“Strange man, your Wilhelm Frankenstein,” said Henry, dabbing his nose. “Most men are satisfied with one secret room, but he apparently needed two.”
We’d all gathered around the small table and the book atop it. I quickly picked it up and opened it.
“Some kind of workbook,” Henry said at my shoulder, for the early pages were dense with scribbling and crossing-outs, and numerical charts, written any which way across the page. Page after page of ink so dense and dark it appeared like thunderclouds—and then, on a calm page, some orderly lines of handwriting.
“This must be Wilhelm Frankenstein’s hand,” I said. “Written in Latin—of course,” I added with a sigh. “What is everyone’s obsession with Latin? It’s absurd. Henry, will you do the honors?”
My long-suffering friend took the notebook and exhaled. “This feels too similar to our last adventures in the Dark Library.”
“If you don’t read it, I’ll only puzzle it out myself,” I told him with a smile.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “The first line says here ‘One drop and one drop only, taken on the tongue.’”
Elizabeth took up the flask. The glass was a dark green, but through it I could see the darker shadow of some liquid near the bottom.
“I’m amazed it hasn’t all dried up,” she murmured. “Could it have been here three hundred years?” With some difficulty she uncorked the flask.
She took a sniff at the neck and recoiled. “It smells like something that should not be drunk under any circumstances.”
“Who said I’m going to drink it?” I asked.
Elizabeth raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Do you think Wilhelm Frankenstein actually drank this?”
“We don’t know yet,” I said. “Go on, Henry.”
“‘In your right hand take firm hold of the spirit clock…’”
“Spirit clock,” I repeated, and from the table grabbed hold of the pocket watch. I stared for some time before understanding what I was looking at. I swallowed.
Beyond the scratched, smoky glass was what looked like the skeletal remains of a fetal bird, perhaps a sparrow. Its collapsed ribs, bent neck, and crushed skull occupied the center of the clock face. A spindly leg protruded straight up from this bundle of bones, its tiny clawed foot pointing at what in a normal timepiece would have been twelve o’clock. Yet there were no numerals anywhere on the face.
“How delightful,” said Henry with a hoarse chuckle. “I’m sure they’ll be all the rage in Paris before long.”
I turned the clock in my hands. There was no keyhole for winding it. I put it to my ear.
“It doesn’t tick.” I looked at Henry and asked, “Does it say how it works?”
Henry looked back down and continued translating, but almost instantly broke off. “Look here,” he said to me firmly, “before I read any more, I want a promise from you that you’re not going to do anything rash. A promise, Victor, or not another word.”
“Henry, I promise.”
He held my eye a little longer and then read on. “‘In your left hand hold the talisman that will bring you back to your body. The item itself is of no significance, so long as it is clenched tightly in the left hand when you make your entry—and your exit.’” Henry looked up, his eyes wide behind his spectacles. “Entry and exit where?”
“It’s obvious enough, isn’t it?” I said, a quickening excitement beating in my ears. “Here’s what I think. Wilhelm discovered those instructions for the spirit board and used them to communicate with the dead. And maybe the dead told him how to enter their realm. Or, who knows, he might have figured out how to get there himself!”
“It’s not possible,” said Elizabeth. “Beyond our world there’s heaven, hell, and purgatory—and the living can’t go there.”
“Keep reading, Henry!” I urged.
He swallowed. “‘The talisman allows your body to recognize your spirit as its rightful owner. You must return to your body when the hand of the spirit clock has made one full revolution.’” Henry paused briefly. “‘Tarry too long and your body will die.’”
“So, it seems,” I said, “that your spirit leaves your body when you enter this other world. And you have a limited time to be parted from it.”
Henry continued reading. “‘Beware, because time is unreliable in the spirit world. Your allotted time might seem an age, or the blink of an eye—though, with practice the spirit clock can be manipulated.’”
I snatched up the dropper and poked it deep into the flask.
“Are you mad?” Elizabeth said, grabbing my arm.
I tried to grin. “You know I am.”
“Victor, you promised!” Henry exclaimed.
“I lied.”
Elizabeth tried to snatch at the dropper. “It could be poison!” But before she could stop me, I squeezed a drop of the fluid onto my tongue.
No one said anything for a moment.
“You fool,” she breathed.
“It’s done,” I said through gritted teeth. “It cannot be undone! If it’s nonsense, we’ll all be the wiser.”
And if it kills me, I will go where Konrad has gone. I’ll be a twin again.
“How do you feel?” Henry asked.
“Completely unchanged,” I said, reaching out for the bottle. “Are you sure I took enough?”
Henry stopped me with his free hand, glancing down at the book. “‘Never take more than a single drop. Its effect is potent, and the elixir cannot be taken more than once a day, lest your body fall into a dangerous torpor.’”
“There’s something now….” I grimaced. A bitter metallic taste suddenly blossomed in my mouth, and an unsettling warmth swept through my veins.
“Make yourself vomit it up!” Henry urged me. “We’ve no idea what it really does!”
The anxiety in his face sent the first jolts of panic through me. What if it truly were poison? I forced myself to focus. Heavily I sat down on the reclining sofa and took up the spirit clock.
“Right hand?” I said, looking at Henry, feeling light-headed.
“Yes, yes, right hand!”
I closed the three fingers of my right hand around the clock’s smooth contours.
“And you must have something in your left!” Elizabeth said. “Your talisman!”
“My ring!” I said, and tried to pull the Frankenstein family ring from my finger, but a strange numbness was overpowering me. I lay down.
“Here, let me,” she said, and tugged it from my finger. She put it in my left hand and folded my fingers tightly around it.
“Henry, is there anything else written?” I asked urgently.
My friend frantically flipped ahead in the notebook. “No, that’s all. That’s everything.”
“Your eyes are drooping,” I heard Henry say as though from a great distance.
“Victor, get up!” cried Elizabeth. “Don’t fall asleep! Henry, help me get him up!”
I blinked again—
* * *
—and Henry and Elizabeth are both gone.
I’m still lying on the sofa, in Wilhelm Frankenstein’s secret room in the chapel ceiling. I must’ve dozed off and been deserted, which seems more than a bit inconsiderate. The trapdoor is closed. I frown. Why would they leave me here alone?
I’m suddenly aware of my clenched hands. I open my left and see my ring. And in my right hand is the smooth round shape of the spirit clock, its silver cool against my warm skin, and what I thought was just my body’s pulse echoed in my fingers is actually the ticking of the clock.
I hold it to my ear. The ticking is unmistakable, and the skeletal leg of the bird, which once pointed straight up, has twisted a bit to the right.
And then my gaze shifts from the clock to the hand that holds it. My three-fingered hand now has five fingers. I drop the clock onto my lap and stare in amazement, wiggling the fingers before my eyes.
“They’re healed!” I cry, wanting Elizabeth and Henry to be here so I can show them.
The d
ull drumming pain is gone, completely gone. I make a fist.
How can this be real? I thump my body. I’m solid and awake. This is no dream.
But I am… elsewhere.
I slip my ring back onto my finger and look once more at the clock. When it has made one full revolution, I must return to my body. Does that mean this sofa here, where I now sit?
I look about myself. Are Elizabeth and Henry still here somewhere, in the real world, unseen and unseeing?
Slowly I stand, expecting to feel light-headed, but I feel absolutely fine. Better than fine. I feel as though I’ve shed the gloom that’s hung upon me like a leaden cloak. Instead an eager vigor courses through me. I’m a spirit, yet I have substance and strength. I’m no bit of ghostly vapor—and most curious of all, I’ve never felt more alive. Every beat of my heart cries, Now.
I reach for the trapdoor and have no idea what awaits me on the other side. A barren plain? A fiery swamp filled with torment? Or a blissful meadow faintly vibrating with harp music? Heaven, hell, or purgatory—those were the possibilities Elizabeth had mentioned. So which will it be?
I look once more at my miraculously healed hand and realize that I am not remotely afraid. All I feel is exhilaration. I open the trapdoor.
There is the chandelier, still tied off at its cleat. Below, the chapel looks completely unchanged. I swing my legs out over the edge of the hatch, and step carefully down onto one of the braces. I untie the rope from its cleat and sit down, lowering myself slowly. It’s easy work, especially with two able hands. Within moments I am at the floor.
I let my eyes linger on the ceiling, and the dull fresco suddenly pulses, showing me its former glory in a blaze of vibrant blues and golds. It’s as though, by mere will, I am making the house remember its past! I turn my gaze to the walls, where I know nothing hangs anymore, but, concentrating, I now see heavy tapestries depicting Jesus and the stations of the cross. At the altar a candle burns. Rows of simple wooden pews swim into view.
I step toward one of them, and as I rap it with my knuckles, it becomes truly solid. I stroke my fingertips across the grain—the feeling is intense, strangely pleasurable. And when I sit down upon the pew, it’s no surprise that it’s as solid as can be. It doesn’t evaporate and spill me out, though when I stand, it starts to fade, as though it takes my gaze, my touch, to properly remind it of its existence. I smile at the wonder of it, my power to make this happen.
A feeling of being watched crawls over me, and I turn toward the doorway. I am alone but suddenly conscious of what else I might see here.
I leave the chapel and walk toward the château’s great entrance hall. The place is so still and quiet, yet seems to pulse with energy and expectation. At first everything around me seems utterly familiar, but I need only to let my gaze rest awhile somewhere and suddenly I see spectral tapestries and paintings, bits of unknown furniture, different doorways, flagstones, wall sconces, and moldings—everything that was once in the house, or was once part of it, is still here, waiting to be seen and touched again.
I reach the entrance hall. Flanking the great wooden door are two leaded glass windows, beyond which is a fog so thick, I cannot see the courtyard.
Once more I’m aware of being watched. I whirl back to the stairs to find no one upon them. But fluttering lazily down toward me is a black butterfly. I remember the two dark creatures in Wilhelm Frankenstein’s self-portrait, holding the paintbrush. But this butterfly here is surprisingly large, with a dark blue eyespot on each of its wings, and with every wing beat I can actually hear a strangely musical thrum.
As I watch, the creature circles above my head, tentative, as though asking permission. Instinctively I stretch out my hand, and cautiously the butterfly lands upon my finger. At its touch a thrill of pleasure passes through me—and something else too, which reminds me of both hunger and being fed—and as I watch in amazement, the butterfly is illuminated with color more intense than any stained glass.
When it flutters away, gloriously ablaze, I feel a twinge of sadness. I check the spirit clock. The fetal bird leg points straight down. Half my time already gone!
I hurry upstairs, and as I near Konrad’s bedchamber, my step falters. If I find him inside, what will he look like? What will I say? I force myself onward. The door is ajar—
Sitting at his table before a chessboard, he’s turned away from me, dressed in the suit he was buried in. I can only stare in wonder. My voice abandons me. My brother is not gone. He has been here all along, just waiting. He moves a rook, then turns the board around, considering his next move, and I realize this is the same game we were playing at his bedside before he died.
I push the door open, enter the room. “Konrad,” I whisper.
Immediately he turns, throwing an arm across his face, as though shielding himself from a blinding glare. He stands, upsetting his chair. In shock I see him snatch up a rapier and back away from me in terror.
“Are you an angel?” he cries out. “Or a demon come to punish me?”
I walk deeper into his room, arms spread wide. “Konrad, it’s just me: Victor!”
He cowers, squinting, still shielding his face. I look over my shoulder and can’t see the source of any glare. Can it be me?
“No!” he shouts. “You lie! My brother’s alive! What are you?”
“Victor!” I insist. “And I am alive! But I found a way inside! I came to find you!”
He tightens his grip on the hilt, but I can see the blade shaking. “Prove it.”
“Ask me anything—something only we would know.”
“When we were four years old,” he begins, “there was a cat we both loved, and—”
“One day in the stables we had a contest to see who could lure it to him first. It preferred you, of course, and you gloated, so when your back was turned, I picked up a large stone and dropped it onto your head. I promised you my dessert if you wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“Victor?” Konrad says quietly. “Is it really you?”
I draw closer to embrace him, but he staggers back wincing, hand outstretched to ward me off. “No, don’t touch me! Your heat!”
“My heat?”
“It burns!”
I stop, confused and hurt—and then another thought blossoms, unbidden, in my mind:
I am light and heat. I have total control over him.
“Why do you have a rapier with you?” I ask him. “What are you afraid of?”
“The house is different now.”
“What do you mean? Are there others here?”
“Yes,” he says, “but—”
In my pocket I feel a strange vibration, and I hurriedly pull out the spirit clock. Its skeletal leg points straight up, and the tiny clenched claw is ghoulishly tapping at the glass.
“What’s that you’re holding?” Konrad says, squinting.
“I must go,” I say to my twin, remembering the notebook’s strict instructions. “Are you safe here?”
“I don’t know! Don’t go yet!”
“I’ll come back! I promise!”
I run, the ring on my hand guiding me like some supernatural magnet, in the direction of my body in the real world. It knows. It impels me.
“Victor!” I hear Konrad call from the hallway. “Don’t go!”
The despair in his voice is like a chisel to my heart. “I have to,” I call back over my shoulder, and see he’s following me from a distance. But I move like a current of wind, outstripping him. I hurtle down the grand staircase, and on the final steps a low moan of wind from outside draws my eyes to the windows. The fog is even thicker now, and eerily bright, swirling in strangely hypnotic patterns.
A dangerous curiosity stirs in me, and I want to go closer, to look deeper, but the ring on my hand sends an insistent jolt through me. I must leave. But my mind feels addled now, and as I begin to run back toward the chapel, before me suddenly stands a wall where there should be none. Without thinking I rush through a doorway I’ve never known.
; “Victor, where are you going?” my twin cries out, as though from a great distance.
Panting, I find myself in a part of the château that must have only existed centuries ago, a totally unfamiliar anteroom. Feeling woozy and confused, I look back to the doorway, only to find it gone. There is no other entrance.
It’s as if the house is remembering its former selves so quickly that I can’t navigate it.
Concentrate!
But I’m trapped, fighting panic. With a faint musical thrum a black butterfly lands upon my shoulder, and becomes colorful. And in the moment before it flutters away, I take a great breath into my lungs and remember my light and heat, the power of my gaze.
I fix my eyes upon the walls of the room, and reluctantly the stone softens and melts away into a new doorway. I run through it before it can close, and find myself in another unfamiliar passage. I’ve spent my life in this place, and I’m truly lost. For the first time I start to feel a weakness in my limbs. I burst into a kitchen so ancient, it must be the original one built for the château, nothing more than a hearth and a drain in the floor. I turn around wildly, looking for an exit, my pulse beating in my ears. Stairs leading down. No. A small, low doorway. I duck through it into a long doorless corridor lined with the mounted heads of boar and deer—another place I do not recognize.
Where is the chapel? It’s one of the oldest parts of the château; it must be close by!
I stagger on, the floor seeming to tilt, the end of the hallway receding faster than I can reach it.
A great anger stirs within me. I am being defied.
“All doors will be revealed to me!” I shout. I glare at the walls until a familiar arched doorway etches itself in the stone. Relief surges through my limbs. I burst into the chapel. The room is alive in a way it wasn’t earlier, bounding through all its ages one after another, the ceilings and walls throbbing with color. I can barely focus on the chandelier waiting for me near the floor.
I collapse upon it, swallow, pray that I have strength enough to pull the rope. I haul, hand after hand, lifting myself with increasing effort. Halfway to the ceiling I have to pause, gasping for air.
Tap-ta-tap. Tap, tap, tap, vibrates the spirit clock in my pocket.
Such Wicked Intent Page 4