Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
Why did those words seem emblazoned on his mind? Because there’s something dead inside, he thought, answering his own question. Slowly he began backing up from the church. He wanted to leave, had to leave. Just as he turned, he heard something rustling in the brush and looked toward the sound. He squinted into the foliage and saw a squirrel skittering up a tree. Feeling relieved, he began running toward the path he knew would take him back to the inn.
In his haste Shadoe had missed the crude mask that seemed to blend in with the rustic surroundings … almost as if it belonged there.
* * * *
Shadoe slammed into the inn. He didn’t see anyone at the desk but hurried up to it anyway and pressed the silver bell while he leaned over the desk breathing heavily. Just then he heard a shuffling noise and looked toward a door where he saw Lucretia coming in from a back room.
She frowned at his disheveled condition. “Mr. Madison, are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m … I’m fine. Been running, that’s all.”
“A man like you, I would’ve thought you were in better shape than that.”
“Well, it wasn’t just … never mind.” He didn’t know how to tell her he’d been spooked, so he said, “I took some pictures today and was wondering where would be the best place to get them developed.”
“Right there in our gift shop,” she said, while mechanically attending to her duties. “Since many of our tourists take pictures, we have a provision for that. It may take a few days, but you can pick them up, or we can have the photos delivered to your room once they arrive. They can be charged to your room, or you can pay for them upon delivery. If you leave before they’re ready, just leave your name and address at the desk and we will have them mailed to your home.”
It sounded like a speech she gave every day of the week. Flat, without inflection, and boring. He was surprised when she looked up at him and asked, “Did you find your waterfall?”
“No....” He was going to say something else, then at the last moment changed his mind. “As a matter of fact I found a church.”
She looked up surprised. “A church?”
“Yes. In a clearing in the woods.”
She smiled indulgently. “You must be mistaken. There’s no church in those woods.”
“I … no … it wasn’t a … well, it wasn’t a church like you might see on a corner in town. It was an old building. You know, broken steps, broken windows, badly in need of paint.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Is that so?” He stuck his finger out. “What about this?”
She looked down at his finger, then up at him as if he were joking. “Your finger? What about it?”
“It’s bleed--” He looked down at his finger, and could see no puncture, or any blood. “Oh … it must be the other....” But when he extended the other finger, there was no wound. With brusque movements he brought both hands up and looked at each finger, but the tiny cut wasn’t there. “I tell you there was a church out there, and when I touched the banister, I got a splinter.”
“Mr. Madison, think about what you’re saying. What would a church be doing in the woods?”
Shadoe felt a momentary anger spurred by her mocking words. Then he stopped, displayed one of his best smiles, and leaned against the desk comfortably. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve never heard of such a church. Are you sure you weren’t … well … had you been drinking?”
Shadoe’s face took on a sudden hardness. “At this time of the morning? I don’t think so. Besides, I know what I saw.” He indicated to his camera. “In fact I’ve got pictures of it.”
“Impossible. You must have been hallucinating. I tell you there is no such church.”
“How much time do you spend in those woods?”
Lucretia lowered her eyes, recalling her nightly trips into the woods as a child, and her delight in torturing small animals. “Not since I was a child,” she said curtly. “But there was no church then, and there’s no church now.”
“Then how do you explain what I saw?”
“I don’t care to explain it,” she said, smiling coldly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have duties to attend to.”
Before she got away from him, Shadoe spoke up quickly. “What’s the reason for that elevator? Does anyone use it?”
“My father....” Lucretia purposely stopped her words, and her eyes stabbed his, clearly indicating she’d had enough. “Mr. Madison, since the first day you checked in, you’ve been asking questions that are clearly none of your business.”
“I’ve heard it running late at night.” He looked at her closely, watching her reaction. “You know, when everyone is supposed to be asleep? I’ve heard voices. Crying, scolding … even threatening. Either that was you and your sister, or this place is haunted.” He looked around. “Where is the little ragamuffin?”
“The what?”
“The ragamuffin. You know, the girl in the mask. I want to see her … talk to her.”
“How dare you make such a request. My sister is not at your disposal, Mr. Madison. You pay for a room, a bed, and meals, but that is all! My sister is not on that list.” Her hands moved to grasp the edge of the counter as if she were about to jump over it. “By the way I know about the little incident in your room the other day. Let me warn you now, Mr. Madison, you lay one hand on my sister, and I’ll....”
He looked at her, waiting for the rest of the warning. “You’ll what?” When she didn’t answer, he answered for her. “Spit in my face … throw me out … kill me? Is that it, Ms. Van Dare? You want to kill me?”
“You are trying my patience, sir.”
Shadoe couldn’t seem to stop. “What’s in the basement? She has to be somewhere. Is she tied up down there?”
When Lucretia heard him refer to the basement, she stiffened. “What a ridiculous thing to say.”
Shadoe saw her reaction. “Maybe I’ll check it out.”
Lucretia’s burning eyes flared at him. “You’ll do no such thing. The basement is off limits to the guests. You have no reason to be down there.”
“Yeah? What’s down there?”
“Filled wine racks mostly. We use it as a storage area for unused furniture, old guest rosters, bro-broken things….” She hesitated when she got a vivid flash of the broken body of her father lying on the ground when she was only fourteen. “Yes … broken things,” she said softly, her glassy eyes returning to him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this. It’s certainly none of your business.”
“Do you have an attic?”
Her fiery anger exploded and spread through her. “Don’t you dare go near the attic. If I catch you snooping anywhere in this inn, I will have your physically removed. Is that clear, Mr. Madison?”
There it was, Shadoe thought, the stopping point. He knew it would come if he asked too many questions. Time to shut his mouth and find out anything he wanted to know on his own.
“You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”
As soon as he’d said it, he was sorry. Why couldn’t he stop his mouth? There was no doubt he had fallen into some kind of vipers nest, but had to be sure he wasn’t seeing something that wasn’t there. Had he been an undercover cop too long? Did he see smoke where there was no fire? He knew only one thing, there was no way he could stop now, no way in hell!
He saw Lucretia grab a thick pad, pull a drawer open, and thumb through a file. When she found the one she was looking for, she pulled it open and picked out a fistful of receipts. Without saying anything, one by one she began to itemize them on the bill. Shadoe realized at once what she was doing and closed his hands over hers. She stopped writing and looked up at him.
“I’m sorry. I was out of line. Sometimes my mouth gets in overdrive and I can’t stop it.”
“You’ll be happier at another inn, Mr. Madison, I must insist….”
“Ms. Van Dare,” he said
, lowering his voice, “are you willing to take the chance that I won’t ruin the reputation of this inn?” He saw something glitter in her dark eyes, and heard her sharp intake of air. Good, he thought, he got her attention. “A lot of people know about your incredible sunrise, but most come here because of the legend … the stories they’ve heard. They say several big stars stayed here in their day.” He chuckled. “After all who could stay away from a place that Marilyn Monroe haunts, or see the suite that she occupied?” His sharp eyes pierced hers. “It is all true isn’t it? None of it fake or made-up to attract guests?” He cast her a knowing look before blurting out the next lie. “The truth is, I’m a reporter doing a story on this inn, that’s why I ask so many questions.” My God, he thought, how easily a lie flows from my lips. Can’t I tell the truth… ever? “Now, my pen can either make you or break you. If you send me away, I can’t say that my--” he paused, speaking the next three words clearly and pointedly, “--front page article will be complimentary. In fact it might be downright destructive.”
She hesitated, a look of dread spreading across her face. “It’s all true,” she insisted, defending the inn. “In its day this inn was magnificent!”
“Don’t you understand?” he said, his eyes becoming as hard and passionless as hers. “It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, I can write anything I want. People will believe me.”
Lucretia struggled. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t afford for the inn to get bad publicity. For years the sunrise, the legend, even the stories of their celebrated guests, brought people here. But now the inn was getting a questionable reputation. Too many murders, suicides, accidents. She only did what was necessary to protect the inn. But after a while a pall began to hang over the inn. Some regular guests didn’t come back, others only came to see the inn whose reputation had become as bloody as the sunrise.
Her eyes stole up into the domed ceiling. It was a party. The inn was celebrating a New Year’s Eve party. Suddenly, for no reason, the chandelier fell and crushed several people. The blood, the screams, the horror, was awful. At the time she thought it would ruin her, but it hadn’t. It had simply been added to the stories that circulated. Back then no one really believed those stories anyway. It was like a scary movie to them. Fabricated for their benefit. But through the years … funny how things change.
She looked at him closely, wondering if she should even care. Still, this wouldn’t be the same as a hysterical guest. This man was a reporter, a professional. He could reach a lot of people with his column. Just to be sure, she snapped, “What paper do you work for?”
Without missing a beat, he answered saying, “The New York Clarion.” There was no such paper, but what did she know?
“Well,” she began, her anger cowed in the face of possible bankruptcy. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“A reporter can’t reveal his true identity. Whenever someone finds out who I am they start acting funny and I can’t get a true picture of the situation. That’s why the lies about my being a photographer for a web-based operation. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“I suppose I can give you one more chance,” she said, her suspicious eyes sliding up to his. “I’ll answer your questions on one condition, Mr. Madison.”
“Oh?” he said, looking at her with his eyebrows raised inquiringly.
“That you leave my sister out of this, and don’t go wandering around the inn unescorted.” A few seconds of silence stretched between them. Then her voice dripped with venom as it dropped an octave. “Bad things could happen to you.”
Shadoe was silent, wondering what that remark had meant. The sister? Is she homicidal? Crazy? Dangerous? “Agreed,” he finally replied, then removed his hands from hers. He breathed a sigh of relief when she hadn’t asked for his press ID.
Good thing, he thought. The only thing I have is a badge, a gun … and apparently a death wish.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lucretia’s scrawny silhouette made a sinister picture as she carefully descended down a set of twisted concrete steps that led deep into the bowels of the mansion. Her leather-soled shoes echoed an ominous scraping sound, and her thin, spidery fingers carefully grasped the creaking banister. She made little progress as she moved, the twisting steps leading her into a deep darkness where she could feel cobwebs tickling her face, but could see nothing. She brushed them away as best she could, but the closer she came to the bottom the more she felt the dampness, and smelled the stench of wet dirt and mold.
The old man looked up, watery blue eyes looking out of a face lined with age, and hate. Once he’d been handsome, his eyes full of purpose and his heart full of plans while looking toward the future. But today his eyes were as dead and cold as the bricks in the basement wall. His once strong young body had become as thin as a scarecrow, and his hair that was once dark and curly was now mostly gray, and looked oddly misshapen, as if he’d taken something sharp and tried to cut it as best he could. He sat day after day in a wheelchair, never seeing the sun, or feeling a gentle breeze. He was dead … and had been for fifteen years.
His eyes shifted when he heard a shuffling sound, knowing who would be showing up at the door at any minute. If only she’d trip and fall, he thought. If only she’d crack her ugly skull wide open, I’d jump up out of this chair and rejoice. With his loathing eyes fixed on the door, he saw it slowly open and his oldest daughter walk in.
He chilled as her blank, soul-less eyes looked down her ugly nose at him. She looked like a walking corpse. Her face had a cadaver’s thinness to it, and her eyes were dark and haunting. Her crisp dress, smooth chignon, and cold, imperial bearing looked misplaced in the midst of the deterioration of the basement. Her dark blue dress with white collar and cuff seemed to be starched stiff, but maybe it was just the stiffness of her spine that made it seem so. Her thick heels were black, and her hose were dark. Lucretia was only thirty-two, but she had the looks and demeanor of an old woman. She reminded him of an old-maid school teacher … a strict governess … someone so prim and proper that sex, and men were taboo. The old man knew what a struggle Lucretia had once had with her sexuality, and constantly having the golden loveliness of Julita around day after day hadn’t been easy for her. Seeing the ugly truth everyday in the mirror left her only one choice. She naturally put up a defense, conveying a message in her dress and attitude that she didn’t need men … didn’t want them.
“What are you looking at you old bastard? Why I go to the trouble to feed you, I’ll never know.”
“Because you love me, Lucretia,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You love your old papa, don’t you dear?”
“Don’t be sarcastic. I hate your guts, and you know it. If I had any sense I’d bury you in the ground instead of in this basement.”
That’s your problem, you ugly nitwit. You don’t have any sense, and never did, he thought, looking at her through nail-sharp eyes. “What did you bring me tonight, darling?” he questioned, his voice sugary sweet.
“Soup,” she hissed, “laced with arsenic.”
“What a culinary delight,” he answered. Then his sarcastic smile dropped along with his tone of voice. “Death would be preferable to looking at you three times a day. Don’t you know you ruin my appetite?”
“Good. Maybe you’ll die of starvation, and save me the trouble of killing you.”
“If you haven’t killed me by now, I doubt you will.” His eyes stabbed at her like freezing shards of ice. “What’s the matter, you skinny little imp? Afraid I’ll come back and haunt you?” His hate overflowed with the sight of her. “Believe me, I would … legs and all … and give you a taste of hell you’d never forget.”
“I want you to live, you old cripple. I want you to live with the fact that your precious little Julita is mine now! And she has been, ever since that night. And you can’t do a fucking thing about it.”
“Fine language for....”
“Do you want to know what your precious little daughter
has been up to? She was up in a man’s room the other day, letting him touch her … feel her.”
“That’s a lie, and you know it. She barely knows what a man is, much less how he’s built.” Several seconds passed while he eyed her hatefully. “But you know, don’t you, Lucretia? Do you long for a man’s touch? Do you imagine what it would be like? Well dream on, you walking pile of bones, because no man would touch you. You’ll probably live to be the world’s oldest virgin.”
“Who the hell I fuck isn’t, and never will be, any business of yours.”
“You fuck yourself, Lucretia, because you can’t find any man that’ll do it for you.”
While standing in front of the dumbwaiter, she snatched a knife off of the tray and waved it at him. “One more word, you filthy bastard … just one … and I’ll slice you up like Sunday’s chicken.”
“Am I supposed to be afraid? If it weren’t for me and Julita, who would you torture? You’d have to go back out to the woods and hunt down your prey, wouldn’t you?” His eyes narrowed on her, and his voice became ominous. “Or have you graduated to bigger things now? Funny how the guests seem to check in, but don’t check out. Right, you sickening beanpole?”
She cut him with her cold, sharp eyes, then banged the tray down on a mobile table and pushed it across the floor to where he was sitting. “I should have you committed, old man. You’re beginning to hallucinate … growing cynical … imagining things.”
“Ever wonder how I know so much?” he said, ignoring her threat. He turned his head around and his eyes slid up to a ventilator system that had a screen dangling from it. “Through there,” he said, then turned his old, scrunched-up eyes back at her.
She looked up at the spidery, web-encrusted square of metal.
“You think the only thing that comes out of there is heat and cold, and that sickening perfume you pour into it? No, my dear. I hear moans, squeaking springs….”
The color drained from Lucretia’s face. “No … I … it’s the other rooms you’re hearing, not … not mine.”
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