The Night is Long and Cold and Deep

by Terry M. West

  It was darker up there, with no windows on the landing. The house had no electricity. The people there cooked with coal-burning stoves, heated with fireplaces and illuminated with lamp oil. Baker could smell traces of it all in the air of the old house.

  They arrived at a bedroom door and Masterson pressed it open without knocking. They entered. The room was colder than the hallway. An oil lamp burned on a nightstand next to the old man’s meager bed and the curtains were tightened. Jeremiah’s body occupied the small cot. He had his arms crossed at his chest, as if rehearsing his final repose.

  The man's skin was white and it hugged his bones. Masterson shut the door and Jeremiah turned slowly toward them. His tired and gaunt face offered a smile and his bony hand beckoned them closer.

  Masterson made the introduction. “Jeremiah, I present Baker Johnson.”

  Jeremiah gazed in awe at Baker's face. “I'm sure you are told this constantly but you look just like your uncle, Mr. Johnson.”

  There was more power and clarity in the old man’s voice than Baker had anticipated. Jeremiah’s mind appeared sharp still, but seeing his feeble hold on life made Baker wonder if senility would not have been a kinder fate.

  “Yes, my resemblance to Richard Johnson is a common observation,” Baker replied, politely.

  Jeremiah turned to Masterson. “Would you mind leaving us for a moment, Masterson? I would like to speak to Mr. Johnson in private.”

  Masterson looked a little miffed but he quickly swallowed it. Baker could sense that the prideful man did not like being dismissed like a subordinate. “I’ll just have a stroll, then.” He left the room and closed the door behind him.

  “Grab a chair,” Jeremiah instructed Baker.

  Baker spotted one near the window and he pulled it closer to the bed.

  “Your uncle and I had some grand times together,” Jeremiah said, reminiscing. “I would trust my current distress only to him or you.”

  “What is happening in your home, Mr. Simms?” Baker asked.

  “We are being troubled by something sinister. It has made itself known to all who dwell here, but it seems especially drawn to my daughter,” Jeremiah said, motioning to a photograph of a young lady on the old man’s nightstand.

  Baker picked up the picture and looked at it. Nadia was a plain looking, dark-haired girl in her twenties. The photographer had captured a rather gloomy expression on her face. She looked plagued. Baker tried to imagine his Ramona at the same age, but it was a fruitless and sad exercise that he quickly stopped.

  “How old is she?” Baker asked.

  “She is twenty-six,” Jeremiah informed him.

  Baker couldn't hide his surprise. He quickly did the math. “So, you're ninety-one now, which means you were...”

  Jeremiah interrupted him. “I was sixty-five years-old when my daughter was conceived.”

  “Impressive sir,” Baker said with a smile.

  “But not impossible,” Jeremiah added.

  “And her mother? Where is she?”

  “She answered the door and took your coat when you arrived,” Jeremiah informed him.

  “Your housekeeper is the mother of your daughter?” Baker said, the scandal warming in his mind.

  “Yes, but it is actually a rather sensible understanding,” Jeremiah explained, but with no obvious effort to color it in any way. It was simply the truth. “Lillian was thirty when she accepted her position here. God, she was something to behold then. I thought myself past the urges, but she rekindled them. We had a passionate affair for a few years before she became expectant.

  “I was advised by Masterson to give the baby up for adoption, or to end the pregnancy all together. He further instructed that I give Lillian a sizeable severance check and send her on her way. I saw no reason for either course. Lillian had been a loyal employee. And I had realized most of my life’s ambitions. Having a child didn’t seem a harmful thing. I had no other heirs, so I allowed it. Of course, with recent events, I have wondered if maybe I should have taken Masterson’s counsel.”

  “Does Nadia know your housekeeper is her mother?” Baker asked.

  “Yes, and she also realizes that Miss Thorne is my respected ally and employee and nothing more,” Jeremiah explained. “The social lines drawn between the three of us are quite clear and it keeps things content and under my control. Had Lillian been my equal, this house would have had far more conflict under its roof, I am sure.”

  Baker nodded and stared back down at the photograph.

  “I am told that you draw very astute impressions of people with but a glance,” Jeremiah said. “Your uncle spoke of your ability. He was quite jealous of it.”

  “It is a natural skill I have had for as long as I can remember. My mother encouraged it. We made it a game of gossip.”

  “What do you sense about my daughter from the picture you hold in your hands?”

  Baker took a final look at the picture and then he returned it to the nightstand.

  “I sense that she is sensitive and quiet. Nadia is artistically bent. She may even be brilliant in her creative abilities. She writes, I think. She is drawn to literature but I sense that this young lady can do whatever she sets her mind to. But, she often lacks the self-esteem one needs to truly excel at things. I also sense that she has frequent moments of depression. She is a loner. Nadia has no friends really to speak of. She is highly intelligent but painfully shy.”

  “That is most impressive, Mr. Johnson. What of me, sir? What is your impression of me?”

  “I never speak my conclusions to a subject’s face,” Baker said.

  “I insist,” Jeremiah said.

  Baker took a deep look at the old man. “You are self-made. You have fought long and hard for your place in society. You prefer things that are serviceable and practical- such as your arrangement with your housekeeper and the simple bed you inhabit. You feel the flaunting of wealth is improper. Your preoccupation with the supernatural has strengthened now that you are so close to the end of your life. You hope for a shine of energy from this macabre collection you cultivate. You long for affirmation that we continue, in some form or fashion and that our standing in this world might carry over to the next. The notion that the dead are all of the same stature frightens and repulses you.”

  Jeremiah nodded thoughtfully. “Your assumptions are uncanny.”

  “I am sorry if any have offended,” Baker said, but he wasn’t really. The old man had asked for it.

  “One should never be offended by the truth,” Jeremiah replied.

  “So, back to Nadia,” Baker said. “What troubles her?”

  Jeremiah motioned to the drawer on his nightstand. “The culprit is in there.”

  Baker opened the draw and pulled a leather-bound manuscript into the lamplight. He looked at the title handwritten on its cover.

  “How is your French?” Jeremiah queried.

  “Adequate,” Baker said, translating the title. “Servant of the Red Quill.”

  “The author put his mark below the title,” Jeremiah said.

  Baker pulled the book closer to the light. He looked incredulously back at Jeremiah. “By Donatien Alphonse François de Sade? The Marquis de Sade?”

  “Correct,” Jeremiah said. “I have had it inspected and verified by experts. It is in de Sade’s hand and it is the only copy known to exist. Are you familiar with de Sade’s work?”

  “Somewhat,” Baker replied. “Every boy I knew in boarding school longed to get his sweaty hands on a copy of Justine. But I have never heard of a book by this name.”

  “Open it and you will see why,” Jeremiah instructed.

  Baker opened the book, studied the first page, and then he carefully flipped through further pages. “What language is this?”

  “No one knows,” Jeremiah said, watching curiously as Baker took the book in.

  “How did you acquire it?”

  “It is one of de Sade’s unpublished works. It began to circulate on the collector market short
ly after his death,” Jeremiah explained. “It was offered to me months ago by a collector whose identity I have sworn to never reveal. He had struck hard times and he knew that I would compensate him fairly for the prize.”

  “I do know some of the details of de Sade’s death, for the morbid qualities of it if nothing else,” Baker said. “He perished in 1814 and he left explicit instructions that no one disturb his corpse for forty-eight hours. He was buried on his property in Malmaison and his body was eventually exhumed and his skull harvested for a phrenological examination. I also read that his son burned every single unpublished manuscript that de Sade had written. I don’t know how this volume escaped destruction, but it looks like nonsense.”

  “It isn’t nonsense, Mr. Johnson,” Jeremiah insisted. “It isn’t random. There are consistent symbols throughout. This is a language no one has been able to decipher, save for one person.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Nadia,” Jeremiah confessed. “She was drawn to it from the moment I made the acquisition. I found her many times in my study reading it. She began to translate it for me and I thought at first that it was a game. But her readings grew in profanity and sacrilege and you could feel your internal darkness swell within as she recited from it. I was determined to keep it out of her hands, but she has found every hiding place I have created. It is as if the book calls to her.”

  “I will need to speak with her,” Baker said.

  “She is resting. Our doctor has prescribed a sedative to keep her manageable,” Jeremiah explained.

  “Do not administer another while I investigate your home,” Baker said. “If she is the target of this energy, I need her alert and able to converse clearly with me.”

  “I understand,” Jeremiah said. “But you might find her current state a bit to handle.”

  “I will manage. Is there a particular place where the activity seems more concentrated?”

  “The study suffers this intrusion the most. That is where the book is usually housed,” Jeremiah said. “And as I said, my daughter is the most troubled by it, but we have all felt the presence.”

  “Describe the incidents to me,” Baker instructed.

  “We have experienced deep dread, cold spots and phantom odors. Items have been tossed about. It has gotten physical with us, as well. Lillian has had her hair pulled and I often feel someone balance on my bed. Sometimes I awaken to a weight on my chest. We have felt watched. Nadia bears scratches on her arms but she might be hurting herself in this particular instance, as distressed as she is.”

  “As I am sure you know from your experiences with my uncle, these investigations are best conducted at night,” Baker said. “If you don’t mind, I shall go to my room and rest for a bit. Gather my energies. May I take this book to study?”

  “Of course you may.”

  Baker rose and walked to the door, the book and his bag in tow.

  “Mr. Johnson, do you ever turn your gift of perception inward?” Jeremiah asked.

  “Too often, Mr. Simms,” Baker answered, opening the door and leaving the room.

  ***

  Baker had drifted off, fully dressed, on a mattress much finer than the one the master of the house slept upon. He had tried to study the Servant of the Red Quill, but his attempt to decipher the damned thing had exhausted him. He had barely managed to move the book and his reading glasses to the nightstand of this particular guest room before succumbing to sleep.

  The slumber was black and purposeful and his mind was wrung dry. As he rested, a familiar scent filled the room and he felt the weight of another person perching next to him. Baker opened his eyes and he turned to the back of a dark figure. He knew this wasn’t a dream, for dreams never fooled him. Baker always recognized their shifting boundaries.

  The oil lamp had gone out and the curtains to his room were opened. Baker could see that the night had just fallen. The body next to him turned and it was Madeline at his side. She smiled tenderly at him.

  Baker knew this wasn’t a hallucination, and he suspected something was trying to weaken his mind. But still he couldn’t deny that it pleased him to see his wife, even if the vision of her was meant as a cruelty.

  “What’s the matter, Baker?” Madeline said, concerned. “You look bothered.”

  Baker reached out and he felt the olive-colored skin of her shoulder. She was warm and soft and goose bumps rose under Baker’s touch. He decided to engage in this fantasy, out of nostalgia and love. He missed his wife terribly. But he warned himself that he was petting an animal that might bare fangs and snap at him at any given moment.

  “Do you remember our first anniversary?” Baker said, treating this as a memory with a deeper dimension.

  Madeline smiled and pushed her thick black hair out of her brown eyes. “We took a holiday in Barcelona. You worked a case for most of it.”

  “A paid exploration of the Carrer Montcada that helped finance the fine hotel we stayed in,” Baker reminded her.

  “They way you always managed to incorporate your cases into our holidays never ceased to amaze me,” Madeline chided him softly.

  “Do you remember the gift I gave you in Barcelona?” Baker inquired. He told himself he was only testing this vision, but he longed for her response.

  Madeline smiled fondly. “The moon,” she whispered. “You told me it was mine as we held hands under the night sky in the Park Güell. It was the most romantic gesture I had ever witnessed. But my mother said you were only a miser with a poetic tongue.”

  “She never liked me,” Baker concluded.

  Madeline settled her head more firmly into the pillow and she stared at Baker intensely. “I miss you, Baker. I miss you very much.”

  “Why did you leave me?” he asked. “We could have healed each other but you left me to grieve Ramona and you.”

  Madeline’s face saddened. “I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my daughter all alone in the blackness. I wanted to be with her.”

  “Are you? Does she exist beyond flesh?” Baker questioned.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t found her yet,” Madeline said. “But I continue to look, in the cold abysmal darkness. I have been given a reprieve this night, and I sought your company. I know you have questions, Baker, but my time is short so please just kiss me.”

  Baker drew her into his arms and he tasted his wife’s lips. His dedication to this vision strengthened. He slipped his hands into her clothing and suddenly his wife’s body felt cold and alien.

  Baker opened his eyes and he grasped the bosom of Nadia Simms. She smiled haughtily. “Finally, a man with some strength in his loins,” she said, giggling. “Father is far too old to properly please a lady and Masterson likes young boys, I am convinced. Our gardener is usually good for a go but he is on holiday.”

  “Get off of me,” Baker commanded her. He tried to pull away but Nadia grabbed his wrists. She was incredibly strong.

  “Please, Mr. Johnson, make me your plaything this evening,” she said. She was close to Baker’s face. Her breath was foul and her teeth were gray. Something was rotting her from the inside. “Use me and be very cruel about it.”

  Baker squirmed away and stood up. “Nadia, this is not appropriate behavior. I don’t know you, but I have a strong feeling you aren’t normally this forward.”

  Nadia grinned liked a horny devil and she pulled the top of her gown down, revealing her breasts. “Come on. Give these a bite. You know you want to.” Nadia squeezed her breasts together. “I will let you put it between these, if you like. Has a woman ever pleased you that way?”

  Baker averted his gaze. “I am here to help you, Nadia. I would never take advantage of someone in your condition. You are stricken by something. You need to take control of yourself and leave this room.”

  “So we aren’t going to screw, then?” Nadia asked, in disbelief.

  “That wouldn’t happen under any circumstance,” Baker assured her. “Your father is my client.”

  Nadia ope
ned her mouth and began screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Lillian Thorne charged quickly into the room. Nadia clutched at herself, hiking the top of her gown back up. “Mother, Mr. Johnson lured me to his room. He tried to sodomize me!”

  “That is not true, Miss Thorne,” Baker said quickly. “Your daughter is very sick and she came to me as I slept. Please see her to her room and dress her properly. I will need to question her soon.”

  Lillian, seeming only half-convinced, guided her sobbing daughter into the hallway. Masterson brushed past them and entered Baker’s room. The man looked like he had been napping as well. His shirt was partially unbuttoned and his silver hair was a mess.