more so since her mother had died in sickness.

  The Nanticoke hunted, fished, and farmed. They were competitive and enjoyed athletic contests. Wars were rare, and it was a serene and peaceful existence for the most part—except when they were plagued by a monster. Off and on throughout her people’s history, a great beast terrorized the Nanticoke. It had recently returned and was thought to live in the thick forest and wet marshes of Oaskagu, the dark land.

  Little Fox had been upset when her father went to hunt the beast and left her at home.

  “But Raging Bear goes with you,” she argued, “and he is my age.”

  Her father laid a hand on her shoulder. “Raging Bear is already taller than any man in our village. He has mastered the ways of the warrior and goes to prove his courage.”

  Though Raging Bear was strikingly handsome, Little Fox disliked him. He was egotistical and antagonistic, traits the adoring village girls overlooked. Her dislike also contained a degree of jealousy, as she was competitive by nature and he beat her at every contest: wrestling, racing, and archery.

  So, it angered her that Raging Bear joined the hunt for the great beast, along with her father, Proud Antelope, and Moss Back, but it devastated her when Raging Bear was the only one to return.

  Her tribe’s leader, a weathered, white-haired warrior named Four Winds, called for a gathering. Little Fox was allowed to attend, as were the wives and daughters of the other hunters, in what was normally a men-only meeting lodge. The drummers beat their cadence, and the fire pit blazed. Raging Bear was led in. Black tattoos were on each arm; lines like waves encircled his biceps, and on each forearm was his namesake, the bear. He shuffled to the fire and plunged both hands into the coals, then pulled them out and used his fingertips to draw parallel lines of ash down his cheeks. He set his jaw and told of what happened.

  “Four of us set out. The first sign of the beast was at the Quiackeson.” The Quiackeson was the small lodge used in the first stage of burial. “The door was broken, and the remains of Old Wolf and High River had been ravaged by the beast. We returned the dead to dignified rest and went into Oaskagu. The beast came from behind and took Proud Antelope.”