Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee

by Edward Lee

  He lay in a cloak, atop the altar's offertory slab. Pallid, eyes closed.

  Motionless.

  Is he dead? she wondered.

  "He's never been more alive," Jaemessyn informed her. "But like you, his soul is temporarily vacant from his body. His soul is somewhere else .. "

  The mansion, she realized, but before she could calculate anything further, something shrieked in her mind, bolting her with a psychic shudder.

  Something shot about the nave, something terrified, and Adrianne knew exactly what it was.

  It was the spirit-vessel of another soul, a human out-ofbody just as Adrianne was. Adrianne could see it above her, darting back and forth terrified, and she could tell it was a much weaker consciousness than herself-the sign of an untrained experient.

  Don't be afraid, don't be afraid, she tried to calm the other vessel and rose upward, but then her own conscious was nearly shot out of the nave by a burst of unadulterated, fullscale terror, and the other vessel's voice shrieked to her:

  "Adrianne, my God help me help me!"

  Adrianne easily recognized the psychical voice. It was Cathleen.

  IV

  I must be cauterized by now, Willis thought. He wasn't being incapacitated by what he'd been seeing through his "touches" tonight, awful as those sights may have been. In any number of rooms, or any number of specific targetobjects, his mind-sight kicked right in and showed him: visions of murder, satanic ritual, and the most perverse sexual activity. Lots of blood, decapitation, torture. Nyvysk was right, he thought after leaving one of the parlors where women were blindfolded and raped by men in black hoods and cloaks. They were paying reverence to something here.

  This . . . Belarius .. .

  In a fourth floor suite, Willis picked up a woman's hairbrush and was sequently jolted by the image of a naked young woman on an altar, in a mom shellacked by blood. Not one of these porn girls, either, nor one of the ravaged prostitutes; she looked wholesome and very normal. A peaches-and-cream complexion, long simple chestnut hair. She didn't fit in with any of the others, not the look, not the air. She looks innocent. He picked up a frilled pillow off the canopied bedstead and saw her again, her face pinched and tossing in the grips of a nightmare. And again, in the hall, when he ran his ungloved finger against the paneling, he saw her body being carried by several naked men, but Willis couldn't tell if she was unconscious or dead.

  I wonder who the hell that was ...

  He saw remnants of Hildreth all over the place, too. Generally standing poised and very still, watching with great attention. Looking at something as if to appraise its value of worthiness for whatever nameless purpose. Regrettably, though, Willis often saw exactly what it was Hildreth was looking at: either a debasing sex act, an overt orgy, or some one being butchered. In one particularly disturbing vision, he saw a dowdy overweight woman with dead eyes injecting drugs into her arm while one of Hildreth's grinning porn-boys held a cocked revolver to her head.

  It was insidious. Everything.

  This house truly is a place of the devil.

  But even on Willis' strongest day, he couldn't take much. The impact was simply too draining. He wandered alone down the main hall of the fifth floor. He passed the Scarlet Room but didn't enter; he'd already tried several [actions there but didn't see anything. Some rooms, like some objects, were only charged at certain times of the day, generally closest to the time that the target-event had occurred. I think I'll just call it a night. Most of his tactions had been very clear-and the group would be interested in that-but there was really nothing new to report. He was hoping to see something that might tell them something new. Tonight, though, was just more of the same. More murder, more degradation and sickness. The entire house was sick. He knew he couldn't stomach anymore tonight.

  On the third floor, he saw a light from an open door, and heard someone tapping on a keyboard. Willis was a loner, but he didn't necessarily like being alone all the time. The house made him feel more isolated, and now, at night, something about it seemed to press down on him. He walked into the room.

  "Oh, so this is the office," he said when he saw Westmore typing on a laptop. "How's it going?"

  "I'm not sure." The writer chuckled. "I'm not even sure what it is I'm supposed to be writing."

  "Same here, different process." Willis walked around, eyeing the room's impressive relics. "I was hired to come here and look for things ... but I don't know what those things are." Willis lit a cigarette when he saw Westmore light up. He noticed a pile of DVD's on a fancy table inlaid with ingots of gold. "What's all this?" he asked.

  "A bunch of porn, stuff that Hildreth's company produced. After about five minutes, stuff like that's all the same.

  Willis said nothing of his disagreement. As a sex-addict whose psychic skills prevented him from touching women, he'd long ago become something of a porn addict. More lonerism. Just knowing what was on the discs gave him an anxious urge to watch some of them. But he didn't want to let on-for just as he was sure of his dependency, he was doubly ashamed of it. He turned away from the pile. His eyes fell on the recessed square in the wall that contained the safe.

  "And there's the mansion's biggest mystery."

  "Oh, the safe?" Westmore said. "Yeah. God knows when we'll get it open."

  "Didn't the lock company say they were sending someone else?"

  "Sure, but not for a few days. And they were the only company in the book. It's just weird that the woman they sent left without saying anything, and evidently she quit the company."

  "You think something in the house scared her out?"

  Westmore raised a brow. "By now it wouldn't surprise me. Nothing would in this place."

  On the floor, then, Willis noticed a painting7 a young brunette in a flowing bustle dress, pointing outward. At once, Willis' gut clenched. It was the woman he'd seen after touching the hairbrush. "What's this painting?" he asked with some reservation.

  "Weirdest thing. It was hanging on the wall, over the safe, and under it was another painting-er, not a painting but this engraving." Westmore flipped it back and showed him. "Evidently that's an engraving of Belarius."

  Willis looked at the small, distorted face, obviously quite old. But that didn't interest him nearly as much as the painting of the woman. "What's she pointing to?"

  Westmore pointed himself, to the second engraving on the opposite wall.

  "The Revelation of John the Divine," Willis read the inscription. He chuckled at the cliche. "Did you try dialing six-six-six on the safe combination?"

  "Yeah. Didn't work," Westmore said. He noticed Willis staring back at the painting of the girl. "Her name's Debbie Rodenbaugh. She worked for Hildreth. I guess he had a thing for her, to have this period painting done of her."

  "Is she one of the women who got murdered?" Willis asked.

  "No. No body was recovered, and she's missing. I'm dying to know where she is."

  Willis cleared his throat, uneasy. "I just saw her-in a flash, I mean. When I touch charged objects, I sometimes get a visual flash of the last person affiliated with the object."

  "What?" Westmore seemed alarmed. "You saw her in a vision?"

  "Something like that. It's called a target-vision. I see the past of objects I touch. And I saw her-back in one of the other rooms."

  Westmore's eyes turned distant. "So you think she is dead ..

  "Oh, no, I didn't say that. People like me are called tactionists," Willis explained. "Somebody who sees ghosts sees spirits of the dead-but that's not me. I have no medium talents. If I see someone after I touch something, it doesn't necessarily mean they're dead. The flash I had of her was very obscure. . ." He didn't say anything more.

  Karen walked into the room, something inquisitive in her eyes, and a gin and tonic in her hand. "Dinner time, guys."

  Westmore looked at the clock in his laptop. "Dinner? It's almost eleven."

  "Fine. Call it a pre-midnight snack." The jeans, and bare, flat, and very tan midriff below her k
notted blouse made Willis avert his eyes; otherwise he'd be caught staring. "What's on the menu?"

  "Cheeseburgers," she said. "I'm starting them right now.

  "I think I'll pass-" After some of his target-visions tonight, Willis didn't have much of an appetite.

  "Me, too," Westmore said, turning off his computer. "Can [ borrow your car? I need to go to my local bar for a little while."

  Willis was puzzled. "But I've heard you don't drink at all."

  "He doesn't," Karen said. "He goes to bars to not drink. It's some screwed up writer thing."

  "I go to bars to clear my head," Westmore explained. "It's a long story." His eyes shot to Karen. "So? Can I borrow your car?"

  "You don't even have a license."

  Westmore sighed. "You know I'm not going to be drinking. If I wreck your car, I'll buy you a brand new one with Vivica's money."

  She threw him her keys.

  "Thanks. You're a great sport."

  "I know"

  "See you guys later," Westmore bid and walked out.

  She looked at Willis. "The bastard thinks I can't make a good cheeseburger."

  "I'm sure you'll make fantastic cheeseburgers," Willis replied. "In fact, I've changed my mind. Fire one up for me, please. Well-done."

  "You should see the top-grade ground sirloin that's in the fridge. Sure you don't want it tare?"

  I've seen enough raw meat tonight in my visions. "Well-done, if you don't mind."

  "You got it."

  "I'll be down in ten minutes."

  "Cool." She smiled, turned, and left.

  The lustful shame reared in Willis' heart when Karen closed the door behind her. He went immediately to the DVD player and television, slotted the first disc he found. At once he was entranced by the images, however unrealistic and overdone they may have been. He clicked through to each new scene, to see each new girl. God, he thought remotely. All that bare skin. All those swollen breasts, splayed legs, and lewd grins. The women were beautiful ...

  Just stop, he thought. This is pathetic. What could he do here, anyway? Masturbate in secret, like an adolescent hiding in a closet? With my luck someone would walk in. Wouldn't that be a hoot?

  The next scene showed two girls with Rodeo Drive bodies prancing into an office, dressed as maids. They began to clean the office with vacuums and dust wands, bending over liberally. Soon the scene deteriorated into lesbian frolic, in the middle of which the supposed Office Boss walked in, one of Hildreth's cocaine-tweaked studs. The rest went without saying but the reason Willis kept watching was because something about the scene nagged him. Then he realized what it was.

  The office in the scene was vividly familiar.

  It was the same office he was standing in right now.

  That's what I call filming on location.

  A chill crept up Willis' spine; it was simply the notion. The actors on screen, in the room Willis stood in now, were all dead. It's like I'm watching their ghosts, he thought and turned off the television.

  He stopped before the door, again noticing the safe in the wall. I'm really not up to anymore of this skit tonight, he thought, but took off his glove anyway. He wondered what he would see. Certainly not the combination-tactionism didn't work that way. But ... What the hell ...

  Willis touched the knob on the safe.

  When he looked over his shoulder, he saw her, sitting at the desk. The attractive girl in the utility clothes named Vanni. She was looking at a small box on the desk, reading numbers off an LCD screen and writing them down on a piece of paper. It made sense, of course, that he should see her; she was the last person to touch the safe. The vision shifted, then, through something like looking through scratched glass, and suddenly they were in another room--the mirror-walled workout room he'd seen down the hall the first day. Bliss strained her face, her nakedness raving as she was made love to on a harness that spread her bare legs wide in mid-air. It was Mack who was having some pretty ravenous sex with her. That asshole, Willis thought, and before he could think much more, the vision snapped again, and they were back in the office...

  The room felt cold now.

  The machine on the desk was gone, and so were the rest of Vanni's locksmithing tools. She remained naked standing before him. Hollow-eyed. Deep lines in her face.

  She's dead, Willis realized.

  Her skin was ashen gray, the large, puckered nipples bruise-purple.

  She pointed to the safe.

  "They killed me before I could get it all," she said, her breath fogged in the frigid cold.

  "Who's they?"

  "Those things from the temple ..." She walked over to the safe and idly ran her finger across its face. Several days of death left her slat-ribbed, bony now She was beginning to desiccate. "But it's easy ..."

  "The combination?" he guessed.

  "You people are supposed to be smart. It's a basic number-letter switch, an acrostic from canonic Gematria." She seemed to frown at him. "The oldest cipher in the world."

  Willis didn't quite get it.

  Her gut seemed to be sucking in by the minute, the lines in her ribs deepening, veins in her neck and arms growing more pronounced. "Touch me," she said. "Are you afraid?"

  "I'm not the least bit afraid," Willis said, and meant it. "And I can't touch you because there's nothing to touch. Your physical body doesn't exist. You're a revenant. I see revenants every day."

  Her gray breasts rose and fell. Was she breathing? "So you're certain we're all the same?"

  "Yes: '

  She grabbed his throat and threw him to the floor. Willis couldn't react it happened so fast. His feet flew out from under him, and his teeth clacked shut when his back was slammed to the floor. When his vision cleared, she was straddling him, her bare groin splayed over his stomach, one dead hand still clamping his throat down. Willis couldn't think, and could barely breathe.

  "Touch this," Vanni croaked. "Touch my heart and see. I have something to show you that's very important."

  Willis mustered some resistance but to little effect. When he reached up to shove at her face, her free hand snatched his wrist. Her crotch ground against him. It was his right hand she'd snared, after which she slowly dragged it to her left breast, pressed it against her. He could feel veins pulsing and a heartbeat. An instant after his skin touched her, the vision sucked him down.

  "Look, look. And see ..

  A chasm below a scarlet sky. A temple standing bathed in an impossible black moonlight ...

  A temple of flesh.

  And a man standing before the skin-and-muscle columns on either side of the temple's doors-doors with visible veins that beat in an exact synchronicity with Vanni's heart.

  "Do you see it?" the voice ground overhead.

  Willis didn't respond, so her hand clamped his throat tighter, cutting off his breath and threatening to vise apart the bones in his neck. Eventually he nodded.

  "That's what I have to go back to," he was told. "But my instructions were to show it to you first."

  "Instructions from who?" Willis managed to choke out the words. "From Belarius?"

  "No. From the man standing before the temple doors . .

  Willis looked back into the vision and recognized the man. Hildreth.

  The hellish vista blacked out. For moments, Willis could see nothing ... but he could feel. Cold lips sucked his tongue out of his mouth, to be met by an even colder tongue. A bony hand caressed his crotch, fingers fervent.

  Then Willis opened his eyes and found himself on the floor of the office.

  Alone.

  V

  Westmore sat downstairs in barely lit darkness, at the dock bar of his favorite hangout-on the wagon and off. The place was called the Sloppy Heron, a massive waterfront tavern on stilts. A pier extended just behind him; he could hear water lapping against the boats moored there. Upstairs, the main bar was too crowded tonight-spring-breakers. It was a packed house full of twenty-one-year-olds guaranteeing poor performance on their mid-terms thanks to
seasonal drink discounts. Several bras had already landed in the water before Westmore's eyes. He didn't need the scene-I'm too old and-I hope to God-too mature. Down here was quiet, just a few others sitting over beers and watching sports highlights.

  Nice and quiet, he thought.

  He was clearing his head, and there was much to clear. Too many things had happened at the mansion for him to calculate, and there were too many more things that he didn't know. Psychic. Jesus. Gauss meters and EVP and infra red ghosts. I'm just a fuckin' newspaper writer. But the more he focused on the things he could relate to-missing persons, questionable graves, mysterious matriarchs-he found himself even more confused. At one point, he looked down the dark bar where several patrons started to groan. "You heard it first here," a sportscaster on TV announced. "The New York Yankees have just signed a record-breaking contract with superstar Alex A-Rod Rodriguez, which will give the Bronx Bombers one of the very best infields in the history of the game.. " Westmore didn't know from sports but was amused when one of the patrons walked out onto the pier and threw up in the water. Then his cell phone rang.

  "Finally got some poop on your man," came the voice on the other end. It was Tom McGuire, his friend from the paper who was a freelance research consultant. Westmore'd hired him on the side to run a few names on Nexus/Lexus and some other research sites.

  "That was fast, Tom. Thanks."

  "Don't thank me yet. There's not much poop. I got stuff on the girl and Hildreth, but it ain't much. Some of it's interesting but there's nothing fishy."

  Actually, Westmore was hoping for something fishy. "I'm ready."

  "Deborah Rodenbaugh, Florida native, 18 years old. Comes from a no-big-deal middle-class family that's clean as a whistle. She was an honors student in high school, got a big history scholarship that a bunch of local papers covered. Sounds great, but then comes the downer. Her parents were murdered a little over a year ago, right after she graduated from St. Petersburg High."

  This perked Westmore up. "Murdered? Murder isn't fishy?"

  "It was a random break-in, it happens all the time, everywhere. Crackheads bust into a place, the family wakes up, so the crackheads get spooked and kill everybody. Cleaned the house out for valuables, wallets, some appliances, stole the car, and drove away. Treasure Island PD finds the car ditched near the bus stop the next day. The police have it down as a routine drug-related homicide still under investigation. Which is their rubber-stamp way of saying it's unsolved and probably never will be solved 'cos like I said, there's a couple hundred murders like that in Florida every year. It ain't just the Sunshine State, it's the Cocaine State. This shit happens, man. "