Pretty Baby

by Pretty Baby (NCP) (lit)

  She stared at him, not saying anything, then finally turned away. She walked hesitantly down the corridor, turning once to see him watching her. All at once, as if some ungodly fear had rose up in her, she pulled her mask down over her head and began running, flitting through the shadowy corridor like a ghost.

  Shadoe just had time to take his clothes off before stumbling into bed. He immediately fell into an exhausted sleep. He slept like the dead until hours later, deep into the night, he began tossing and turning, hearing a voice from far away.

  Shadooooe, cooome to the chuuurch! Danger is neeeear! Coooome to meeee. Pleeease come to me noooow!

  Shadoe lunged forward, dripping with sweat, the faraway voice swirling around in his head. He put his palms up to his ears, but it continued reverberating against his skull, forlorn, desolate, and forsaken. His fingers dug into his scalp trying to lock it out, but he could still hear the sobbing, whimpering, distressed words that came at him again and again like arrows piercing his brain.

  It was the old church. Someone was in there, he knew it. It was a woman. He had seen her that first day when she gazed down at him from the tower. Elusive, mysterious. And now she was calling out to him.

  Slowly the voice became dim, sounding far away in the back of his mind like a sad memory. He tried to go back to sleep, convince himself it was just a bad dream, a nightmare. But he tossed and turned, the seconds turning into minutes, the minutes turning to time wasted as an urgency filled him to get out of bed and retrace his steps. He envisioned every step he’d taken through that dark, dense jungle. The slapping tree limbs, the splashing sound the water made when his feet plunged into the creek. The skittering animals.

  It all seemed to be carved into his memory.

  He looked at the clock. Almost four. The woods would be dark. It would be suicide to go now, down a dark, reclusive path he had found only once. Lucretia had insisted that the church didn’t exist. Right now he was willing to believe that. He was willing to believe that he’d been hallucinating. After all, why shouldn’t he? It made no sense that a church would sit alone, hidden in a rustic setting.

  “This is insane,” he muttered, realizing he was actually considering fighting his way through that thick tangle of brush at this time of the morning. He kept telling himself that it didn’t make sense. But then nothing had since he’d been here. And it didn’t make sense that he was lying here when something was hellishly wrong in this inn. He knew that whoever was in that church, dead or alive, was connected to this whole thing somehow. He had to find out how.

  Without wasting another minute he pushed himself up off the bed, grabbed his trousers and shirt, and pulled them on. Hopping around on one foot, he struggled to put his shoes on with one hand while he grabbed his jacket with the other. Finally, with his shirt hanging open and his shoes untied, he pulled the door open and darted through it.

  Small bulbs, flickering through ornate, flowery globes, lit the hallway, creating shadow monsters that looked surprisingly like the ones that had populated his dreams as a kid, but he moved on. His long-legged stride took him to the landing where fear slapped him against a wall with the sudden striking of the old grandfather clock in the foyer. He felt a cold sweat rise along his neck and forehead as he stood there.

  He stayed completely still, his breathing heavy, and his throat closing with fear. God, what was wrong with him? In his time he’d seen bullets whiz all around him. Big city neon glittering on cold blades that sliced the air dangerously close to him. He’d chased hard-core criminals down dark winding streets, fought with monstrous convicts who towered over him like giants. Even hung from tall buildings on a string, ran through dark alleyways, and fought to the death with crazed maniacs high on drugs, but he couldn’t remember a time he’d ever been this scared.

  At last the sound stopped and he pushed himself away from the wall. Poised at the head of the stairs he looked around for a moment, but didn’t see or hear anything. When he had walked down only three steps he heard movement. The chill moonlight coming through floor-to-ceiling windows cast a looming grotesque shadow on the lofty wall of the foyer, yet he couldn’t tell what it was. As the shadow moved, he could hear a scraping sound that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. As the shadow became larger and more and more frightening, he managed to make out the skinny shape of Lucretia Van Dare. She must have entered from the dining room, and was now walking across the wide floor, her grotesque shadow stretched out along the floor and up the walls. What in hell is she up to at this time of night? Shadoe wondered, then saw something in her hand. When he looked closer, he found she was carrying a hatchet and had on a butcher’s apron that was stained with dark, faded blood, topped with something which was horrifyingly bright and fresh. The silver blade of the ax that glinted in the moonlight was also covered with blood and was dripping.

  He stood watching her for a moment as she made her way across the foyer. She seemed tired, and he could hear her wheezing breath as she lumbered along until she came to the door behind the front desk. He heard a lot of thumping, and within only seconds she turned and pushed herself back through it. The butcher’s apron and hatchet were gone, and she had a wet rag in her hand that looked stained and dirty. She managed to wipe up the stains from the marble floor, then disappeared into the dining room again. He stared curiously at the door behind the desk. He remembered seeing her go in and out of it many times, never wondering what she might have stored there. Now he knew. A bloody apron, a hatchet … and death. He waited a few seconds before he stepped out of the shadow, then without a sound he quickly sneaked down the stairs, gingerly stepped toward the front door, then out.

  His next thoughts were of Julita. Suddenly the dark picture regarding the little ragamuffin was partially clearing. If his hunch was right, she was apparently the victim of Lucretia’s insanity. One would only have to look at Lucretia to know she was jealous of her sister’s beauty and wanted to hide it. That must be the reason for the marks on her face, the mask, even the binding and the shapeless dresses. But that wasn’t the whole story … there was more, and he had to find the answers. Even if Lucretia was a tyrant, that wouldn’t make Julita obey her without question. She was bright, old enough to make her own decisions. Why didn’t she? What was behind it all? Where did it start?

  And why did Julita think that she was ugly? All she had to do was look in a mirror to see…. Oh, God, it couldn’t be. Was Lucretia dabbling in hypnotism? Mind play? He’d seen it in his work, but it was usually done by professionals … evil professionals. Those power-hungry individuals who for whatever reason wanted to have someone completely dependent on them, those that wanted to control someone else’s mind. It was dangerous to fool around with something like that if you didn’t know what you were doing. If Lucretia was into this, she could damage Julita’s mind. And it was very possible that one day Julita would turn on her. If that day ever came, she could kill her sister, and her mind would forever be lost.

  The more he learned about the Van Dare family, the more he realized that he had fallen into something too horrible for words. He had to get to the bottom of it, no matter what he would find, but for now he had to let it be, and headed down the path toward the woods.

  The woods were even darker than he had imagined. He picked up a stick and used it as a machete, knocking back low-hanging branches and shrubs. He splashed through shallow creeks, climbed low hills and slipped down muddy ravines until he finally came to the clearing. Pushing aside the veil of limbs and vines, he saw the church just as it had been before, except now it seemed to be spotlighted by the moon. It was as if something didn’t want him to miss it … as if he was being coerced … invited … even commanded … to enter. Churches were supposed to be serene, holy, and a picture of safety in a world of turmoil, but the circle of light revealed the church as a crouching, ashen monster … something nightmares were made of. Gaping windows for eyes, a bell tower with a bell he thought he’d heard echoing in his sleep. Now he knew it must have been the old
grandfather clock, because as he looked at the crumbling old tower thrusting itself into an unfriendly night sky, the bell was gone, the steeple empty. It reminded him of a corpse … a dead thing … a shell that had given up its spirit.

  His feet moved hesitantly toward the old structure while a night bird made a horrible screeching noise from high in a tree, and cicadas chirped from beneath wild bushes and shrubs. Even though his steps were slow and hesitant, the dark night seemed to magnify the crackle of the dry leaves and twigs beneath his feet. When he reached the broken steps, he looked into the blackness beyond the door that hung from its hinges. He couldn’t imagine losing himself beyond that blackness and had to take a moment to steel himself against his fear. Just as he started to reach for the banister, he heard a soft breeze whisper his name.

  Shadooooooe, cooooome to meeeeee.

  Shadoe stopped in his tracks, hearing the voice again. Is this a joke? he asked himself as his head whirled around, his green eyes piercing the tangled shadows of the woods. If some creep is playing a dirty joke on me, I’ll have them for lunch, he thought, still looking around. His eyes shifted toward the black sky where the moon hung silver and cold. How could sound effects be rigged out here? It’s crazy. His eyes slid down, anchoring on the hellish blackness just beyond the door. It had come from there … inside. Just go along with it for now, he thought. Find out for sure what’s happening, and then bust their sorry butts!

  While his heart pounded, he climbed up the weak steps and entered, the darkness beyond the doorway swallowing him, little by little. Inside was a small vestibule with two arched openings at opposite ends of the wall with a credenza in the middle. On it sat a candelabra, hymnals, and a large Bible, all of which were tattered and old, cobwebs stretching between them, to the wall, and all the way up to the ceiling. He turned toward one of the doors through which he glimpsed the auditorium, and walked toward it.

  The silence was thick, and dust covered everything. The wooden pews were dusty and splintered, and the seats that had once been covered by a deep burgundy material were now ripped, and looked as if they were throwing up cotton. Stained glass windows that were once an artist’s dream, now lay in colorful broken shards. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and danced in a breeze that whispered through the cracks. Shafts of moonlight streaked across the cavernous space, revealing dust motes floating through the air.

  Shadoe walked down the aisle, coming closer and closer to a lone pulpit that stood in the center of the platform. He could almost hear the shouts of the dynamic man of God that must have pounded on it, delivering the gospel. The choir loft extended across the back, each row elevated above the one previous, and ending at a picture of Jesus carrying a lost lamb. All at once high angelic voices floated on the air, mingling with the moaning night wind. The sound was haunting and faint. An organ stood on one side of the platform, and he walked to it. There he saw the once beautiful instrument covered with dust and cobwebs. The ivory keys were cracked and broken, and the metal controls, covered with rust. Even though the keys weren’t moving, he thought he could hear it playing faintly. As Shadoe looked around at the tired old church, he tried to keep from shaking with fear.

  He had found a church with no people....

  A pulpit with no preacher....

  A choir with no singers....

  And an organ with no master.

  And yet he could hear them … feel their presence.

  All at once a whispery voice called, as if from another world. Shadooooooe, I’m heeeeere.

  Shadoe whirled toward the voice, but didn’t see anyone. “You creeps!” he yelled. “Wait … just wait ‘till I....” He shuddered, his words fading. “Captain?” he called, trying to control his anger. “You guys … you … you’re playin’ some kind of weird joke on me, right?” His eyes raked through the darkness, hearing the thick silence. “Come clean, you hear?” he yelled, feeling himself coming apart. “I’m onto you! You won’t get away with it! When I find you....”

  All at once Shadoe felt a touch … light and fleeting. “Oh God!” he yelled, whirling around while madly brushing at the back of his neck. He looked through the shadows for something … someone, but saw nothing there. He looked up, his eyes piercing the darkness of the domed ceiling, but he could find no explanation for what he felt … what he heard. He slowly began backing up, stumbling down the steps of the platform. Wasting no time, he turned and began running until he came to the arched entrance and abruptly stopped. He stood there, frozen, feeling an overwhelming presence. Trying to keep from visibly shaking, he slowly turned. What he saw caused him to bellow out a strangled cry and hide his eyes.

  Standing in the same spot that he’d just occupied, he saw a woman. Her face was a hideous mask of dark, weathered, skeletal remains, black holes for eyes, and a perfect set of teeth that stretched into a hideous smile. A thatch of blond hair flowed down to the shoulders of her wedding dress. She was a floating, shadowlike apparition, unlike anything he’d ever seen. Her arms were stretched toward him. Please help me, she whispered. She’s in danger … my baby is in danger. Take her away … far away … away … from them. Please believe me. She’s in danger! Her life is in danger. Take her away … far away!

  Shadoe clutched his stomach, feeling her pain. “I don’t know what you mean,” he rasped, his words said with difficulty. “I don’t know any baby. Who … who is … them?”

  Before the echo of his last word had stilled, he was no longer in the church, but in a room, a dark room where a woman lay writhing in a large bed. A tall, lean man with dark, curly hair was crouched at the foot of the bed. All at once he made a sound of surprise, leaned forward, and snatched a baby from between the woman’s legs. As her scream died down, he lifted the bloody bundle, slapped it, and the child’s healthy wail filled him with joy.

  “Help me,” she implored, lifting her head slightly and reaching toward him. “Garret … help … me.” She saw him looking down at her with a loathsome look on his face, and instead of calling for help, he nestled the golden child in the crook of his arm and watched the woman’s blood gush out and her head fall aside in death.

  When the vision faded, Shadoe reached out and grabbed one of the pews to keep from falling. He had to literally drag himself along, grasping one pew, then another, trying to get out of that cursed church. Away from the woman whose heartache he could feel, but didn’t understand. He had to get out or he’d die from the pain. He finally reached the front, clamped his hands on the door frame in desperation, drug himself through, and down the weak steps until he fell on the ground. The freezing mist of early morning slowly slithered over him bringing on a blessed numbness, and the pain subsided. In the next moment, a deathlike sleep seized him and he knew nothing else until he woke the next morning to chirping birds, warm sunshine … and an empty field.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Garret frowned down at the thin, watery oatmeal and watched the globs of thickness drip from the utensil as he spooned it up, then let it fall sickeningly back into the bowl. His stomach lurched at the thought of eating this mess.

  “What’s the matter?” Lucretia snapped, with a scowl.

  His eyes shifted toward her. “What could be wrong?” he growled, “I love raw, watery oatmeal. You could have at least passed it over a flame, you bitch!”

  “Look,” she yelled, her eyes flashing. “I’m doing the best I can for you, old man. If you don’t want it, then don’t eat it, but you won’t get anything else. It’s oatmeal, or nothing.”

  “I have nothing against oatmeal,” he shouted, letting the spoon clatter to the bowl, “but why can’t you do just one thing right? Are you that stupid?”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing,” Lucretia said menacingly while cutting her angry eyes toward him.

  “Yes, I know you do. A slow death by torture, isn’t that it, Lucretia? You won’t kill me outright, instead you’ll starve me to death.”

  “I only wish!” she barked, her abrupt, angry movements straightening the covers on h
is bed and cleaning up around the damp, musty-smelling room.

  Picking up the spoon again, he dipped it into the oatmeal and lifted it to his lips and tasted it. Almost gagging, he dropped the spoon and pushed the bowl away. “Not only is it cold, there’s no flavor. What about a little sugar, milk and butter?”

  “You don’t want to die an early death, do you?” came her sarcastic answer. “You know that stuff will kill you!”

  “Then let me commit suicide! Hell, you’re killing me day by day anyway, so what does it matter? What have I done to make you hate me so much?”

  She whirled on him. “What have you done? You turned Julita against me, that’s what you did! You taught her to hate me as much as you do.”

  “I did no such thing. If she hated you, it was because you earned it. You’re a hateful bitch.”

  “There, that’s what I mean. The name calling. The foul words you taught her. Then when she used them, you sat back and laughed.”

  He looked at her, his mouth trembling on the edge of laughter. “But it was funny. Anytime that kind of language comes out of a child’s mouth, it’s funny.”

  “Only to those who are sick!” she snarled.

  His eyes narrowed on hers. “Sick? Me? You hold that coveted title, my dear. Never have I seen a sicker bitch than you.”

  “If I am, then who made me that way? I tried to help you with the inn after you decided to confine yourself to your room, but everything I did was wrong. I was being run ragged, and decided to save myself a few steps so I installed a buzzer for you.”

  “Very astute,” he said, one side of his lips going up in a lopsided smile while he remembered the fated little buzzer.

  “Very stupid, you mean. That buzzer made my life miserable. You pressed it, leaned on it until I thought I would go out of my mind. I was even hearing that buzzer in my dreams!”

  “Well, you certainly took care of that, didn’t you? I remember the day you burst into my room and yanked it out of the wall. You were so angry you threw it from across the room, over the balcony, and into the yard. Quite a throwing arm.”