The Manor

by Scott Nicholson

  Black widow, his mind screamed at him, she always eats her mate.

  Looking up, he hardly recognized his reflection, eyes large, his mouth a black tunnel, the stems of Lilith's eight arms clasping him, the barbs of her fore-limbs in his flesh.

  But before the pain could spin its web, the mirror was upon him, and as the glass shattered, it wasn't his face in the mirror, it was Korban's.

  Then the silver shards sliced into his flesh and Lilith loosed her venom and he was in the long dark tunnel and Ephram Korban smiled at him, holding up a spoon that squirmed with the frantic scrabbling of spiders.

  "Time for a spot of tea, Mr. Roth," Korban said.

  "How is our statue coming along?" Miss Mamie hoped her impatience was buried deep, just as all her emotions were, except when under the naked gaze of Ephram.

  "It's going to be lovely," Mason said, standing in the doorway of his room, eyes puffy, hair disheveled. "You want to come in?"

  She and Ephram had spent many precious nights here, hours that seemed even sweeter with the distant years. But the room disturbed her because it always bore the stink and taint of Sylva, as if the walls still harbored the memory of Ephram's sin. She could forgive, all right. All women could forgive, that was how love worked, but she would never forget. Even if Ephram let her live to be a thousand.

  Mason held open the door, and she peered past him to the fireplace, the dew drying on the windowsill, the smiling face of Ephram on the wall.

  "I only have a moment," she said. "I'm busy preparing for the party."

  "Party?"

  "The blue moon party. It's something of a tradition at Korban Manor. Your presence is required."

  "Sure. I guess I could spare the time."

  "Not too much time, I hope. I know you're dedicated to your work."

  "That reminds me. Do you know anything about that painting of the manor in the basement?"

  Rage filled Miss Mamie, burned her, scorched her like her dead husband's love. She no longer cared if Mason saw the flames in her eyes. He couldn't escape anyway. He was as trapped here as she was.

  She forced a smile, the good hostess. "Master Korban, I'm afraid. He once fancied himself a painter."

  The anger opened a dark tunnel in her heart, the conduit through which Ephram kept his hold over her. An icy wind blew from the mouth of the tunnel, freezing her chest. Ephram's threat and Ephram's promise. He needed her fear as much as he needed the emotions of the others. She only wished her love was all he required. But love by itself was never enough.

  "He was gifted." Mason must not have noticed her torment. She was good at hiding it, after all these decades.

  "One of his greatest sorrows was that he never finished it," she said. "There's something melancholy about an artist's final work, even when the artist's talents are ordinary and mortal. One always hopes to make an impression that will live on after death."

  "Our vanity," Mason said. "And I reckon it's what drives us crazy. Because we know we'll never achieve perfection."

  "Perfection." Miss Mamie didn't need the painting before her in order to remember. She could close her eyes and see the house, the lighted windows, the low clouds, the widow's walk. She could taste the breeze that had blown from the northwest, crisp from its journey over Canadian tundra. String music quivered in the air, smoke poured from the chimneys as it rose into the round eye of the moon. And Ephram called them up, fetched his spirit slaves, and sent them after Rachel Faye Hartley.

  Ephram didn't like his own family keeping secrets from him. Rachel had fled, leapt to her death from the widow's walk. Rachel had taken her secrets to the grave, but carried them back from the grave as well.

  The hurt rose inside Miss Mamie, consumed her in a blaze of hatred. Ephram and Sylva were bound by blood. His illicit family would always hold the biggest place in his everlasting heart, no matter what sacrifices Miss Mamie made. No matter how deep her devotion. And that painting, the one Ephram called his work in progress, was an eternal reminder.

  She turned away, into the hall, the portrait of Ephram close enough to touch. "That painting should have been burned long ago," she said.

  "Anna said her mother was in the painting."

  "Forget Anna. You're to think only of your statue."

  "Anna says she's never been here before. How could Korban have known? He's in the painting, too. And somebody who looks like you."

  "Illusions," Miss Mamie said. "Never trust an artist, because dreams lie and visions are temporary."

  "Can I trust anybody?"

  "Trust your heart, Mr. Jackson. That's the only thing worth believing in."

  "My heart is getting pulled in three different directions."

  She studied the young man's face. He was a lot like Ephram in some ways, stubborn and proud, afraid of weakness and failure. But Ephram had taken matters into his own hands, determined to leave none of his work unfinished. Obsessed with controlling his world. "I guess you'll just have to tear your heart into enough pieces to go around. As long as the biggest piece goes into your statue."

  "Don't worry. I'll make you proud. I'll make them all proud."

  "I'm sure you will. See you tonight. Don't be late."

  The door closed. Miss Mamie touched the locket that hung around her neck. When Ephram wore flesh again, he would prove that love never died. Sylva, Rachel, Anna, Lilith, and all the others would be forgotten, would be the embers of memories, fading, dying, and at last, lost to darkness. While Miss Mamie and Ephram burned on, together forever.

  Anna sat on her bed, huddled in a blanket. The room had grown cold during the afternoon, the temperature falling as the fire burned low. She found herself staring at Ephram Korban's portrait, searching his face for genetic features that had been passed down to her. Korban, Rachel, Sylva. And somewhere in there, a faceless father, who'd slipped her off the mountain, abandoned her with only a first name, and died rather than return to the mountains. By his own hand and noose, according to Sylva.

  She had drifted for so long, rootless and unconnected, and now she belonged to too many people. Her bloodline was too crooked, the generations skewed by whatever magic slowed the ravages of time here at the manor. Because if Sylva was a hundred and five, and Anna was twenty-six, then Rachel had died less than three decades ago. Or maybe when you died, you were ageless, and the years no longer counted.

  There was a knock and Cris entered. "Hi, girl, what's up?"

  "Just brooding."

  "Hey, that's no way to spend an artists' retreat. Leave that to the idiots who think it's okay to starve for art. Or to pigheaded photographers."

  "Ah, what's the point?"

  "That's exactly the point. If it doesn't matter, if it's all a solo wet dream, then why not enjoy yourself?"

  "Maybe you're right. I'm taking things a bit too seriously."

  "That's the spirit." Cris slipped into the bathroom, paused at the door. "Excuse me. Time of the month. Full moon tonight."

  "So I hear."

  "And a big party on the roof. Miss Mamie says it's not to be missed. If Mason's there, maybe you'll get lucky." Cris winked, then closed the bathroom door. Anna pulled the blanket more tightly about her shoulders.

  When Cris came out, she rummaged in her dresser for a sweater. "Hey, did you mess with my sketch pad?"

  "I haven't been here today."

  Cris held it up. Scrawled across a large sheet of paper, in slashing strokes of red crayon, were the words Go out frost, come in fire.

  "Maybe it was one of the servants," Anna said. "A reminder note to put more wood on the fire."

  "It's getting cold, all right. October in the mountains. If it wasn't for the falling leaves, I think I'd rather have Rio. See you tonight." Cris waved and left, tying her hair back in a ponytail as she went.

  Anna watched the grain of the door as it swirled and bent inward. A shape superimposed itself against the dark oak panels. A pale hand, holding a bouquet, the woman with desperate eyes. And that one whispered word, "Anna."

/>   Resting in peace was apparently not allowed for either the dead or the living.

  CHAPTER 21

  Mason wished he'd brought a lantern, since the afternoon had grown suddenly dark, heavy clouds sweeping from the northwest like smoke from a distant prairie fire. At least he was out of the house, having dodged the questioning gaze of Miss Mamie. He didn't want to go down into the basement, at least not until his head cleared. Anna was right, he'd become obsessed, and it was far more than just the pursuit of praise that drove him.

  He headed down the road toward the barn. It was about time for Ransom to feed and put up the horses. Maybe Anna had gone to help him. Like Mason, she probably preferred the company of the old mountain man to that of the rowdy revelers in the manor. And she was nuts about the horses.

  If he saw her, then he could apologize, talk plainly. Maybe try to understand her. She knew more than she let on, and unlike the other guests, she recognized that something seriously weird was going on at Korban Manor. And the two of them had something else in common.

  Because, though she tried her best to hide it, a suffering ran deep inside her, turbulent waters beneath the calm surface. Or maybe he just liked looking into her cyan eyes and his imagination had done the rest. His imagination had always been his blessing and his curse, both his exit door from a lifetime in Sawyer Hosiery and the demon that rode his back in every waking moment and most of his sleeping ones.

  He followed the fence line, stopping once to glance back at the house. There were several lighted windows, but much of its facade was dark and featureless. A few high piano notes tinkled in the breeze. He looked up at the roof, at the flat space above the gabled windows where the rail marked off the widow's walk. A few people moved about beyond the white railing, probably the servants setting up for the party. Mason compared the real thing to the painting in the basement.

  No contest. The real thing was much creepier. He didn't buy Anna's lie about never having been to the manor, though Korban must have painted the picture decades before her birth. Mason had memorized her face well enough to know it was plainly Anna walking in that painted haze, complete with the bouquet and lace dress.

  Miss Mamie didn't like that painting, either. She'd acted almost afraid of it, despite her obvious adoration of Korban. He shook his head. Why was she so adamant about his finishing the statue? She seemed even more anxious to get it done than Mason himself, as if she had her own critics to please.

  He put his hands in his pockets. The forest seemed closer and darker, as if it had picked up and moved while no one was looking. An owl hooted from a stand of trees to his right. He walked a little faster.

  Imagination.

  Right, Mase. Big dream image. Korban on the brain.

  The dream was a crock, a smelly pile of whatever it was that he'd just stepped in. The barn lay ahead, a faint square of lantern light leaking from the open door. Mason hurried toward it. He looked above the door and saw that the horseshoe was points-down on the wall. He couldn't remember if that was the good position or the ghosts-walk-on-in position. He almost wished he had a rag-ball charm to wave.

  Mason stepped inside, his sneakers muted by the hay scattered across the planks. He didn't see Ransom or Anna. The smell of the leather harness and the sweet sorghum odor of the horse feed drifted across the air. The opposite door leading to the meadow was closed off. He swallowed and was about to call out when he heard Ransom's voice among the wagons: "Get away, George. You ain't got no call to be here."

  The shadows of the surrey and wagons were high on the walls, and the staves and wheel spokes and the tines of the hay rake cast flickering black lines on the wooden walls. Ransom spoke again, and this time Mason located him, crouched behind one of the wagons.

  "Got me a charm bag, George. You're supposed to leave me alone." The handyman's eyes were wide, staring across the buckled gray floor.

  Wasn't George the name of the man who'd been killed in that accident? Had Ransom's belief in ghosts and folk magic finally driven him off the deep end?

  Then Mason saw George.

  And George looked dead, with his hollowed-out eyes sunk into the wispy substance of his impossible shape, the stump of one forearm held aloft. George looked so dead that Mason could see through him. And George was smiling, as if being dead was the best thing that ever happened to him.

  "Been sent to fetch you, Ransom, old buddy." The words seemed to come from every corner of the room, rattling a few crisp leaves that had blown in during winters past. A chill ran up Mason's spine, his scalp tingled, he felt as if he was going to pass out.

  Because this was no dream image.

  He couldn't blame his imagination for this.

  "Get on back, damn you," Ransom said, his voice shaky. He kept his eyes fixed on the George-thing and didn't notice Mason. George took a step forward.

  Except that wasn't a STEP, was it, Mason? Because George didn't move a muscle, just floated forward like a windy scarecrow on a wire.

  Cold air radiated off the George-thing, chilling the cramped space of the barn. Mason wasn't ready to call it a ghost. Because when he told Anna he'd believe it when he saw it, it turned out that he had lied. He still didn't believe it.

  And he didn't believe what was dangling from the George-thing's lone hand. The missing hand, its milky fingers flexing as if eager to get a good grip around somebody's throat.

  "Come on, Ransom," the cemetery voice said. "It only hurts for a second. And it's not so bad inside, once you get used to the snakes."

  "Why, George? I ain't never done a thing to you." Ransom's eyes were wide with terror. "You was a good, God-fearing man. What you gone and got yourself into?"

  Laughter shook the tin roofing. Mason's heart did a somersault.

  "Got myself into the tunnel, old buddy. 'Cause I just had to know. Now let me fetch you on inside. Korban don't like to be kept waiting."

  There was a rusty creak, and the hay rake rolled forward. Ransom's eyes shifted from side to side, looking for an escape. He saw Mason.

  "The charm ain't working, Mason. How come the charm ain't working?"

  George turned in Mason's direction, again without moving any of its withered, fibrous extremities. "Plenty of room inside, young fellow. The tunnel ain't got no end."

  Ransom ducked between the wagon and the surrey and Mason turned to run. Too late. The barn door screed across its track and slammed shut.

  Mason fled along the inside of the wall, making sure he kept plenty of distance between him and the ghost-you just called it a GHOST, Mason. And that's not a good sign-until he got beside the surrey. He dropped to his knees, his bones clattering against the floorboards. He crawled to Ransom's side. "What the hell is that thing, Ransom?"

  Ransom peered between the spokes of the wagon wheel. Mason could smell the man's fear, salt and copper and greenbriar.

  "What I been warning you about, son. He's one of them now. Korban's bunch."

  "I don't believe in ghosts."

  Ransom's rag-ball charm was clenched inside his fist. "That don't matter none, when the ghosts believe in you."

  The shape floated forward, arms raised, the ragged end of its amputation fluttering with the motion. Mason found himself staring at the stump, wondering why a ghost shouldn't be all in one piece.

  Ghost-you called it a ghost again, Mason.

  The hay rake creaked, rolling out of its corner toward the pair.

  "Go away," the old man said in a high, broken voice. "I got warding powers."

  "Come out and play, Ransom," said the George-thing. "Gets lonely inside, with just the snakes for company. We can set a spell and talk over old times. And Korban's got chores for us all."

  Ransom held up the charm bag. "See here? Got my lizard powder, yarrow, snakeroot, Saint Johnswort. You're supposed to go away."

  George laughed again, and thunder rattled in the saves of the barn. Horses whinnied in the neighboring stalls.

  "Don't believe ever little thing they tell you," George said. "Them's j
ust a bunch of old widows' tales. 'Cause it ain't what you believe, is it, Ransom?"

  "It's how much," Ransom said, defeated, looking down at the little scrap of cotton that held the herbs and powder. The cloth was tied with a piece of frayed blue ribbon. White dust trickled from the opening.

  Suddenly Ransom stood and threw the bag at George. "Ashes of a prayer, George!"

  Mason was frozen by his own fear and a strange fascination as the bag came untied and the contents spread out in a cloud of green and gray dust. The material wafted over the ghost, mingled in its vapor, caught a stir of wind from the crack beneath the door, and swirled around the shape.

  George shimmered, faded briefly, fizzled like a candle about to burn the last of its wax Jiminy H. Christ, it's working, Mason thought. IT'S WORK The cloud of herbs settled to the floor, and George wiped at its eyes.

  "Now you boys have gone and made me mad" the ghost said, its voice flat and cold, seeping from the corners of the room like a fog. "I tried to do it nice, Ransom. Just you and me, taking us a nice long walk into the tunnel like old friends. But you tried to spell me."

  George shook its see-through head. The motion made a breeze that chilled Mason to the bone. Ransom ducked behind the wagon wheel and tensed beside him. The ghost fluttered forward, steadily, now only twenty feet away, twelve, ten. A rusty metallic rattle filled the barn.

  George held up the amputated hand. "They took my hammering hand, Ransom. He took it"

  The ghost sounded almost wistful, as if debating whether to follow the orders of an absent overseer. But then the deep caves of the eyes grew bright, flickered in bronze and gold and blazing orange, and the face twisted into something that was barely recognizable as having once been human. It was shrunken, wizened, a shriveled rind with pockmarks for eyes. The voice came again, but it wasn't just George's voice, it was the combined voice of dozens, a congregation, a chorus of lost souls. "Come inside, Ransom. We're waiting for you."