Despite the warmth of the summer night, Richardson began to shiver. The chill brought with it a sense of fear— what was he doing in this filthiest of all places alone at night? He must get out before he was discovered.
The cold creeping into him also brought an awful realisation. As he scrabbled for his coat and bag, he knew that the book, the blazing cadavers—perhaps even his vision of his father—had all been illusions born of his fevered mind.
Could it be that the pineal gland did not open a window onto a world of greater mysteries, but merely held up a mirror reflecting illusions? It sickened him to think he had merely been gazing at his own distorted features all along.
The book was no beginning. Instead it spelled the end of everything he’d hoped for. All he’d done was to uncover a path leading to nowhere but a fool’s paradise. In disgust he held up the book, its pages crumbling at the rough treatment, ready to fling it into the open grave, but something prevented him from moving.
Even if the words he’d spoken earlier had been incoherent, even incorrect, something had heard him… or, at least, felt his yearning. Thick dark clouds had gathered over the burying ground, slow thunder rumbling deep in their throat. Richardson raised his eyes as far as possible. He waited one heartbeat. Two.
Then something impossible—all angles and no body— dropped from the cloud like a stone falling from a high cliff. He struggled to make his eyes see it, for there was almost nothing there. Almost. But it was in his head.
The thing pivoted around the odd angles at the summit of an obelisk-topped tomb. If it had eyes, then Richardson felt them on him. He’d been trapped by dreams, his own delusions, and now he was going to die. He wanted to yell out in protest but was still frozen like a stone.
The dark messenger reached out to him, too swift to see. When it gripped him, the worst thing wasn’t the pain— though it burned like a branding iron; it was the secrets it told him, in a voice like a thousand buzzing insects crowding into his head.
Then, just for one moment, it allowed him to scream.
Fettes and Macfarlane met as they came into Surgeon’s Square at mid-afternoon the next day. Fettes tipped the brim of his hat to the older man. “A wild night! Did you hear the thunder, eh?”
“I’d have had to be already in my grave not to,” replied Macfarlane.
“And an odd storm at that. My sister has a view of Warriston Cemetery from her home. She will swear to you that not only was the storm centred upon the cemetery but that the lightning was going up into the sky from among the graves.”
“Eh? Impossible! A trick of the light perhaps …” offered Macfarlane.
Fettes shook his head. “Perhaps so, Macfarlane, perhaps so. Her neighbour said that something was seen flying, or falling, from the sky.
“Mmmm. A large bird struck by the lightning perhaps.”
Fettes fished the large key from his pocket as they descended the steps, then slipped it quickly into the lock, eager to be inside. As soon as he was through the door, he almost slipped on the topmost of the stone steps. “Damn it!” Then, as he examined the steps more closely: “There’s some sort of filth all over the steps. Mind your footing, Macfarlane.” Macfarlane followed him down carefully, steadying himself on the iron railing. “Ah, you’ve had a delivery, I see. Excellent. Mr. Killian will be pleased.”
Fettes stared in disbelief at the slab. A body lay under the sheet. “There was no delivery today. It’s far too early for those foul rogues to deliver anything; you know that.”
A look of slight alarm crossed Macfarlane’s face.
“Then what… ?”
“Th-there’s no head on this one!” stammered Fettes, realising that the shape beneath the sheet ended just above the shoulders.
Now Macfarlane became angry. “If Richardson has taken it already, I’ll strip the hide from the whelp! What impertinence!”
Fettes drew back the sheet covering the body. Both drew in their breath sharply at the sight that met them. The head had not been removed surgically, but instead had been gnawed and twisted free by some sort of beast, the exact nature of which they dared not speculate upon.
Their nerves were further unsettled when the corpse’s right hand fell from below the covering sheet, revealing the disfigured middle finger of the student Richardson. And clutched between the fingers, soaked in gore and filth, was a single crumpled page from an antique volume.
Always a Castle?
Nancy Kilpatrick
“We’ve always lived in the castle,” Martin told me.
I glanced at him, a handsome if aloof man, late thirties maybe, who looked as if he rarely smiled. I turned back to face the enormous Tudor-Jacobean edifice that I would not have called a castle, more a small estate, although it did sport turrets.
Reddish brickwork had never appealed to me—this building material reminded me too much of PS 46 in the Bronx where I’d gone to grade school—but I did like the bay windows, and especially the little windows framing the front door. The wavy glass looked Tudor—I could tell by the green color—and I was amazed the panes had lasted over 500 years. “Since the castle was built, Dana,” Martin assured me, as if reading my mind.
He insisted on a tour. I was pretty sure he’d be a good guide, but I was exhausted after such a long trip to Yorkshire. First there had been the six-hour flight from New York, an overnight near noisy Kings Cross tube station in London, then the early train to Leeds, where I was met at the station by a driver in one of those enormous old black Austins that used to dominate the streets of London. The ride to Whaterley House took close to an hour, and I curled up against the car’s lush upholstery and stared out the window. Enchanting as I found the increasingly rural scenery, I still managed a couple of catnaps.
At the entrance to the stately home I’d been greeted by Martin Whaterley, the nephew of Alexandra Whaterley, an aged widow in need of a companion who had selected me from “six hundred and sixty-six applicants,” Martin’s email quoted her as saying. I didn’t know whether to believe that number, and I vacillated between feeling flattered and frightened by such a picky employer.
This was not my dream job. My recently acquired BA in history did not open doors to exciting work. To go for an MA with its promises of employment, well, I needed money. I definitely felt I had a grander purpose in life than taking care of a sick old woman in a remote location, but still, they’d paid for the trip to England, and the contract was short term. Martin took my coat down the hall and left my suitcases inside the door. The entrance area was large, with a grand staircase, overhead chandelier, black and white tiles beneath my feet, and a Marketry Regency table under an oil painting of goats grazing in a field.
Martin was back quickly, and I followed him on the enforced tour: the private parlor with what I judged to be a George II breakfront full of no doubt expensive knick-knacks and several damask-upholstered sofas with carved arms and legs; the library crammed floor to ceiling with leather-bound volumes that sheltered comfy-looking chairs; the “drawing room” where presumably men used to smoke after dinner; the elegant dining room, set for a dozen dinner guests with ornate silver cutlery, crystal glassware, and fine-bone china rimmed in gold; the industrial kitchen—the only modern room I saw—all gleaming copper-bottomed pots hanging over the granite counter nestled in the middle of the latest stainless steel appliances; and finally the great hall that extended at the far end into a glassed-in atrium, this long and wide space crammed with walnut and ebony Queen Anne furniture, arranged to comprise seven living room groupings. I wondered if this vast room was ever used. “We don’t hold parties, because of Auntie’s advanced age. Just once a year, in the spring,” Martin said, with that uncanny ability to guess my thoughts, or at least read my face, since clearly I was impressed by sideboards and silver tea services ready to accommodate a multitude of visitors.
Four large tapestries depicting medieval forest scenes hung from the walls, but most of the space was devoted to at least fifty gilded-framed portraits going
back to what Martin assured me was “six generations, including the current generation, of course.” These ancestors had been painted with downturned lips, beady eyes, and severe expressions on their goat-like faces as they stood aggressively before pillars and thrones, or were presented in woodsy scenes with weapons and hunting dogs. I leaned in to the closest one to read the name on the brass plate: Wilber Whaterley. “My great-great-uncle, an American,” Martin informed me.
I stared at Martin and blurted out, “You don’t resemble your ancestors.”
“Traits are often refined through natural selection,” he said, with what I took to be a minuscule smile. Clearly the man knew his Darwin!
All the portraits were of men, and I wondered where the wives’ images were stashed, but felt it a little too early to say anything controversial other than, “Interesting features, your male ancestors.” I left it to Martin to say more, but he didn’t.
Instead, he led me up the massive oak staircase, the same polished wood used throughout the first floor, the steps lined with a faded Oriental runner, almost threadbare, and Martin nodded downward, saying, “This has been here since the nineteenth century. The wood is original, but furniture, drapes, carpeting have been added with each generation. Nothing has ever been removed, only added.”
As we ascended, I noticed traces of a nasty odor, the smell getting sharper as we rose. We turned right and entered a door at the end of the hallway. My bags had been brought to this room by someone. The large space contained a Chinese Red lacquered dresser, a Louis XIV writing desk and accompanying walnut chair upholstered in red, an enormous gilded mirror above the desk, a black wrought-iron fireplace I could walk into if I felt like it, and a high narrow bed the length of which pressed against a wall. A gold filigreed ciel de lit attached above the bed, the red and rose gauzy curtain draped at the head and foot. A small wooden footstool had been placed beside the bed in order to climb up. Every wall was covered with flocked wallpaper—scarlet!—but for the wainscoting. The British would have said I was nonplussed; I would have called that an understatement. At least the smell wasn’t so bad in here, but I wanted to open a window. “I understand you’ve a degree in antique decor,” Martin said. That wasn’t quite right—my major had been English history, and antique furnishings had been a minor, not much more than a serious hobby. I decided on a smile instead of words because, again, I was feeling both overwhelmed and tired, and that smell was getting to me. Later, with the door shut and the old leaded casement open, I hoped I could air out the room.
“I’ve put you here, in what we call the Hell-Fire Chamber. A bit of family humor.”
“Interesting,” I said, not sure how to respond to that. “Come, I’ll show you Auntie Alexandra’s rooms and you can meet her,” Martin offered as, grim-faced, he led me back into the hallway, gesturing in a dismissive way as we passed a half-dozen closed doors, saying, “There’s nothing worth seeing in these.”
I’d have loved to see what was inside. Among other favorites, I’m a huge fan of petit point and mahogany Chippendale—I spotted an ornate Chippy tilt-table in the great hall! I’d also seen a gorgeous embroidered three-person indiscret settee there, obviously not dating back to the house’s inception, but who cares!
As we walked down the long hallway toward the other end, I noticed the rank odor growing stronger. It was so foul that I found a tissue in my dress pocket and dabbed it at my nose, pretending I had the sniffles, an obvious and vapid attempt to disguise my revulsion. Martin didn’t seem to notice my reaction or even the smell for that matter, so I gave up discretion in favor of crudeness and just held the tissue to my nostrils. Still, as we walked along the hallway, the odor became overpowering; I felt an urge to gag but had the sense to control myself. Nice reaction, Dana, your first day on the job!
We reached the other end of the hallway, turned left, then went up six steps to a massive door. This area was so dark—no windows or lighting—that I couldn’t make out the carvings in the wood. A horizontal crystal door handle was positioned in the dead center of the door; I’d only seen door handles—mostly knobs—in the centers of the enormous doors of eighteenth-century cathedrals. I leaned in and squinted. When I realized that the handle was shaped like an arm bone, I jerked back.
Martin knocked three times with one knuckle, so quietly I wondered if Mrs. Whaterley would hear him. He didn’t wait for a response but pushed the bone handle down and the door creaked inward.
I found the source of the stink! It was so bad in there that I did gag, and clamped the tissue over my mouth too. Martin still didn’t seem to notice as he led me further in.
We’d entered an almost lightless room. As my eyes adjusted, I figured this to be a kind of sitting room, the curtains drawn tight against the early afternoon sunlight, and I couldn’t make out anything but vague outlines of furnishings. We quickly passed through the open double doors into the large bedroom where the drapes were also closed. One fat pillar candle in a tall iron holder next to the double bed made a valiant attempt to pierce the darkness of this suite, but faced a losing battle. If it hadn’t been for the stark white face, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the small form lying on the bed, covers pulled to above the chin. And despite knowing I was being rude, I held the tissue firmly over my nose and tried to breathe through my mouth with small breaths.
“Auntie, this is Ms. Dana Keenan, your new companion.”
I expected a feeble response, or none at all, but a booming voice with a register low enough to be a baritone burst from the bed. “I know who in hell she is!”
I waited a respectful second, but when Mrs. W did not acknowledge my presence, I suppressed my surging “fuck you, lady!” attitude, removed the tissue from my nose, and said, “Hello, Mrs. Whaterley. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Is it?” the voice snapped. “We’ll see what pleasure you feel in my presence.”
This shocked me. Martin, whom I could not see, said in a soft voice, “Auntie tires easily these days. We’d best keep this first meeting short.
To her he added in a louder and vaguely cheerful voice, as if the old lady was deaf and dumb—and I doubted she was either—“We’ll go now, Auntie, so that Ms. Keenan can get settled. Perhaps you can come down this evening and—”
“I’ll come down if I feel like it and not if I don’t!”
Martin reached out of the shadows and took my arm, turning me from the cranky old woman and leading me back through the sitting room. I’d brought the tissue up to my nose again, aware that the vile odor was now trapped in my sinuses. I really wanted to get outside for some fresh air.
Just as we reached the door, that voice reverberated through the two rooms and surrounded us. “I’ll want attending to this night!”
My heart sank. I realized I could not do this job. I needed the work, and this was England after all—a real opportunity—and in such a bad economy I was lucky to even find a decent-paying job; but no matter how much I tried to dissuade myself, this was too much. The woman was nasty, and the rancid odor that clogged the air… No, I wouldn’t be staying at Whaterley House!
I followed Martin to the first floor and as we reached the bottom of the stairs, I was about to tell him of my decision and did manage to say, “Martin, I’d—”
That was as far as I got. He interrupted me with, “Come, Ms. Keenan—may I call you Dana?”
“Uh, yes, of course,” I said, thinking, You already have!
“Let’s walk through the grounds and I’ll show you the gardens—we’ve prize-winning antique roses. It’s crisp today. I’ll get your coat.”
Before I could respond, he vanished, leaving me standing at the entrance. I thought about how I could phrase my quick resignation without being either obnoxious or obtuse, because I had no intention of staying in this house even one night, let alone fulfilling a contract that spanned the better part of a year. That wasn’t going to happen!
Martin returned with my coat and scarf and led me out the door to the flagstone walk whe
re we turned right. This paved path wound away from the house and even from here I could see massive gardens ahead. All the while Martin chatted about the construction of the garden by Capability Brown in the eighteenth century, the maze at its epicenter, expanded over the centuries, and the variety of flowers and shrubs. I’ve never been able to identify flowers, unless they appeared on upholstery, but I knew what I found visually beautiful and pleasant scented, and this garden was that.
We stopped at the heirloom roses, only one miraculously still in bloom. “The weather turned a fortnight ago,” Martin said, again exhibiting his uncanny skill of mind-reading. “Flowers, unfortunately, die from the cold. But the bushes are perennials, you know. Each spring they bring forth new life.”
He bent and snapped the stem of the single white rose still in bloom, and for some reason that aggressive act seemed violent to me, destroying the last living thing in this bed of decay.
He turned and handed it to me, his ashen eyes still expressionless, his lips an even straight line, as if they were incapable of turning either up or down. I found his benign face mesmerizing and absently reached out to take the rose.
And cried out as pain shot through my fingertip. I jerked my hand away from the thorn, and blood flecks splattered the flower’s pristine petals.
“Be careful!” Martin snapped, his voice a sudden imitation of Mrs. Whaterley’s in tone, depth, and annoyance, and I glanced at his face. “We don’t want you infected!” His eyes had turned steely, his look so intense I had to turn away.
I glanced toward the house and saw movement at the corner of an upstairs window and suspected it was Mrs. Whaterley, watching.
All this so unnerved me that I blurted out, “Martin, I’m really sorry, but I can’t take the job. I’m not the right person to be your aunt’s companion.”
His eyes settled into the flat grey and he said in an even voice, “But, Dana, you’ve come all this way. Surely you might give the position a chance.”
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