by Andrew Nance
“How’s that for a coincidence?” Demarius pointed into the case. “In Millie’s story, Little Fox left her bow buried by the tree, and they actually found one.”
Daemon picked up the handset of the black rotary telephone on his desk. He stuck his finger in the dialer and spun it several times. After a moment he said, “It’s Rudolph. I want it done.” He listened intently then shouted, “I don’t care how much it costs.”
“Is he paying someone to kill them?” Matt asked.
“No, no, it has to be tomorrow morning,” Daemon argued. “Meet me at the back entrance at sunrise. I want her taken from bed, out of the house, and to the hospital. She’ll fight, so I give permission to use restraints.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.
“He’s not arranging for murder,” Ian Tremblin said, amazed at the discovery. “He’s trying to separate her from Daemon Hall, to have her committed.”
“Then who kills the kids, hangs Rudolph”—Matt ticked off the points on his fingers—“and does away with Narcissa’s body?”
Ian Tremblin looked thoughtful. “What if they never found her body because she wasn’t killed? What if she did it and went into hiding?”
Rudolph Daemon slammed his fist onto his Book of Daemon Hall. “I’ve read this book’s last damnable story! I was to record the history of my home and family in it. Instead the pages are contaminated with repugnant tales.” He flung the book across the room.
“We need to find Narcissa,” Tremblin said.
When Rudolph turned away, we slipped through the door.
As we reached the landing, Narcissa waltzed by the base of the staircase. Breathing hard, Ian Tremblin fell behind as we pounded down the steps. We chased after her around a corner, into the right-side hallway, and through a dining room with an incredibly long table. At the far end we pushed through a swinging door into the Daemon Hall kitchen. The room was huge, with overlarge appliances. A car-sized butcher’s block was at the center. A square metal rack hung over it, from which dangled every imaginable pot, pan, and kitchen utensil. Two women in matching dresses worked at the sink, washing dishes.
Narcissa crossed the room, stopping to pick a large metal spoon from the utensils and admire her reflection on the concave side. She rehung it and moved to the women.
Ian Tremblin stumbled through the door, hand to his chest and breathing hard. “What—what—is happening?”
One of the women pointed at a steaming pot on the stovetop and spoke with some kind of European accent. “The hot chocolate is ready, madam. I’ll take it right up.”
“There’s no need, Gretchen. I promised the children I’d bring it. You and Olivia can take the rest of the night off.”
Narcissa waited until they were out of the room and retrieved a silver serving tray from a cabinet above the stove. On that she placed three large coffee mugs. Using a kitchen towel as a hot pad, she picked up the pot and poured hot chocolate into the cups.
“She doesn’t look like a homicidal nutjob to me,” Lucinda said.
Narcissa carried the tray to the butcher block and reached into a pocket hidden in the folds of her gown and pulled out a flat brown bottle. Smiling, she opened it and poured a few drops into each cup. She got a spoon and stirred, picked up the tray, and went through the swinging door, leaving the bottle behind.
Ian Tremblin picked it up and looked at the label. “My God, chloral hydrate.”
“Which is?” Lucinda asked.
Ian Tremblin paced, staring at the bottle. “She’s slipping a Mickey to her own children.”
“Slipping a whattie?”
“Slipping someone a Mickey was a term used when drugging someone in private-eye novels and movies of the forties and fifties. It was named for an actual person, Mickey Finn, a Chicago bartender in the early 1900s who would drug his clientele and rob them. She’s lacing their hot chocolate with knockout drops.”
“But why?” Millie asked.
“It was thought that Daemon smothered the children with a pillow, yet when they were found, their faces were peaceful. The Mickey Finn explains why they didn’t struggle. But it wasn’t Rudolph—it was Narcissa.”
Something about that didn’t make sense to me. “Maybe, but she’s not strong enough to hang her husband on that rafter in his office.”
Ian Tremblin rubbed his lips. “Puzzling.”
“We have to stop her,” Millie said.
“Stop her?” Ian Tremblin looked confused. “We can’t. It’s already happened.”
“We have to try. Don’t we?”
“But—to have the mystery solved, to see how the crimes were committed—”
“Mr. Tremblin, we’re talking about their lives!”
“These are past events. There’s nothing we can do.”
Millie stared at the writer in disbelief. “We don’t know that. We have two theories: This is either memories of past events, or we’ve gone back in time. If the second is the case, then we can stop it.”
“Why is Daemon Hall letting us see these murders?” I asked. “Because it wants to show how helpless we are, how we have no control here. What if we fight back and prove it wrong? We could change history.”
“Perhaps,” Ian Tremblin acquiesced. “How would you suggest we proceed?”
“Get a message to Mr. Daemon somehow,” Demarius said.
Matt shook his head. “Have you forgotten that they can’t see or hear us?”
“And we can’t touch them.” Ian Tremblin shivered at the memory. “It was quite painful when I came into contact with Mr. Daemon.”
“Touch them?” It gave me an idea. “We’ve been touching things, right? We’ve opened doors, picked up stuff. Mr. Daemon is in his office, and what do you find in an office? Things to write with. Let’s write him a note.”
Ian Tremblin grinned. “I can’t wait to see the expression on his face.”
Matt cleared his throat. “If we can pick up things here, it voids your theory of memory while adding credence to mine that we actually made the trip back in—”
“Shut up, Matt!” Millie, Demarius, and I said at the same time.
“We’ll argue the academics later,” Ian Tremblin said.
We had no sooner started for the kitchen door than the sound of slowing time rumbled through the house.
“Another time burst,” Matt said.
“But I didn’t see day change to night or vice versa,” Lucinda said.
“A brief burst,” Matt answered. “An hour or two? Maybe only minutes.”
“Narcissa?” It was Daemon’s voice from the dining room. “Are you there?”
“Crap! He’s not in his office anymore,” Demarius said.
A moment later the door swung wide and the master of the house walked in.
“Quick, find something to write with,” Millie ordered.
The others scrambled through the kitchen. I put the Book of Daemon Hall on the butcher block and searched the countertops.
After looking around the room, Daemon turned and lifted his hand to push through the door. Desperate to get his attention, I grabbed the brown bottle and threw it past his head to shatter against the wall.
Mr. Daemon went rigid and turned slowly.
“Good thinking, Wade,” Ian Tremblin said, and grabbed the Book of Daemon Hall from the butcher block.
Mr. Daemon gazed about the room as he knelt at the broken glass. He picked up a couple of pieces held together by the label. He read it and moaned, “Narcissa, no,” then rushed from the kitchen.
By the time we got to the entrance hall, Daemon was hurrying up the staircase.
“Look!” Matt nearly squeaked, and pointed toward the front doors.
The rope left by the Daemon twins was uncoiling and slithering in curly S shapes toward the stairs. As the rope rubbed against the floor, the friction produced a hiss. We backpedaled as it glided by. Dumbfounded, we watched it wind itself around the newel post and work its way up the banister. When it got to the landing it disappeared.
I knew what this meant. “Mr. Tremblin, the rope.”
“The rope?” He sounded dazed.
“Mr. Daemon was hanged.”
There was no reaction for a second. In the next, we raced upstairs.
“Where is it?” Demarius breathed hard as we flew around a corner on the third floor and nearly ran into—or through—Mr. Daemon. He stood in the middle of the hallway, watching as the door to Cornelia’s room opened and Narcissa came out. She clutched an overstuffed white pillow.
She smiled. “Ah, you’re just in time to say good-bye to the twins.”
“Good night, you mean?”
“You poor, naive man. Perhaps you should go look in on Cornelia.”
“Stay here!” Daemon ordered, and slid past her into their daughter’s room. A moment later he wailed, “Dear God, no!” He rushed from the room, his face red. Grabbing his wife, he shook her violently. She dropped the pillow and laughed. Daemon bellowed, “You poisoned your own daughter?”
“No, no, dear Rudolph, no,” she spoke soothingly. “I smothered her with that pillow.”
Daemon’s face darkened. “Fiend!”
“No, dear, a fiend would smother them as they struggled. A loving mother would drug them so it would be an easy departure from this world.” Narcissa pulled from Daemon’s grasp and picked up the pillow. “Now the twins.”
Daemon pushed her aside, moved to the door, and growled, “Over my dead body.”
“Of course. There was never any doubt.”
Movement caught my attention; it was the rope, twisting through our legs like a viper. It moved fast, the end of it rising to whip around Daemon’s neck.
He grabbed at the rope but it tightened around his throat. Struggling, he begged, “Narcissa, please think about what you’re doing.”
She patted his cheek. “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m fulfilling a bargain that will keep me young and lovely forever.”
Mr. Daemon tugged at the rope. “What are you talking about?”
“Our house has made a promise. If I perform this one small task, I will live in these walls forever, and the mirrors will display my beauty for eternity.”
“Narcissa.” Tears tracked down Daemon’s cheeks. “Our children—” The rope constricted, preventing any more words.
She kissed his cheek. “I’ll be beautiful forever. It’s worth the cost.”
The free end of the rope slithered down the hallway, yanking Daemon off his feet and dragging him along. Narcissa opened the door to the twins’ room and stepped in. Millie tried to follow, but the door slammed and would not open.
“Help Rudolph!” Ian Tremblin shouted.
We chased after the man whom history had wrongly branded a murderer. He gagged as his fingers clawed at the hemp, and his feet kicked against the floor and walls. His office door opened by itself, welcoming the man to his execution. I vaulted forward, trying to grab one of Mr. Daemon’s legs, but my arms passed through him. My entire body jerked and shook, and I felt like I’d hugged an electrical transformer.
Demarius, Ian Tremblin, and Millie helped me to my feet. Lucinda ran past, Matt behind her. I wanted to shout at them to wait, but my mouth wouldn’t work. They rushed into the office as the rope spun itself around the high beam. The last thing I saw before the door slammed shut was Matt and Lucinda watching helplessly as the rope pulled Daemon up, kicking and flailing, by his neck.
We stood at Daemon’s office door. My hands stung from pounding it, trying to get in to Matt and Lucinda. I was miserable; our two friends were imprisoned within the office and we hadn’t even come close to preventing the Daemon Hall murders.
“It’s true, then. History does repeat itself,” I croaked.
Roaring in frustration, Ian Tremblin lunged at the door. He twisted the knob, tugged, and beat on the wood. “Matt! Lucinda! Are you there?” Breathing hard, he slammed both fists against the door, then laid his head against them.
Demarius put a hand on the writer’s shoulder. “We’ll find them, you’ll see.”
He started to respond, then jerked like he’d been hit by a wave of arctic water. Demarius scrambled away as Tremblin’s head flung back, mouth agape and eyes wide.
“Mr. Tremblin!” Millie reached for him.
“No!” I stopped her from touching him. She looked at me, and I shook my head. I turned to the writer. “Mr. Tremblin? What is it?”
He spun around, peering at us with dull black eyes. His lips stretched into a snarling smile. Suddenly, he yelled, “No!” and shook his head violently. He put his hands to his face and then took them away to reveal a frightened man. “Wade, hit me!”
“What?”
“HIT ME!” His face rippled, changing expression from fearful to threatening.
I swung as hard as I could, my open hand hitting his cheek with enough force to make him stagger back. When he looked at us, his eyes were filled with tears reflecting the glow from the lantern.
Breathless, he put a hand to his face. “It was trying to get into me.” He sounded stunned and miserable. “Daemon Hall was trying to possess me, like last year. I think it’s been trying to get me since we arrived.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.
“It’s been subtle: emotional changes, giddiness, anger. I hoped it was just nerves, but now, I knew it was Daemon Hall.”
“How?” Millie asked.
Ian Tremblin turned away from us. “Because of the incredible rage directed toward you. For a moment I wanted to hurt all of you. You have to go on without me.”
“What? We can’t do that,” Demarius said.
“For your own good. I’m dangerous, can’t you see that? Daemon Hall could get in me at any time, and if I hurt one of you, I—” He shook his head.
I didn’t like the thought of lessening our number by even one, especially if it was Ian Tremblin. He had valuable knowledge of Daemon Hall and the supernatural, and was quicker to figure things out. “Wait a minute.” An idea was forming in my mind. “You don’t remember anything after Daemon Hall took control of you last year, right?”
“Right,” he said dismally.
“What if it works both ways? What if it doesn’t know what’s happening in your head unless it’s in you at the time? We could come up with a secret sign—no, a secret word, a password. If we ever wonder if it’s really you, we can ask you for it.”
“Good idea,” Demarius said. “If you don’t know it, you’re possessed, and we put some major distance between you and us.”
“Do you think it will work?” the writer asked.
“It’s better than abandoning you,” Millie said.
I waved them into a football huddle and whispered, “What’s the password?”
“It’s gotta be something the house couldn’t guess,” Demarius said. “How about—”
“Shhhh! Don’t say it out loud.” Millie held a finger to her lips. “If Daemon Hall hears, then it won’t be any good.”
“Well, how are we supposed to agree on a password if we can’t say it?”
I scratched my head. “We can write it out.”
Demarius shook his head. “This house has eyes everywhere.”
Millie leaned in even closer and spoke softly to Tremblin, “Remember the password you gave Matt so he could make changes on your Web site?”
I smiled, remembering Afghanistan banana stand.
“Who could forget that?” Demarius said.
“Yes, my password will do nicely.”
“What if—”
Millie was interrupted by a cheerful tune with an Irish lilt.
Narcissa came humming up the hall and went into the master bedroom suite. We followed her in and across the room to her peculiar decagonal glass-shrouded dressing room that we’d been in last year. All ten walls were covered with mirrors.
Millie pointed out, “Look, none of us has a mirror image.”
Narcissa, dancing as she hummed, was the only figure with a reflection. She reached to the ceiling a
nd twirled. Her tempo increased and she spun around, until she hit a pure, high note and leapt like a ballerina through one of the mirrors. It looked as if the glass surface were made of gelatin, and she pushed through with the slightest ripple. There was only one Narcissa now, and she was inside the mirror.
“You were in there, Mr. Tremblin, last year,” Demarius said.
“It gives me a bad feeling,” the writer said huskily. “Let’s go.”
I glanced back. Swaying slightly, mirrored Narcissa hugged herself and giggled like a small girl. I fought the urge to shout curses at her and left the room.
Outside the suite, Demarius said, “Time is fast-forwarding again.”
Day/night/day/night—the change wasn’t fast enough for the strobe effect we’d struggled through earlier, but it was enough to keep us off balance.
“Look.” Ian Tremblin shifted the Book of Daemon Hall from one hand to the other and pointed down the hall. Daemon’s office door stood open.
We went and looked in. No body hung from the beam.
“Lucinda?” Millie called.
“Mr. Matthews?” Ian Tremblin shouted.
“Scungilli?” Demarius yelled.
A quick search of the surrounding rooms yielded no comrades. Daemon Hall was pulling a trick I was familiar with. “It’s separating us.”
Ian Tremblin nodded. “We must stay together at all times.”
“Amen,” Demarius mumbled.
Dizziness hit me—it was an anxiety attack. It started mildly, so I wasn’t too concerned. The slow starters are weaker and can usually be stopped with square breathing. I went and sat in Daemon’s desk chair and started counting my breaths.
“Remember what I said earlier,” Millie whispered in my ear, making me jump, “about letting it come on?”
I stopped in midcount, wondering what would happen if I tried, if I sat back and let the attack roll through me. Battling was a reflexive action. Could I not fight it? Curious, I decided to try, figuring I could rein it in before it got out of hand. So I let it come. It was sort of like stepping outside my body, ignoring what I felt. The fit gained strength, not a lot at first, but growing, then all at once it seemed I stepped off a cliff. I couldn’t breathe, and my heart beat so fast and hard it felt like my ribs might crack.