by Jeff Rovin
“Connection?”
“Yeah. You know.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t.”
Banning rolled his large eyes. It was easy to see the boy in the man just then. “Some people believe that your great-aunt once had run-ins with the dead. The living dead. That they once lived on this island—in this castle.”
“I see.”
“Lookit, don’t take my word for it, Dr. Cooke. Check out the old newspaper accounts, summer of nineteen forty-eight. When those two shipping clerks, Chick Young and Wilbur Grey, came back to the mainland after their night here, they swore to anyone who would listen, swore to God Almighty Himself, that this was an island of monsters. They said they’d fought with Count Dracula, the Frankenstein Monster, and the Wolf Man.”
“It sounds as if those men were agitated,” Caroline said.
“Folks say they was crazy.”
“I’ll bet,” Caroline said. “And stress can produce a particular mind-set. It can transform trees into claws, shadows into cloaks, or men into monsters. Mr. Pratt told me that you had a serial killer in LaMirada at about the same time and that some people were convinced he was a monster too.”
“The Beast of LaMirada was a monster—”
“Or maybe it was a wild man who only looked like a monster,” Caroline replied evenly. “And maybe those two shipping clerks thought they encountered a Wolf Man and Count Dracula.”
“Or maybe they really did,” Banning said. He was growing visibly upset. “Why is everyone so goldarn sure about these things? I see it on TV all the time, on these investigation shows! They say yeah, there may be a Bigfoot or an Abominable Snowman. Absolutely, there could be a Loch Ness Monster. Okay, there might be flyin’ saucers with Pillsbury Doughboy people inside.”
“They’ll say anything to get ratings.”
“But I seen the photographs! They have experts on who say they aren’t fakes! So who’s to say hell no, there ain’t no Yeti or space aliens? Who’s to say there ain’t no such thing as a vampire named Count Dracula or a werewolf called the Beast of LaMirada or an eight-foot-tall monster made from dead bodies?”
Caroline was sorry she’d started this. She took one of Banning’s hands between hers but he snatched it back.
“Don’t treat me like I’m nuts myself,” the mason huffed.
“Mr. Banning, calm down,” Caroline said. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“People ain’t as smart as they think, Dr. Cooke. Shakespeare said there’s more things in heaven and earth than people dream about, and I believe they’re also under the earth in dark basements.”
“I understand,” she said. “I truly do.”
Banning looked at his watch. He used a longish nail to scrape dried mortar from the crystal. “I’m real sorry, Dr. Cooke, but they got ten minutes in there. If I ain’t slappin’ mortar on brick by then—”
“Caroline!” Pratt shouted.
Banning froze like a stalked deer. “Oh Jesus,” he moaned.
Caroline crouched by the opening. “Yes, Mr. Pratt?”
“Caroline, I’m on a landing halfway down the steps,” he said. “Mr. Porterhouse is right. There’s some kind of door here. It’s slightly ajar, though not enough so that we can see inside. We’re going to try and open it a little more. It’s made out of stone and it looks like it swivels around the center.”
“Is that going to be a problem?”
“I don’t know,” Pratt said. “You can almost taste the rust and mildew on the door but that’s definitely where the smell’s coming from. Hold on. We’re going to give the door a little nudge.”
“Be careful!” she said.
“I will.”
“Of the house, I mean,” she added playfully.
Pratt’s laugh echoed through the cellar. “Thanks, Caroline. I needed that.”
Caroline stayed where she was and looked up at Banning. From the wide, expectant look in his eyes she could just imagine what he was thinking. It’s the resting place of Count Dracula. She resisted the urge to make a joke about this being the closet where her aunt kept all her skeletons. Instead, she waited in silence as the door groaned like a big, arthritic dog. While it was being opened, Caroline could also guess what was going through Porterhouse’s mind. Smugglers’ gold. Sixty percent for the Collier County Tax Assessor’s Office and Employee of the Month for me
“How’s it going?” Caroline asked.
There was no answer.
“I don’t like this,” Banning muttered. He looked at his watch. “How long’d I say I’d give ’em?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Two was enough,” Banning decided. He picked up his jackhammer, ducked his shoulder beneath it, stood erect, and began walking away.
“Wait, Mr. Banning!” Caroline said. She rose and grabbed his arm lightly. “We need you here.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Cooke, but I ain’t stayin’.” He tugged free. The moon was shining through the door and he stepped into the oblong box of white light on the floor. “I’m scared gutless and I ain’t ashamed to admit it. I can’t explain it any better than that. I’m just plain afraid and I gotta go.”
“But Mr. Banning, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“That may be. Then again, that may not be. One of us’ll have a good laugh at the other one come mornin’.”
“Your mortar will be hard by then.”
“That’s the only thing that will be, ma’am, for a good long time,” he said. He looked around the foyer and shuddered. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make more.”
Caroline sighed and shook her head. “I don’t believe this. A grown man afraid of the dark—”
“Not the dark,” Banning said. “What comes out in the dark. And you ain’t gonna shame me inta stayin’. I’m a grown man who’s smart enough to know that he don’t know everything. What time d’you get up?”
“Early,” she said with resignation. “About six.”
“I’ll be here then,” Banning said as he backed toward the door. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”
“I believe you are. Listen, Mr. Banning,” she said. “We’re going to be neighbors and I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.” She extended her hand. “I’m sorry if it sounded like I was judging you. I wasn’t. I was only trying to understand.”
Banning accepted her hand. “Thanks,” he said. As soon as he reached the doorway he turned, waved, and strode away.
Caroline could hear his tools jangling all the way down the hill. She heard them jangle faster the farther he got. Ordinarily, weak men made her skin crawl. But she hadn’t lied to him. She did want to understand. While Banning’s departure was inconvenient, it wasn’t weakness. To the contrary. He had a strong belief in the supernatural and in a weird way she respected that.
The revolving door stopped groaning and the young woman turned back to the opening. She held her breath, bent low, and peered downstairs. In the reflected glow of the flashlight she could see Pratt standing behind Mr. Porterhouse. The tax man stepped toward the partially open door, shined the flashlight into the dark, and leaned his head forward. Pratt stepped up and leaned in behind him.
“Do you see anything?” Caroline asked.
Pratt turned from the door and coughed into his open hand. “Yes,” he said. “The front half of what seems to be an empty little room.”
“We don’t know that it’s empty,” Porterhouse cautioned. “There could be other rotating panels like this one. Other rooms.”
“Other empty rooms.”
“We’ll see,” Porterhouse said to Pratt. “Something’s causing that smell and it isn’t the moss. Hold my camera, please.”
Pratt took the Bolsey. “You’re going to try to squeeze in?”
“I have to,” Porterhouse said. “It’s my job.”
“You want me to hold the flashlight too?”
“No,” said Porterhouse. “If I find anything, I want to be able to examine it.”
As Caroline listen
ed to his feet slosh along wet, mossy stone, she felt a stab in her heart. She contemplated an endless series of rooms, an equally endless tax bill, and having to sell the Tombs to pay it. She was half-tempted to call Henry Pratt back and, Poe-like, wall the tax man up. She wondered if his moans would reach the mainland and what Mr. Banning would make of them.
Easy, she warned herself. You’re getting spooky and you’ve only been in the castle a few minutes.
She heard Mr. Porterhouse grunt for a few moments as he squeezed past the door. Then he said he was testing the floor with the toe of his shoe before stepping in further. She heard a gentle squoosh as he moved forward.
“The floor doesn’t seem as slippery in here,” Porterhouse said after a moment. “In fact, I’m about two feet in now and the place is dry, like a cedar closet. The air, too. Very strange.”
“Can you see what’s making the smell?” Pratt asked.
“No,” he shouted back, “but it’s funny. Even that doesn’t seem as bad now.”
Suddenly the light inside the room winked out. The flashlight broke audibly as though it had been thrown.
“William!” Pratt said. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t—” he began, then abruptly fell silent.
There was a moment of deep, deep silence. Caroline half-expected Porterhouse to complain that he’d slipped and was going to sue. Instead, a strangled, gurgling gasp suddenly snuck from the room, barely loud enough to hear.
“William!” Pratt cried.
The gurgling stopped.
“William!”
Caroline stuck her head in the dark opening. She entered up to her slender shoulders. Porterhouse was right. The smell was no longer as overpowering.
“Mr. Pratt, what’s happening down there?”
“I don’t know,” Pratt said. “I can’t freakin’ see.”
Caroline listened as he set the camera down. “What are you doing?” she yelled down.
“Going in.”
“No, wait!” she said. “I’ll get another flashlight!”
“There aren’t any,” he said. “Your aunt used candles and I don’t want to light a match down here. That smell could’ve been gas of some kind. William!” he shouted. “I’m coming in. Can you hear me?”
She could tell from the muffled sound of Pratt’s voice that he’d slipped past the rotating door.
“William, if you can’t answer then try and move. Tap. Make a noise and I’ll come to—”
Suddenly, Porterhouse shrieked. “God—help me!” he cried in a voice so loud and high that it broke through whatever was constricting it.
“William!” Pratt yelled.
“What’s happening!” Caroline yelled down.
“I don’t know—I can’t see! William, where are you?”
Pratt’s footsteps suddenly stopped. The heavy silence was broken only by the waves and the distant putter of Banning’s boat.
After a few seconds Caroline grew anxious. “Mr. Pratt— Henry?”
“Quiet!” he said. “Someone’s here with us.”
Caroline started when she heard that. Her first reaction was that there was another way in, perhaps the cove Banning had spoken of, and someone was living there. Her second reaction was that maybe Stephen Banning was right.
“Mr. Pratt, please come back up,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“Henry!”
“I hear breathing,” Pratt said. “No, not breathing. It’s more like panting.”
“Isn’t it Mr. Porterhouse?”
“No,” Pratt replied. “I hear him breathing too.”
“Henry,” Caroline said, “I’m going to call the sheriff’s office. Something’s not right.” She started to pull out when she heard the sounds of scuffling. She stopped. Once again the silence was complete.
“Henry?”
The silence continued for several seconds. And then Pratt cried out, causing Caroline to jump.
“Let go!” he screamed.
Caroline heard scuffling sounds. “Henry, get out of there!”
“I can’t.” he screamed. “Something’s got my leg.”
“Is it Porterhouse? Pull him out—”
“It isn’t Porterhouse. I don’t know what it is—oh my God!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Stop! Please stop!”
Caroline was about to leave the opening and get a match—gas be damned—when she heard what sounded like a long, low note on a double bass. If that sound was coming from something alive, then it wasn’t human. With an oath, Caroline backed into the foyer. She rose, looked around, and saw candles on a long table. She hurried over and pulled open a drawer. As she riffled through the odds and ends looking for matches, she heard another sound from the opening. This one wasn’t like a bass. This was more like the roar of a leopard.
“No, don’t!” Pratt yelled under the monstrous bellowing. “Please don’t—”
Then Pratt screamed.
“Henry, I’m coming!” Caroline shouted back.
The monstrous roar stopped suddenly when she called out. It resumed a heartbeat later, so rattlingly loud that Caroline could feel it in her rib cage. She covered her ears with the heels of her hands and breathed deeply to release the knot in her chest. Then, her breath and heart racing, she turned back to the drawer.
Searching frantically through her aunt’s belongings she was unable to find a match. With a cry of frustration, she looked up and around. She saw a long, gold matchbox at the fireplace and ran over. Flipping it open, she grabbed a match and an iron poker then ran back to the opening. Kneeling, she lay the iron down and struck a match on a brick. As she did, the roar stopped.
The distant breakers were calm now and even the hum of Banning’s engine was gone. Caroline stared at the black opening as she listened to the quiet. She knew she wasn’t alone, but she felt it.
“Henry?” she said softly. “Mr. Porterhouse?”
The men didn’t answer, nor had Caroline expected them to. In the moments she’d had to think rationally, she had visions of an alligator or a snake of some kind having slunk in and out of the basement, possibly through the underground waterway. That might also explain the stench. Perhaps Mr. Porterhouse had smelled a room full of animal carcasses or nests of eggs. Perhaps a crocodile had made that terrible cry. Maybe that was why her great-aunt had had the room sealed off. She was the kind of person who wouldn’t have wanted to disrupt the animals’ lives. Whatever it was, Caroline knew that they had brought this on themselves. Her great-aunt had known best and they’d disobeyed.
Shielding the lighted match with her left hand, Caroline turned toward the opening. She moved the match in slowly, then picked up the fireplace iron and crawled through.
The fuzzy orange glow of the match didn’t illuminate very much. Caroline saw the mossy stone walls on either side of the opening. They were dripping with brackish moisture. She could also see the first deep brown plank of the staircase. It looked sturdy enough, though it too was covered with moss.
She snuggled through the opening up to her waist. The smell was definitely stronger in here although not as bad as before. It reminded her of the dead cats, of rot piled upon rot.
The wooden match was burning down quickly. In her panic she’d forgotten to bring another. But she was already in this far; she’d see what she could see and then go back for the rest of the box. She crawled in further, working her hips through the opening. The fire iron clunked against the stone landing as she moved her left hand. She saw three steps now and the glimmer of placid waters off to the left. The glow didn’t reach far enough to light the rotating doorway. She was confident that an alligator couldn’t make it up these stairs, though she took the precaution of looking up in case there was a coiled snake or a bat or a colony of rats or spiders poised atop a rafter. There was nothing.
She crawled all the way in then looked down the stairs.
“Mr. Porterhouse? Henry?”
Caroline tensed as the hinges of t
he door below squeaked and then stopped. She squinted in that direction. She couldn’t see anything past the first step.
“Henry, is that you?”
Probably not, she thought. She didn’t hear the same wet footsteps she’d heard earlier. In fact, she didn’t hear footsteps of any kind.
Frustrated at not being able to see, Caroline inched forward. She pulled herself through the opening up to her thighs. Her chin was directly above the first step now and she looked down to the second and third steps. As she did, she felt a radiant warmth coming from beneath her. She looked down as the match burned low. It failed to penetrate very far into the darkness. She saw only the mossy, worm-eaten wood and the blackness beneath it. She cursed herself for not having brought along other matches or a goddamn candle. Impatience had always been one of her most serious flaws.
She looked ahead. “Henry! Mr. Porterhouse! Make a noise if you can hear me. Grunt. Scratch. Anything.”
A moment later the match flickered then died. The wooden stub glowed orange for a moment, she saw white smoke rising from it, and then there was nothing.
“Shit,” Caroline said. She dropped the match but she didn’t back out. Holding tight to the poker in her left hand she put her right hand on the stone. She listened, unmoving, as her eyes adjusted to the blackness.
The small of her back tingled as she heard something creak beneath her. Not directly beneath her but some yards below. It was difficult to judge distance in the dark, but the sound hadn’t come from the landing down by the water. It seemed to come from the stairs, though there hadn’t been anything on them a moment before. She held the poker out like a sword. She waved it slowly in front of her. There was nothing there. At least, nothing she could touch. She decided she would exit, get the matches, set up a few candles, and maybe try to light those torches Pratt had mentioned.
The steps creaked again. The sound was closer now and she realized that it was coming from underneath the steps and not upon them. Still holding the poker in front of her, Caroline let her empty right hand creep forward. She reached the edge of the first step and stopped. Slowly, she extended her fingertips along the surprisingly spongy surface and over the far side. The air felt humid there, as though there were something just beyond her reach.