Ghouls Rush In

by H. P. Mallory

  The man chuckled and took a sip of what looked like brandy. He was sitting in a brown leather club chair, looking comfortably content, his long legs stretched out before him resting on top of a leather ottoman. He wasn’t in uniform; rather, he was wearing a crisp, white dress shirt, the first three buttons undone, and his tie hung in a large loop. It looked as if he had been in the process of removing it but got interrupted.

  “I trust you remember my name?” he asked in an accent not quite French, although it wasn’t quite English either. ’Course, after hearing the French term he’d used earlier, I assumed he was at least familiar with the language.

  There wasn’t a doubt in my mind as to who this man was. “Drake Montague,” I said automatically.

  He finished whatever he was drinking and leaned forward, dropping his feet from the ottoman onto the ground before pouring himself another glass. He finished, put the glass stopper on the decanter, and raised the glass to his nose, closing his eyes as he inhaled. He opened his eyes again and focused them wholly on me. His gaze was so piercing, so riveting, I felt like he could see right through me.

  “Bien fait. Well done,” he said, tipping his glass in my direction as if he were toasting me. “I am quite pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Clark.”

  I felt my eyebrows drawing together. “How do you know my name?”

  He chuckled and took another sip of his beverage, running his tongue across his upper lip when he pulled the glass away. “You live in my home, ma minette. How could I not know your name?”

  “Your home?” I repeated, finally coming out of my wooziness. Up until then, I’d felt as if I were in a dream—everything was foggy and nothing made sense.

  “Bien sûr, of course. Once upon a time, this home and this land belonged to me,” he continued as he propped both of his feet back up on the ottoman and stared at me for a few seconds. I had no idea what was going through his mind—his face was a blank canvas.

  I shook my head, suddenly afraid of the direction this conversation might be headed. Still unable to comprehend the thoughts going through my head, I rubbed my forehead as if to rub away the realization that Drake Montague was alive nearly one hundred years ago. “You were a policeman,” I started, but stopped short. I wasn’t sure why.

  “Oui,” he laughed, a single eyebrow arching in what I imagined was an expression of amusement. “An officer of the law,” he said in a put-on, highfalutin tone that seemed like he was ridiculing the very notion. Then he held his glass up, saying “cheers” to the air.

  “But that was in 1918,” I continued, remembering the date on the newspaper article that referenced Drake and the Charity Hospital function.

  “Oui, c’etait ma minette, yes, it was.” He grew silent, seemingly preoccupied at swirling the libation in his glass.

  “So how is it that you’re sitting here, talking to me now?” I continued, sincerely hoping for a plausible answer. At this point, it wouldn’t have come as any surprise if someone told me I was now in The Twilight Zone.

  He glanced up at me and smirked. His smile was honest, while also alluring—sexy even. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that this man had an aura about him, an indescribable air of sophistication, but there was something else lurking in his eyes—something wild and very dangerous. “Quite simple: You’re asleep.”

  “This is a dream?” I blurted out, amazed by the idea, while at the same time realizing it made complete sense. Of course, it was a dream!

  “Qu’il est, that it is,” he said softly, swirling his drink in his glass absentmindedly.

  “Then you aren’t real?” I asked as I walked from the window toward his chair, wondering why everything seemed so real. I could hear the soft sounds of my feet shuffling through the thick rug that covered the walnut floors beneath his immense bed. And the smell of his spicy cologne hung in the air. It was a scent I immediately liked—something entirely masculine, but clean and captivating. I reached out and ran the pads of my fingers across the top of the leather club chair closest to me, one adjacent to his. I could feel the pliable, soft leather just as if I were awake and really touching it.

  He chuckled and shook his head, his expression suggesting he thought my question silly. “Of course I’m real.”

  “But you just said I was dreaming?” I retorted instantly, throwing my hands on my hips as frustration coursed through me. I didn’t know any of the rules in this dream world, which was exasperating to say the least.

  He glanced over at me and took a long sip of his drink before licking his lower lip again. “Your dreaming has no consequence to my existence, ma minette.”

  “Well you can’t be—what?—thirty-something and also have lived in 1918,” I argued. “I might be dreaming, but I also understand basic math!”

  He chuckled again, but this time, it was deeper. He stood up and placed his glass on a side table. When he turned back toward me, I realized how tall he was. Even barefoot, he was easily a head and a half taller than I. He took a few steps toward me until I could smell the alcohol on his breath, something I found oddly appealing, especially when combined with the heady scent of his cologne. He didn’t say anything for at least three seconds, but continued to stare at me, his eyes alive and dancing as a smile began playing at the ends of his lips. He reached out and touched the bare skin of my upper arm, running his fingers from my shoulder down to my elbow. I could feel the rising of goose bumps as my skin responded to his warm touch. My heart started pounding, and even though I struggled for something to say, I was speechless. I felt as though I were suddenly standing in tar, my feet immobilized.

  “Oui, you are quite right,” he said in a low, deep voice. His breath tickled my cheek and I couldn’t help inhaling. He pulled his fingers from the skin of my arm and ran them down my cheek. I closed my eyes, unaware of what I was doing. “I have so anticipated this moment, ma minette.”

  A cloud of confusion hovered over me and I opened my eyes again. “I don’t understand…any of this. How do you know who I am? And how can you be real if you lived so long ago?”

  He smirked and I felt a bolt of trepidation shoot through me. “I shall attempt to answer your question regarding how I know who you are first.” He took a deep breath and then studied me with piercing eyes. “Although you believe this to be our first meeting, for me it is not. As you have taken up residence in my home, I have been afforded the luxury of watching you. Hence I am much more familiar with you than you are with me. Comprenez-vous? Do you understand?”

  “Watching me?” I repeated as my eyes narrowed, and I decided to dismiss his question for the time being. “What does that mean?”

  He shrugged as if the answer were obvious. “I liken it to sitting and observing a play. I watch your comings and goings, observe you in your day-to-day life, listen to your conversations, and in so doing, I feel as if I have come to know you quite well, ma minette.” He took a breath. “And in coming to know you, I have also come to care for you.” He took another breath. “Oui, beaucoup. Quite a lot.”

  I shook my head, not able to completely comprehend what he was saying. He’d watched me? Watched my comings and goings? Did that mean he’d seen me naked? Probably so—it was a question I didn’t want to ask. Either way, it now made sense as to why he was acting as if he knew me—because in a strange manner of speaking, he sort of did. “Okay, so we’ve gotten that question cleared up but what about my other one? How can you be real if you were alive in 1918?”

  Drake smiled and arched a brow as he studied me, his gaze traveling from my head to my toes and then back up to my eyes again. “I did live long ago, but now my existence, though in the same space as yours, is different.”

  I shook my head. “What does that mean?” Then it dawned on me, and my eyes grew wide. “You’re dead, aren’t you?”

  He cocked his head to the side, never losing his devilish grin. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose so. Though I feel very much alive.” He focused on my cheek as he said the last words, st
roking my skin as if to prove that not only could he feel me, but I could very definitely feel him also. “La mort ou la vie, death or life…to me they are one and the same.”

  “Was it you?” I continued, starting to understand the situation, or at least hoping I was headed in the right direction. “The footsteps?”

  He simply nodded. “I needed to make you aware of my presence.”

  I exhaled and he immediately inhaled through his nose, deeply. He closed his eyes and opened them again, his pupils dilating as he focused on my eyes. “Your smell is intoxicating, ma minette.”

  “Why do you keep calling me that? What does that mean?” I demanded, feeling suddenly rushed to press him for answers. I mean, who knew when I would wake up?

  “My pussycat,” he answered slyly.

  I chose not to respond. His unapologetic sensuality was nerve-racking. It made it difficult to focus on anything besides the unconcealed lust in his eyes.

  “Then you’ve been…here since I moved in?” I continued, trying to understand how he existed, in what reality. Could he see and hear just as I did?

  “I’ve been here quite a bit longer than that,” he answered with a small laugh. “And, yes, from the moment you first walked through the front door, you captivated my interest. I have watched you ever since…tout à fait captivé, quite captivated.”

  “But you only made yourself known today,” I continued, shaking my head to let him know that it didn’t make sense.

  “Making contact with your world can be a tricky thing, ma minette,” he said. He stepped back, turning away from me as he exhaled and started for the window. Even though I couldn’t hide the disappointment welling up inside me, I was nonetheless relieved to have my own personal space again. Drake Montague was, in a word…overwhelming.

  “Why can it be tricky?”

  Bracing both of his hands on the windowpanes, he dropped his forehead to the glass, as if he were looking down at the street. I could see his deltoids straining against the light cotton of his dress shirt. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing dark, wiry hair that covered his tanned forearms. He pushed off the glass and faced me. From this distance, I could easily enjoy the sight of his broad shoulders and the way they tapered into narrow hips. I felt the breath catch in my throat and gulped down the thought that this man, this spirit, this whatever you wanted to call him, was painfully beautiful.

  “Just because I am aware of you does not mean that you are aware of me,” he answered simply with a shrug.

  “So how could I hear your footsteps then?”

  “You uncovered the newspaper clippings and you learned who I was. That understanding bonded us, ma minette, allowing your subconscious to open itself to me. Before, your psyche was closed off. There was no way I could have reached you.”

  I couldn’t say I fully comprehended what he was saying, but there was so much more I needed to ask him, so many questions I wanted answered, that I decided to focus on other subjects. “So what happened to you?” I started, remembering the articles about the legendary Axeman. “And why are all those newspaper articles covering the walls downstairs?”

  He held his hand up to gesture for me to stop talking. “Tout à l’heure, ma minette, all in good time.” Then he smiled a captivating grin and took the four steps that separated us. When he was directly in front of me, he brought his fingers to my cheek again, before securing a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. “I need you to do something for me,” he started.

  “What?” I asked, at a complete loss. What could this spirit possibly need from me?

  “Find every newspaper article you can about the Axeman. Devour them. Learn the story. Know the history as well as you know yourself.”

  “Why?” I started as he shook his head.

  “Learn as much as you can. I will visit you again when I am able.” He took a deep breath and pulled away from me, suddenly appearing exhausted. “I’m afraid this session has taxed me. It will take a while to build up my reserves again.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to,” he interrupted. “Please remember all I’ve said, Peyton.”

  The way he said my name suddenly made it feel as if we’d known each other all our lives. The air caught in my throat. “I will remember it.”

  “Very well, je vous dis au revoir, I bid you farewell, mon chaton, my kitten.” Then he reached for my hand, closing it in his very large, warm one, and brought his lips to my skin. A shiver started in my spine and worked its way clear up to the nape of my neck.

  I woke up with a start. Looking around, I realized it was still night and I was in my hotel suite at the Omni. I took a deep breath and rubbed the back of my neck, glancing at the clock to see it was ten past three a.m.

  I took deep, cleansing breaths while I tried to make sense of the dream I’d just had. It was beyond bizarre. I’d never been aware in a dream that I was dreaming before and I’d also never dreamed in such incredible detail. I could smell and feel as if I were awake. It just seemed so real! Of course, my first instinct insisted that it was nothing more than my subconscious mind launching into overdrive. But somehow, I couldn’t shake the sensation that it was more than that, much, much more than that.

  The main reason I thought it couldn’t have been a dream, and maybe Drake Montague really was trying to reach out to me was simple: I can’t speak French.

  Over the course of the next week, I didn’t have any more strange dreams, nor did I notice any other “ghostly” phenomenon in my house. As time went by, I was less and less convinced that my dream about Drake Montague had legitimately been him reaching out to me from beyond the grave. Yes, there was that little hiccup known as the French pet name he’d called me but I just dismissed it as something my subconscious mind had picked up somewhere. And as to the footsteps I’d heard upstairs? I was beginning to doubt whether I’d even heard them in the first place. My house was old and everyone knows that old houses creak and groan. All in all, I was very happy abandoning the idea that my house was haunted because the very idea went counter to everything I believed. What was more, it seemed the more time passed, the less convinced I was that anything otherworldly had happened at all.

  The construction on my house was moving along rapidly—Ryan’s sizable crew had already finished the guest bedroom and they were now putting the finishing touches on the bathroom. Ryan’s guess was that I’d probably be able to take up residency in another few days. Even though Ryan continued to give me grief about it, I was on the job site every day, complete with my pink safety hat and my coordinating tool belt. In the course of a week, I’d learned more than I ever wanted to know about construction. What was more, I actually enjoyed it. It was fun to work with my hands and see the result of my labor every day. Even though Ryan acted like he was less than thrilled with my being there, I knew it was mostly for show because we continued to laugh and joke like old friends. We also ate our lunch together every day, and he seemed as happy to teach me as I was to learn.

  As to the newspaper articles in the guest bedroom, I managed to recover all of them once Ryan and I finished removing the remaining whitewashed boards in the room. Even though I was pretty convinced that my Drake dream had been nothing more than a figment of my imagination, I was still eager to uncover the mystery of the ax murders that had occurred so long ago. By the time I’d removed each newspaper clipping, I was left with a stack of maybe thirty articles. I tried to organize the articles by date and was mostly successful, although there were a few pages where the dates were missing—either they’d been cut out way back when or the corners of the paper had crumbled away with age.

  The articles I was able to recover painted a pretty complete picture of the terror the so-called “Axeman” had put on New Orleans. And with the added information and background provided by the Internet, I felt I had a very complete picture of the past…

  From 1918 to 1919, this killer, who was later dubbed the “Axeman” by the New Orleans Times-Picayune news
paper, attacked twelve people. Some of his victims died, while others were merely injured (I couldn’t seem to shake the visual of one woman who survived but also lost some teeth in the process of being bludgeoned in the face). Because seven of the victims were Italians and eight owned grocery stores, there was a belief that the murders were somehow linked to the Mafia. Then there were arguments posed against this line of thinking, the proof being that not all of the victims were Italian and, furthermore, many of the victims were women and one was a child (apparently the Mafia was against killing women and children). I also learned that all of the victims were attacked in the early morning hours and ten were struck with their own axes, which were then left behind for the police to find. In the majority of cases, the Axeman entered the homes of his victims by chiseling out a panel in the back door.

  While these were the known facts, as far as I could gather, there were also quite a few lingering questions that no one then or now seemed to have the answers to. First, no one understood how the Axeman was able to chip away a door panel and enter a home without any of the residents ever hearing him. Furthermore, the Axeman appeared to be familiar with the layouts of each home, as he easily located the ax with which he attacked his victims and seemed to have no trouble navigating their homes, even in the dead of night. The biggest question posed, though, was how a grown man could fit through the impossibly small openings chiseled into the doors. Some people posed the theory that the openings were simply a way for the Axeman to reach in and unlock the door but this notion was quickly put to rest when it was reported that those first on the scene always found the doors locked—from the inside.