Return to Daemon Hall- Evil Roots

by Andrew Nance

  I’d seen enough. “I better get back to my cell.”

  Mr. Hoptin stepped past me, through the door, and nearly fell into his chair. “Be a good lad and shut off the lights.”

  I found the light switch three feet in from the doorway and flipped it down.

  Mr. Hoptin grabbed my wrist before I got past his desk. “When a particularly good piece from a famous artist makes its way into one of our institutions, I sometimes wish that I could rush that convict’s demise so I can gain possession of the artwork.”

  “D’you mean—”

  “Say a marvelous tattoo comes in on someone. Chances are he won’t die here.” He let go of me and went for another slug of liquor. “At least not before the natural ravages of time fades, blurs, or scars the tattoo.” He put his thermos on his desk, stood, and placed his hands on my shoulders. “There is a particular piece on one of the incarcerated lads that I would dearly love to possess. It was created by one of the world’s leading masters of black and white, Maxwell Crowley.”

  I wanted to get away from Mr. Hoptin’s sour breath, so I moved around the desk and sat in his guest chair.

  He fell back into his seat. “A unique piece, a demon face reflected in fiery water.” He saw my recognition and tried to wink knowingly. “Now, Mr. Carlisle, listen carefully. Should that person suffer, oh, say, a fatal accident, then possession of his tattoo would fall to me. I would certainly be appreciative. In fact, if that happened, I think the rest of your time spent here would be quite easy. Do you get my drift, Mr. Carlisle?”

  Amazing. I’d been here for only a short time, and I’d already had two people ask me to kill for them.

  His eyelids drooped, and he mumbled, “You’d have to be careful not to damage the art while committing the act.” His chin fell to his chest. “It’s not like anyone would mourn this particular inmate, should anything—any—thi—” He began to snore.

  We get an extra hour in the yard on the weekends. There’s sports gear: basketball hoops on a half-court, weight-lifting equipment, and a volleyball net. I like volleyball and played the following day, a Saturday, until I was a sweaty mess and took a break.

  There are picnic tables in the center of the yard, and Warren sat at one reading a book, probably the Bible. I saw Dupree stalking across the yard and heading for the tables. He knelt down and pulled out a thin piece of metal about as big around as a car antenna from his pants leg. It was a foot long, and even at a distance I could tell the end had been sharpened. A shank! He was going after Warren.

  I’m not a heroic-type guy, yet some sort of instinct kicked in. My adrenaline started pumping as I ran for the picnic tables. Everything became crystal clear, my mind working out the best trajectory to take Dupree down. When he was only steps from Warren, I jumped onto the nearest picnic table and leapt like a superhero taking flight. Dupree sensed me coming and tried to get the shank up, but I hit him first. We tumbled through the dirt. My head slammed into a table leg, and everything went fuzzy.

  Warren helped me up. My head hurt, and when I touched it, my hand came away bloody. The guards swarmed in, taking me to the infirmary, but not before I saw that Dupree had fallen on his shank. It had entered underneath his jaw and pierced through the top of his skull. No one had to worry about Dupree anymore.

  I had a concussion, and they kept me in the infirmary for two days. There was an inquiry, but it was pretty open and shut. By the time I went back to work in the morgue, Dupree’s body had already been cremated.

  Mr. Hoptin was seated at his desk, a happy smile on his face. “You are quite the young man, aren’t you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I ask one little favor of you, and you do it the very next day. Impressive.”

  “It wasn’t like that—”

  Mr. Hoptin held up his hand. “Tut-tut. We will never again mention the manner in which Jonathan Dupree passed from this world, God rest his soul.”

  * * *

  A week later a guard came for me a little before three in the morning. We were navigating the secured corridors before I fully woke. He led me to the morgue and left me at Mr. Hoptin’s office. His chair was turned around so that it faced the door to his art gallery. I cleared my throat, and he jumped as if I’d shouted boo.

  He whispered, “Come in, Carlisle.”

  I sat in the other chair.

  “You can guess the first thing I did when Jonathan Dupree’s body arrived.”

  I nodded. Mr. Hoptin had skinned the demon face tattoo from Jonathan’s chest.

  “Have you ever seen those paintings of faces whose eyes follow you no matter where you stand?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “The eyes of Dupree’s demon do the same. At first I was delighted, but then I noticed other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “Its expression changes!” He nodded as if to verify the statement.

  “Maybe it changes if you look at it from some different angles,” I offered.

  Mr. Hoptin shook his head. “Earlier tonight, it started. I need to know that it’s not all in my head.”

  “What started, Mr. Hoptin?”

  He stood and motioned me over. He put a finger to his lips, then moved his ear to the gallery door. I did the same … and heard it. Someone was muttering on the other side. It sounded like a mantra, a chant perhaps, maybe a prayer.

  “Who’s in there?” I whispered.

  A frightened smile broke on Mr. Hoptin’s sweating face. “Dupree’s demon.”

  For just a moment, the room revolved about me. “It can’t be.”

  “Watch what happens,” he whispered, and swung the door open, revealing the darkened room. The chanting instantly stopped.

  “Turn on the lights,” he ordered.

  I remembered the light switch was not by the door but well inside. I would have to lean in or even step inside to reach it. When I shook my head in refusal, Mr. Hoptin pushed me aside. He placed his right hand on the doorframe and reached in with his left. He felt the wall, then leaned in farther. Something grabbed him. One second he was there; the next he gasped and was gone, yanked inside. I stared idiotically at the half-open door and the pitch-black room beyond. My stupor ended at the sound of a struggle, glass breaking, and tables smashed. Mr. Hoptin screamed, and I ran.

  I couldn’t get far without a key, so I found a dark corner and hid. Hugging my knees, I prayed for help. Then I forced myself up and returned to Mr. Hoptin’s dark inner sanctum. The chemical smell of spilled preservative brought tears to my eyes. I heard movement.

  “Mr. Hoptin?” I stepped to the light switch, felt for it on the wall, and clicked it up. The lights weren’t working.

  “Help.” His voice was muted, like he had a gag over his mouth.

  I ran to his office and rummaged through his desk and found a small flashlight. It didn’t work, but I slapped it against my palm, and a weak yellow beam came on. Returning to the tattoo room, I saw broken jars, overturned tables, and puddles of preservative. Chunks of glass crunched under my feet.

  “Mr. Hoptin?”

  A faint rasp, something brushing against the floor, came from the far side of the room. I shone the light but could only make out a tangle of twitching shadows.

  “Help.” His muffled voice had such a quality of despair that I forced myself to cross the room.

  Mr. Hoptin lay against the wall, his body convulsing, arms reaching, and legs kicking. It was his body, but not his flesh. From head to foot, Mr. Hoptin was covered by tattoos. Every piece of flesh in his art collection had adhered to his own, and where they met, they made a seam as tight as if sewn. The strip of skin that held the tribal band was wrapped around his calf. The Japanese dragon lay at an angle across his abdomen. The octopus covered an arm and Dupree’s demon—the demon tattoo had mounted itself right over Mr. Hoptin’s face. The skin hugged so tight that I could see the round outline of Mr. Hoptin’s glasses stretching out and distorting the tattooed demon’s eyes.

  “Can’t breathe.” The tattooed
mouth of the demon moved in and out as Mr. Hoptin tried to draw air. He made futile attempts to pull the tattoo from his face, but his hands wore cumbersome flesh mittens. My eyes were drawn to an area above his foot. It wasn’t covered. I heard squishy movement and saw the small bit of flesh with the daggered heart wiggle across the floor like an inchworm. It squirmed up his foot, covered the open space, and melded with the other tattoos.

  I turned to run but tripped over a broken table and smacked my head on the floor. Stunned, but still conscious and still grasping the flashlight, I lifted the light to see Mr. Hoptin’s skin-shrouded body, the hideous face of Dupree’s demon leering down at me. Every few seconds one of the bits of flesh wiggled and stretched, resituating itself with a wet sound. In his skin-mittened hand, the patchwork man held a long sliver of glass from one of the broken jars. It placed the glass shard against the tattooed mouth of the demon and, making a sound like ripping fabric, sliced open the preserved flesh. The figure smacked its new-made lips and spoke—spoke in Jonathan Dupree’s voice.

  “I told you that a sacrifice would set me free.”

  I lost consciousness as Dupree’s demon shambled from the room.

  “I’ve just figured out that Lucinda isn’t a girl I’d want to be alone with in the dark,” Demarius said.

  Millie caught me watching as she rubbed at her arms. “Goose bumps.”

  “Wrapped in other people’s skin,” I thought out loud and shivered.

  “Hey—where’s Mr. Tremblin?” Millie asked, putting the Book of Daemon Hall on the desk next to the lantern.

  Time had slowed during the story, and it remained dark. One candle didn’t do much to dispel the gloom in that house, and Ian Tremblin was nowhere within the lantern’s reach.

  We heard shuffling and Ian Tremblin spoke, his voice deep and rasping, “I love a story where evil triumphs.”

  Why was he cloaking himself in darkness? “What are you doing, Mr. Tremblin?”

  “I find the end of that story much more satisfying than the others. For instance, Little Fox kills the great beast? Bah, she should have been butchered and consumed.”

  I looked in the direction he spoke from, but only saw a veil of black.

  “Evil didn’t win in Lucinda’s story,” Millie said, looking this way and that. “Jonathan Dupree died.”

  “But his demon lived.” There was a thump as Ian Tremblin took a step closer, and I could just make out the pale skin of his face. “Which is better than the ambiguous finale of ‘The Go-To Guy.’ Lobotomize that boy!” His voice rose, and he took another step. “And Dante should have lost his soul, not just a hand.” He spoke so forcefully that he sprayed spittle. “I heard all your stories! And only Lucinda’s had a proper finish!” Another step and he was within the circle of candlelight, standing at attention, face ahead, only his flat eyes moving, traveling from Millie, to Demarius, to me.

  “Mr. Tremblin?” I said. “Is there anything you want to tell us?”

  “Yes. I want you to rewrite your stories and to end them suitably.”

  “The password, Mr. Tremblin?” Millie said hoarsely. “What’s the password?”

  “Password?” His blank face convulsed and settled on a smile. “Open-says-a-me?”

  “What’s the real password?” Demarius begged.

  “Shave-and-a-haircut? Olly-olly-oxen-free? Alpha-tango-foxtrot?” Ian Tremblin moved toward us, spreading his arms as if preparing to hug us all.

  “Go!” I shouted, and we rushed out the door into the black hallway.

  Unable to see, I held out my right hand to feel along the wall while grasping Millie with my left. Demarius was just in front of me. Ian Tremblin laughed. It started low, rose in pitch, and continued in a shrill scream.

  No longer cautious, we ran.

  Demarius stood in utter darkness. Wade and Millie had been right behind him when they fled Tremblin, but when he finally stopped he was alone. He wasn’t even sure he stood on solid ground anymore. In this darkness Demarius felt like he was floating, perhaps in the middle of the ocean on a black night, and then he remembered what Lucinda had said earlier about sharks and stomped his foot, making sure solid ground was under him.

  “Helloooo!” His shout carried no echo; the darkness swallowed sound. “Where are you guys?” No one answered.

  He held up a hand and couldn’t see it. He felt totally vulnerable in the dark, and his fear ratcheted up a notch, until he was imagining noises all around him. Something could be right next to me, he thought, and I wouldn’t be able to tell. He shook his head, trying to get it together, and then remembered the candle Wade had given him. Matches too. He dug it out of his pocket. For a moment he thought he’d lost the matches and flint, then he found them pushed into the corner of another pocket.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said in a shaky voice. “Let there be light.” He struck the match and got a feeble spark. It flared on the next try, and he lit the candlewick. He sighed with relief. “I’m in a hallway.” He saw another flickering glow way down the hall—he’d found someone! He raised his candle high. “Hey! Hey, I’m here!”

  Whoever it was raised a candle, too, but didn’t answer. He started toward the light, and his candle nearly went out, so he cupped a hand in front of the flame. The person with the other candle also put a hand in front of theirs.

  “Awww, man.” He knew where he was. Last year they had marveled at the depth of the house by standing at the entrance of a first-floor hallway that had a mirror at the other end. They held up a lantern, and the mirror had reflected the tiniest pinprick of light. That’s where he was. His thoughts turned to the others, and his concern for them turned into profound worry. Matt and Lucinda were first-timers in Daemon Hall; they didn’t know what they were in for. He hoped they still had each other.

  “I’m over here.” A female voice spoke so calmly that it didn’t startle him.

  “Millie? Lucinda?”

  “This way,” the voice said matter-of-factly.

  Demarius could barely discern a figure in the dark, just outside one of the doorways. He started toward her, and she stepped inside.

  “Wait.”

  “In here.”

  “What?” Demarius stopped at the door. “What’s in there?” He extended his arm, putting the candle in the room. He could make out nearby furnishings and framed pictures on the closest wall. Someone grabbed his wrist. He inhaled in shock, breathing in a sweet perfume that immediately calmed him. He was pulled gently into the room, and his knees went weak as he stared down into eyes as blue as Caribbean waters.

  “Hi, Demarius,” Narcissa Daemon said.

  He gulped. “You—you know my name?”

  Smiling, she took the candle from his hand and tilted it over a small table, dropping gobs of wax. She stuck the candle to it and wrapped her arms around his waist. He stared into her mesmerizing eyes and felt as though he and Narcissa were spinning around the room in a passionate dance. She placed a hand on his chest, seeming to relish the feel of his hammering heart.

  “Kiss me.”

  “What? No! You’re—you’re—”

  Her smile widened, and she ran a hand down the front of a white gauzy nightgown that hugged her perfect figure. It was low cut, so her cleavage rose and fell with deep breaths. He knew then that they’d been wrong about her. The house showed them lies; she had not killed her family. She was beautiful, innocent, and alive.

  “I’ve watched you,” she said. “Each time you’ve come, I watch from a distance. I can’t take my eyes from you. I need more, Demarius. I need you.” She moved her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her waiting lips. “Be mine.”

  Demarius lowered his head to kiss her but stopped when he heard movement elsewhere. He saw shadowy forms.

  “Someone’s here.”

  “They’re my friends,” Narcissa said. “Gentlemen, meet Demarius.”

  At least a dozen men moved from the gloom into the candle glow. The oldest was close to eighty, and the youngest was a boy of eleven or t
welve. The clothes they wore seemed to highlight fashion changes through the decades. Demarius recognized styles he’d seen in old black-and-white movies. One long-haired guy with a peace symbol T-shirt could have come straight from Demarius’s story, “The Go-To Guy.” He judged the most recent to be a teen wearing a sideways cap and jeans so baggy that he held the waist to keep them up.

  Narcissa stroked Demarius’s cheek, getting his attention while sending all kinds of good feelings through his body. Yet when he looked back at the group, jealousy blossomed until his fury felt righteous.

  He turned his burning gaze back to Narcissa. “Your boyfriends?”

  She placed a finger to his lips. “No, silly. They’re friends, that’s all. You’re my lover and can stay with me forever.”

  Somewhere in his mind he wondered whether she’d said the same thing to each of those men, but as her finger rested on his mouth, his rage departed.

  She took away her finger and moved her face close. Their lips almost touched, and she whispered, “You can have me if you promise to always be mine.” She kissed him. It was no chaste peck on the lips, but a deep, spellbinding pleasure. Her lips sent electricity racing over his flesh and through his nerves. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he grabbed her, pushing her body tight against his. Her tongue darted and tickled, teasing and delightfully torturing in all that it implied. She pulled from his lips and gave him a seductive smile. Breathing hard, Demarius wanted more—no, he needed it. He pushed against her mouth so forcefully her teeth cut his lip.