The Blackham Mansion Haunting (The Downwinders Book 4)

by Michael Richan

  It’s responding, she thought. I’m on the right track. I’m just going to find that piece of mirror, the one I found before Winn pulled me back. That’s all. In and out.

  She moved through the house, leaving her body in the living room and passing through a wall toward the hallway. She reached the hallway door, and opened it to see another kitchen. Second house, she thought, crossing the threshold. The kitchen looked almost the same — broken plaster, piles of wood in the corner, the remnants of old cupboards. An old dirty ceramic sink sat in pieces on the floor, and a peeling piece of wallpaper on the wall above it showed a faded floral pattern. She hadn’t remembered the wallpaper in the original house.

  We went out the hallway door again, she thought, and decided to pass through the walls to shorten the distance. She was surprised when she bumped up against the structure, unable to penetrate it. I could penetrate the walls in the original, she thought, but not this copy. She walked around through the living room, circling through the house until she reached the hallway door.

  Third house, she thought, stepping through. There’s that wallpaper again. And it’s over in that corner, too. And the plaster is still on the wall over there.

  Come on. Just get the piece of the mirror.

  She walked through the house once again, choosing the hallway door, and passed through to the fourth house, noting the improvements in the kitchen; less debris on the floor, less plaster fallen from the walls.

  It was about this time we chose the front door, she thought, so she diverted from the previous path through the house and made for the front entryway. Here more pieces of wallpaper had survived, and she stopped for a moment to notice the detail — a green pattern, very formal. When she’d been in the house before with David, they had moved fairly quickly through each house, but this time she wasn’t concerned about meeting anyone else’s timetable but her own, and the detail of the wallpaper fascinated her. She reached out to touch a peeling corner of it, expecting it to bend under the weight of her finger, but it held firm.

  Then she moved on, opening the large front door and seeing another kitchen. I wonder how many houses there are? she thought, walking through and examining the improved state of the room. Now an entire roll of wallpaper still hung in one corner, and the smashed ceramic sink that had sat in pieces on the floor in previous houses was attached to a wall with broken faucets emerging from its top.

  Two more, she thought. When the sink was back up, it was two more houses, both through the front door.

  She walked quickly through the house, now anxious to finish her time there, ignoring the improvements in the hallway. She stepped into the fifth house, glancing for just a moment at the additional wallpaper in the kitchen and the repaired faucets over the sink, and ran through until she reached the front door once again. She opened it and crossed the threshold into the sixth house.

  This is the one I was in, she thought. Let’s go upstairs.

  In the central hallway she turned, walking away from the front door and down the passage until she reached the stairwell. Wainscoting lined the left wall and the wooden banister rested on dark posts to her right. The creaky steps of the structure narrowed as she progressed up, turning to emerge onto the upper landing.

  The air seemed stilted up here, heavier and hotter. Dust was everywhere, lit by the sun streaking through a window at the end of the hall. It was almost dusk when I got here, she thought. The sun shouldn’t be up.

  She knew she’d find the room with the mirror two doors down on the left, so she walked down the hallway, feeling the boards creak under her weight, unaccustomed to visitors. The house felt much spookier without someone accompanying her, someone else to talk to. She had been paying attention to so much detail, now every little detail of the place seemed to resonate, contributing to a sensory overload. She reached the room, but instead of going inside, she walked instead to the end of the hall, looking out the window. The sun was indeed up, still an hour from setting in the west. Its orange glow lit the front yard, and she looked down, seeing movement. Three kids, throwing rocks. For a moment she worried they might be throwing them at her truck, but then she realized they weren’t dressed like normal kids. Their clothes were old fashioned, like something fifty or sixty years ago.

  She looked up and saw that the cemetery was much smaller. It had a different fence. A couple was walking through the grounds, stopping to look at a headstone, their attention pulled away by the sound of the kids playing in front of the mansion. The man in the cemetery yelled at the kids to get away from the house, and they scrambled in response.

  Get the mirror, she thought, turning to walk to the bedroom, pushing the door slowly open.

  Whatever bed had been in the room was removed long ago, and the window boarded over. Streaks of light came through the boards, giving her enough illumination to maneuver. In the corner was a pile of wood, the remnants of the bureau where the mirror had stood. She found pieces of its frame, but no glass.

  It wasn’t this one, she thought. It must have been one more house.

  Then she heard a thump from downstairs. That was too loud to be kids throwing rocks, she thought. Maybe it was the front door. Maybe the man from the cemetery came over.

  She walked back down the hallway to the stairs landing and slowly descended, craning her neck to see what might have produced the sound. The hallway below looked empty. She thought of calling out “who’s there?” but decided to keep her silence.

  Once she reached the ground floor she saw the front entryway down the hallway that led to the parlor and living room. Was it the front door? Or the hallway door at this point? I don’t remember how it went.

  She went for the front, hearing another thump coming from her left, back in the depths of the house. Whoever it is, they’re in the kitchen, she thought. I wonder if it’s the serial killer. I wonder if it’s Willard Bingham.

  As much as she wanted to know, she also knew she had no backup. This was supposed to be just a quick in and out; find the mirror and leave. Nothing more. Not a confrontation.

  Now the thump was accompanied by another noise — a clicking sound, and a scraping, as though something sharp and pointed was being dragged across the wooden floor.

  She ran to the front door and opened it, exposing the kitchen of the seventh house. She looked inside, worried that if the thumping she’d heard came from the kitchen, perhaps its source might be in this new instance of the kitchen, too. It looked empty, so she stepped inside.

  More wallpaper up. Less debris on the floor. This is the house, she thought. This is the house with the mirror. It’ll be upstairs.

  She ran through the downstairs rooms, wanting to reach the upstairs as quickly as possible. This was also the house where David disappeared, she thought. Careful.

  She slowed down as she reached the stairs, taking each one cautiously, making sure they wouldn’t collapse. Then another thump reached her ears, this one much closer than before. It was followed immediately by a scuttling sound. She guessed it was in the living room or hallway below.

  I don’t remember these sounds the last time I was here, she thought as she climbed. Maybe they were here and I mistook them for the sound of David exploring.

  She reached the top and walked down the upper hallway. This time no light appeared through the window at the far end, and the hallway was very dim. She moved down it carefully, feeling for the bedroom door, opening it, hearing the familiar creak.

  That’s right, she thought. It was dark when I found the mirror. This is where I was when Winn pulled me back. Where’s the mirror? Where’s the piece of glass I found?

  Her eyes continued to adjust to the darkness, slowly letting more and more of her surroundings in. As she reached the middle of the room, her shoe struck something on the floor, sending it spinning across the room. That was it! she thought, using the sound of it to estimate where she should search. Don’t be a klutz; don’t break it! Don’t do something stupid like cut yourself with it!

  When
she reached the spot where she felt it had landed, she dropped to her knees and began to feel around on the floor. Her fingers bumped into the sharp edge of the glass, and she pulled back for a moment, afraid she might have sliced herself. She didn’t feel any pain, so she reached again, carefully, gingerly wrapping her fingers around the object and pulling it to her face.

  As she held it, it began to emit a faint glow. She looked into it, fascinated. It was about two inches square, with a sharp point on one edge. The mirror backing was still there, not consistent across the entire back of the glass, but enough that she could dimly see her reflection in it.

  I have you! she thought, wishing she could take it out with her. She knew when she left the River, the glass would remain.

  The thumping sound startled her again, this time coming from the hallway. Whatever it was, it had followed her upstairs. Clicking and scraping noises grew louder as it progressed toward her. It would be outside the door within seconds. I have to bail! she thought.

  She looked again at the glass, and her reflected image seemed to fade, replaced by an eye staring back at her. It startled her and she pulled the glass away. The image in the mirror pulled back too, exposing more of a face. It was covered in large boils and sores that swelled up obscenely, nearly obscuring the eyes.

  A chill went down her spine, terrified at the figure in the mirror fragment. This was a bad idea, she thought, terrified and frustrated at the same time, preparing to drop from the River and return to her body in the living room of the original house. She saw movement in her peripheral vision, and knew something was coming into the room with her. Then the glass in her hand flared, sending bright light into the room, hurting her eyes. She dropped the glass and it fell to the floor next to her, still radiating. She raised a hand to shield her vision, and stood. Time to go, she thought, turning around.

  Then the back of the room caught her attention, and she saw the dark figure in the corner, hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly. It was a corpse, thin and emaciated. It looked as though it had been hanging there for a very long time. Multiple strands of a fibrous substance connected from its head to the ceiling, suspending it a foot off the ground.

  Deem stepped back startled, walking into the wall. Part of her wanted to drop from the flow immediately, while another part wanted to examine the hanging corpse. You don’t have a choice, she thought, seeing the movement in the doorway, knowing whatever had made the scuttling noise was entering the room. She saw a long, thin leg pass through the doorframe, and then another — and she dropped out, leaving the River.

  When she opened her eyes, she was back in the original house, sitting in the living room. The book in her lap was still opened to the page of the mirror drawing. She caught her breath, her mind wrapped up in the shock of what she’d seen in the bedroom of the seventh house, trying to make sense of it.

  Hello? she heard.

  She shot to her feet.

  “Who’s that?” she asked, knowing it was time to leave the house. She gathered her backpack and was about to shut the book when the drawing of the mirror caught her attention. It was faintly glowing, just like the glass she’d handled moments before.

  My name is Lorenzo Lyman, she heard. Who is there?

  Chapter Six

  Deem had kept the book closed since she sped away from Paragonah, but now she was nearing Leeds, and a decision needed to be made. She knew Carma would disapprove of the book coming into the house with what she’d just witnessed, but she desperately wanted to open the book and see if the drawing of the mirror inside still glowed. And especially to see if it would talk to her again.

  She decided to pull off at Silver Reef and park her truck on a quiet road near the collapsed buildings of the ghost town. With the dark rise of the bluff behind her and the stars overhead, she scanned the streets for any activity, wanting some privacy. There were no cars out, and things seemed quiet. She turned off the truck’s engine and reached for the book, still sitting on the passenger seat where she’d left it after leaving the Blackham mansion.

  She turned the pages, knowing the approximate location of the drawing. She had run out of the house pretty spooked, closing the book in a hurry and bolting for her truck. Now she wanted to find out if whatever she’d experienced in the house still remained in the book. She knew before she reached it that it did; the edge of the leaf glowed already, faintly lighting the pages around it.

  I’m shaking, she realized as she flipped through the book. Calm down.

  When the page she was after finally opened in front of her, she studied the drawing. The paper itself was glowing, most intensely in the center of the mirror. The glow fluctuated, ebbing and flowing with a pulse. She decided to drop into the River, and once she entered the flow, she gasped. Whereas the center of the mirror had always been blank before, now she could see into a room, as though watching from a spy cam.

  Oh my god, she muttered.

  It looked like a still image, and she examined every inch of it, holding the book at an angle to see if she could look past the edges.

  Hello? she heard. Is someone there?

  She felt the hair rise up on her neck and arms, and she resisted the urge to drop out of the River and slam the book closed. Instead, she waited.

  I’m here, she replied.

  A figure appeared in the back of the room, slowly sliding in from the left, remaining shrouded in the shadows. Who is there? she heard. Speak to me.

  I’m Deem, she replied. Who are you?

  My name is Lorenzo, she heard.

  Lorenzo Lyman? she asked.

  You know me, the voice said. You have my journal.

  I can’t see you very well, Deem replied. Come closer to the mirror.

  The figure approached the mirror and Deem saw a man dressed in fine clothes. A huge, distorted head emerged from the top of his shirt, swelling with discolored boils. She put a hand to her mouth to stop a gasp of horror.

  What? the man in the mirror asked. Is something wrong?

  Your head, Deem replied. It’s all swollen. What happened to you?

  She watched as the figure in the mirror raised his hands to his face, pressing on it. Nothing, he replied. I don’t feel swollen. What do you see?

  Huge boils, Deem replied, covering your entire face. I don’t know how you can see past them.

  I don’t feel them, Lorenzo replied, then dropped his hands and approached the mirror even closer. Deem found herself pushing the book away from her a little.

  Deem, you must come to the house, Lorenzo pleaded. I must talk with you. I need your help. I need you to release me.

  Release you? Deem asked. You are trapped?

  I’ve been trapped in this house for a very long time, he replied.

  I have a friend named David, Deem replied. Something happened to him in that house. I’m afraid he’s hurt. Can you help him?

  There is great danger in this house, Lorenzo replied. Come to me and I will…

  The glow on the page began to dim, and the image of Lorenzo and the room disappeared, leaving just the drawing.

  Lorenzo? she called. Lorenzo!

  The book was dark and silent. She dropped from the River.

  “Arrrrrgh!” she yelled in irritation, slamming the book closed and tossing it back to the passenger seat. She looked up at the dashboard and the scene beyond; the stars brightly shining above, and the dim glow of the moon faintly illuminating the broken bricks of the ghost town ruin in front of her.

  I guess I’ll go home, she thought. She started up her truck and drove the short distance to Leeds, parking in front of the house. Checking her watch, she saw it was after midnight.

  I’ve got no choice, Deem thought, stopping at the front door and knocking loudly. I hope she’s up.

  She saw a light pop on in a window, and Carma eventually appeared at the door in a robe.

  “You lost your key?” Carma asked.

  “No, I just didn’t want to bring Lorenzo’s journal into the house until you knew what’
s happened.”

  Carma’s face changed, her eyebrows slanting and little furrows breaking out on her forehead. “What’s happened?”

  “I went to the house in Paragonah tonight,” Deem replied.

  “With Warren?” Carma asked.

  “No, by myself, after our date. I walked through the houses until I found a piece of the mirror that was big enough to look through. I saw something in it. When I came out of the River, Lorenzo was able to talk to me. Through the book. Through the drawing of the mirror in the book.”

  “You talked to him?” Carma asked, surprised.

  “For about a minute, yes,” Deem replied. “Then he faded, and the book went back to normal. I didn’t want to bring the book into the house unless you approved.”

  Carma stood in the doorway, thinking. A hand darted into the pocket of her robe and she had a cigarette lit within a second, exhaling the smoke into the air above Deem’s head. “What did he say?” she asked.

  “He wants me to come back to the house and release him. He says he’s trapped.”

  “He must have drawn the mirror in his journal in anticipation of this,” she mused, her eyes darting left and right, “hoping he could communicate through it.”

  “But his journal was lost in Left Hand mine for the past hundred years,” Deem said. “He’s had no one to communicate with. Can I come in? And bring the journal?”

  “Yes, yes,” Carma said, opening the door. “But until we know more, I’d like you to keep it in a special box I have, will you?”