The Manor

by Scott Nicholson

  "Ephram…" Sylva's voice fell, uncertain. She was sixteen again, awkward but with a flaming heart, as if both she and the world were young and still full of promise. "I loved Ephram. We all did, the women, I mean. He was mighty handsome in his way, but it wasn't just looks. There was something about him, some magnetism. Nobody could resist him for long.

  "I took a job tending the house, like most other women that lived on the mountain then. The men were busy working to clear the land and keep the place up. Nobody really said anything when people started dying. Somebody's ax-head would fly off and cleave in their skull, a tree would fall on somebody's back, they'd find a body in one of the ponds, the skin puffy and their tongue all swollen blue. It was just accidents, in our minds. 'A run of bad luck,' we'd say to each other, though we all knew better."

  Sylva squeezed her fists against her chest. She'd never told anybody this next part. She'd kept that all nice and unbothered and lying in the back of her mind like a lizard in a muddy crevice. But this child had way worse things to go through. Sylva's own suffering was nothing compared to that.

  "One night, his fire went out. I was scared to death. That was my one main job, the thing that Ephram made a mention of every time I saw him, which wasn't that often. But every time you seen him, by God, you'd remember it, and you would play it back in your mind, his face, his hands, his voice, until your heart was aching. At least it was that way with me, and I'm pretty sure it was the same with the other womenfolk."

  Sylva fell silent. Even across the decades, the moment still retained its vividness. She was filled with a warm flood of passion, mixed with that same gut-ripping dread. Her eyes were misty, and she didn't fight it this time, she just let the tears roll down her cheeks.

  "Ephram, he was in the room. Except it was like his life was the fire. He just laid there on the bed, gasping, kind of. And I was so scared, child, you wouldn't know how scared I was."

  Sylva sniffled. "But then again, maybe you would. I forget you just had your own run-in. And he made me light that fire and say those words I never shoulda said."

  Anna touched Sylva's knee. The gesture gave her the strength to finish.

  "When I finally got the fire lit, Ephram come to me. He took me up in his arms, and I looked into those black eyes, and I would have done anything for that man. And he kissed me and then did everything else he wanted. But the thing was, I wanted it as much as he did. After it was over, he sent me out. Didn't say a word, just buttoned up his trousers and jabbed at the fire a little, like I was a piece of meat he'd just killed for sport.

  "I hardly ever looked at him again, I was so scared. Scared both that he'd want me and that he wouldn't. But a few weeks later, I missed my time of the month. Lordy mercy, I was really scared then. But there was no other signs, so I went on about my business, hoping and praying. Months passed, it got winter and then spring. Along about summer my belly first started to swell, but just the tiniest bit. That's when I knew. And I knew it was wrong, as slow as it was going."

  Sylva's heart was thundering now. All the old anger and wasted love was filling her up, poisoning her again. Anna reached for her hand and squeezed it. That settled Sylva down a little. She had to do this, for both of them.

  "Korban liked to get up on top of the house in the dead of night. Up there on the widow's walk. Folks whispered that he was calling out to the dark things, invisible creatures that slithered and floated around in the cracks of the night. But by then, I knew what he was really doing.

  "He was calling up his fetches. Making them do his bad work. Spelling them. And I crept up them stairs one night. The moon was full, a blue moon in October, like what's coming tomorrow night. I remember the smell of sassafras in the air, and the dew so thick you could feel it on your skin. The little trapdoor that led to the roof was open, so I poked my head through and saw him standing along the rail, looking out over the moonlit nothing."

  The fire popped and exhaled a long hiss. Sylva closed her eyes and finished the story before Korban got up the strength to stop her.

  "I eased my way up onto the widow's walk, and he still had his back to me. When I got my feet steady, I stood up, and Lordy, how the wind was blowing. Like it was the breath of the whole sky let out all at once. I ran toward Ephram, my clothes whipping all out behind me in the breeze. He turned just when I reached him."

  Anna's mouth was open, her cup between her loose fingers. The fire spat, sending a coal toward Anna. Sylva reached out with her shoe and rubbed the ember into the floor.

  That was a sign of being marked for death, sure as any. When the ember shoots at you, you 're done for.

  "What happened then?" Anna asked, her eyes wide. As if they were sitting on a front porch somewhere swapping made-up ghost stories. As if this weren't real.

  "I pushed him over, off the rail. And he let me. Didn't raise a hand to stop me. Just smiled as he went over. You never heard such a scream. The kind of scream a rabbit makes when a horned owl digs its claws into the back of its neck. Except way longer and louder.

  "But there was a laugh mixed in, too. That's when I knew getting rid of Ephram Korban wasn't going to be so easy."

  Anna nodded. Sylva could see she was thinking about it, sorting it out, trying to make the pieces fit. It felt good to be telling after all these years. Maybe she could die with an unburdened heart when and if her time ever came.

  "What about your baby?" Anna asked.

  Sylva stared into the fire. She was tired, crushed by the weight of more than a century of haunts. Keeping tabs on them all these years wasn't easy, especially when they had her outnumbered. She hoped her conjure bags and her faith and her spells would be enough. There were a lot of poppets in that little cabin, a passle of dead folks.

  "Sun's coming up," she said. "Ought to be safe enough now. You and me need to go for a walk."

  Bloody birds.

  William Roth hoped to catch a red-tailed hawk in flight, or at least something colorful like a blue jay or cardinal. Nature's way was to give color to the male of the species, while the female was designed to blend into the background. If only the human birds would behave that way, follow the order of things. Cris and that tight little wonder called Zainab were as elusive as any of these Appalachian avians. The only winged things about were ravens, black and ugly and watching from the trees as if waiting for a funeral.

  Roth looked through his lens at the cusp of sunrise. The southern Appalachian mountains reminded him of Scotland's, rounded and rich. He would take a few rolls of scenic stuff, that was always fodder for travel magazines and the like. If he wasn't going to have any luck with the ladies, might as well carry the old lunch bucket.

  He stepped out of the trees where the wooden bridge spanned the great valley of granite and scrub vegetation. Far below ran a silver stream, tumbling between boulders on its way to the ocean. Korban knew how to live, all right. Set up a mansion at the top of the world, have a house full of young serving girls, play artist, and enjoy the high life. Who'd blame the bloke for not wanting to let such pleasures go? If Roth were Korban, he'd certainly become a ghost and hang about.

  Roth chuckled. Ghosts and that rot. He'd seen photos that people claimed depicted spirits. Roth could achieve the same trick by fuzzing a negative or playing with the light in the darkroom. Give him an hour and he could crank out a hundred different double- and triple-exposures, and he didn't need a digital file or computer to do it. He could put Elvis on the moon, he could have Ephram Korban drifting over the manor, he could stick Cris Whitfield's head on Marilyn Monroe's nude body.

  Now, that was a project that might be worth pursuing. Or maybe Spence's chippie, whom he'd seen before dawn, walking the halls with a blank look in her eyes. Had a lovely blue bruise on her face, Spence must have played a bit rough in the sack. Maybe Roth could hide in their bathroom, get a firelit shot of the old bastard giving her what for. Blackmail him or sell it to the tabloids, either way a tidy bundle.

  He walked out onto the bridge, switched to a longer
lens, and advanced the film. The air stirred around him, that mountain wind that could cut right through a bloke's bones. But it wasn't just the wind. The ravens had swooped from the forest and lit on the rails of the bridge. Dozens of them. Staring at Roth with those beady black eyes.

  Waiting.

  "Bloody hell," he said.

  "Hell is only in the mind, Mr. Roth."

  He turned, and Lilith stood in the middle of the bridge. How in blazes? Where had she come from?

  "I hope you're not thinking of leaving us."

  "Um. I was just getting this vista." He held up the camera. "The views around here are perfectly lovely."

  He gave her a closer look. That black dress clung to her in a rather dramatic fashion. She was a bit pale, reminded him of those girls from North England, the ones from factory towns where the smog and rain cut down on the sunbathing. Still, she was young and she had curves. If serving girls were good enough for Korban, why not Sir William Bloody Bollocks-Swinging Roth?

  "Lots of lovely views around," he said. He smiled. Younger girls liked his smile. Or pretended to, which amounted to the same.

  "Yes. I used to paint them. Before I went to work for Ephram Korban."

  "Work for Korban? He died a long time ago, and you're just a pip."

  She gave her own smile, a fleeting, mysterious thing. Coy bird, that one.

  "Say," he said, gently stroking his lens. "Mind if I get the most lovely view I've found since I got here?"

  "Be our guest, Mr. Roth."

  He lifted the camera and aimed it at her, zoomed onto her breasts, focusing on one nipple. Bras weren't part of the uniform, apparently. Likely not panties, either. This girl was definitely quick to serve.

  He took a couple of pictures of her face, framed up nice with that hair and eyes as dark as the ravens, skin fresh as rocks in the rain, lips quick and clever with a smile. When he'd devoted enough attention to thoroughly flatter her, he said, "You ever get any time off? I wouldn't mind getting to know you a bit better. Take some pictures in a more secluded environment."

  "That can be arranged, Mr. Roth."

  "Call me William, love."

  She imitated his imitation accent. "Okay, William Love."

  Had a sense of humor, too. She'd be a joy to tumble. Roth moved toward her, wanting to get close enough for her to marvel at the sparkle in his smoky eyes. Something crawled across his face and he brushed it away.

  God save the bloody queen, it was a spider.

  He stepped back and saw the web spun between him and Lilith, stretching across the bridge like golden wire, the dew catching the sunrise. He detested spiders. From the African veldt to the Arctic tundra, the little buggers jumped at you with their sharp pincers. He'd read somewhere that, no matter where you stood on the globe, there'd be a spider within six feet of you, and he believed it.

  He looked down at the rough planks of the bridge. The yellow-striped bastard was making for a crack, its legs scrabbling, its arachnid brain no doubt having a laugh at Roth's expense. Roth brought a boot down on the spider, grinding it into the grain of the wood, sending its soul to spider hell, where hopefully God fed them nothing but DDT.

  "Sorry, love," he said to Lilith. "Hope that didn't upset you."

  The smile flitted across the thin lips, fast as insects. "You didn't kill it. You delivered it."

  "What's that?"

  "Living things never die, they just move on through deeper tunnels of the soul."

  "Er, righty right."

  "Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Mamie will be wondering where I've gotten off to. I can't stay away from the house for long."

  She walked past him, and he took a whiff of her fragrance. He liked that sort of thing, collected their scents the way some blokes collected phone numbers or underwear. This one smelled a bit like earth, ripe and lush. Fertile and moist. He could dig it, all right.

  She stopped at the end of the bridge. "I'll see you later, then."

  "Wouldn't miss it for the life of me," he said, and watched her delightful small arse shake as she walked up the sandy road leading to the manor. When she disappeared through the trees, he turned his attention back to the view. The ridges had lost their glow now that the sun was rising. He'd best pack away.

  The ravens watched as he returned his lens to its case. Bloody birds had no fear. He thought about waving them on, sending them scattering over the valley. Oh, bother that. The day was looking up, with fair and tender Lilith on the agenda.

  He was about to head back for the manor and breakfast when he saw the web again. Still spread out in those fine and sinister patterns, shipshape. Lilith had walked right through it. And still it hung there, whole and perfect, waiting to snatch things from the air.

  This place was going to drive him daft if he wasn't careful.

  CHAPTER 17

  Mason hewed the flesh of the oak, excited by the tannic smell of the wood. He worked with his hatchet, scraping it around as if skinning an animal. The log was braced with a couple of old chestnut boards, a pain in the rump to work around, but art was never easy. With the wires adding support, the oak waited for his touch like a masochistic and naked lover in a torture chamber.

  The reddish strips of peeled bark were piled around his feet, and he stumbled in them as he felt along the wood's smooth surface. Here would be the arms, one knee here, a strong spread of shoulder there. This knot could become the ball of one loose fist.

  He hadn't lied to Miss Mamie. The statue would be worth the trouble. Nothing great was ever created without a little risk. Suffer for art, that was the ticket to the top. Sacrifice everything and everyone, especially yourself.

  Mason drove the hatchet sideways, into the area that would be the neck. He drew back and struck again and again, the outline of the form burned into his mind, his hands sure of their work. He chopped until his right shoulder and biceps ached, removing the sections of dead wood that blocked the emergence of the true shape. The flames at the end of the candles bobbed as the air stirred with his blows and breath.

  When he could no longer lift his arm, Mason stood back and pushed away the wood scraps with his shoe. He moved across the studio space and studied the log from different angles. The height of the shoulders, the angle of the elbow, the distance between the feet, all had to be perfectly measured. As he was taking a step back to get another view, he knocked over the oil painting that he'd leaned against the cupboard.

  He knelt and picked it up. Again he was struck by its singular beauty. How would he feel if his own work never left the basement, if it stayed forever in the shadows, never to be appreciated and admired? His work would be better than this, but the painter had talent. The soft brushstrokes and colors, the off-white of the manor, the splendor of the night forest, the turbulent storm clouds as fresh as wet reality.

  He looked closer, at the top of the house. The smudge along the widow's walk was brighter now and had spread several inches across the canvas. Mason peered into the mist and blinked. There were angles and shapes in the smudge. He brought the lantern from the table and tilted it toward the painting.

  Mason traced a finger over one of the shapes. The shape was a deeper gray white than the smudge, suggesting a human shape. More forms hovered beyond it, behind the thick pale line that portrayed the rail of the widow's walk. People?

  People would be out of place in the painting. The house was the subject, so dominating an image in itself that to besmirch it with humanity would be a cruel insult. Had somebody else made the same observation as Mason, and tried to blot out those shapes on the roof? Or did the artist realize the mistake upon completion, and sought to correct it before the oils had dried?

  Miss Mamie would know, or maybe Lilith, who'd shown an interest in the painting. Perhaps he'd be allowed to take it to his room and hang it beside that portrait of Korban. A master and his domain.

  He leaned the painting back against the cupboard. His own work was more important. That was the artist's first tenet. Creative duty first, everything
else second.

  Besides, Mama was watching.

  His wood called to him in the language of the unborn. He answered, with chisel and claw, tooth and hatchet, sharp blade and hungry soul.

  Adam found Miss Mamie after breakfast. She sat in a wicker chair in the study with her hands folded in her lap. She was dressed in forest green today, her decol-lette gown showing the pale expanse of her upper bosom. She had foregone her pearl necklace in favor of a black silk choker.

  She lifted her hands, revealing some small pieces of wood spread across a cloth. She had a knife in one hand, bits of wood clinging to the blade. As Adam watched, she sliced a length of thick vine and began wrapping it around what looked like the torso of a doll. The doll's head looked like a knob of dark, shriveled fruit, the features stretched and distorted from the act of drying.

  The Abramovs were at the far end of the study, away from the fireplace and the sunlight that poured through the high windows. They were playing a minuet in andante that was reminiscent of Mozart. Their cello and violin trilled in counterpoint, then shifted into a descending harmony. The rich notes vibrated against Adam's skin.

  He sat on the sofa across from Miss Mamie and bowed his head in respectful silence. He watched the musicians' fingers glide over the strings. The duo increased their tempo, then went into the recapitulation, toying with the melody before finally sustaining the tonic and fifth notes as a finale. Adam joined Miss Mamie in applause.

  "Bravo," she said. "How extraordinarily lovely. Ephram Korban would be pleased."

  As the Abramovs started a new piece, Adam leaned over to Miss Mamie. "How are you today?"

  "Just fine, Mr. Andrews. How do you like my little hobby? An old Appalachian craft, passed down by Ephram himself. They say when you whittle a poppet, you're building a house for a lost soul."

  "Looks tough on the hands."

  "But they make lovely gifts. What do you think of this one?"