Elderwood Manor

by Christopher Fulbright

  ELDERWOOD MANOR

  Christopher Fulbright &

  Angeline Hawkes

  First Edition

  Elderwood Manor © 2014 by Christopher Fulbright & Angeline Hawkes

  All Rights Reserved.

  A DarkFuse Release

  www.darkfuse.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  To Karl Knickmeyer and to the memory of Sue Shepard

  Do not stand at my grave and weep

  I am not there, I do not sleep

  —Hopi Prayer

  Acknowledgments

  Grateful acknowledgements to our children, who live with our ongoing madness; Dave Thomas for his timely encouragement and support; Chris and Yoshi Gruber; Scott and Kim Hall; Keith West; Nick Cato; and to our readers who’ve stuck with us through the years—thank you.

  The man drove his four-year-old boy deeper into the forested hills. Tendrils of mist crept through the woodland, swirling around their car. Judging from the condition of the rutted road they traveled, it had been a long time since anyone was out this way.

  Their presence disturbed the mossy silence. Gray clouds were heavy with the churn of a winter storm and trees raked the sky like an enchanted forest touched by some evil sorcery, their blackened wood proclaiming the death of the land. This was winter’s domain. These were old mountains and they kept the secrets of the Earth, holding them down in quiet places beneath the dampened leaves. For his son’s sake, Bruce tried to make the trip less forbidding than it seemed, but most of his memories of this place were grim, and it was hard to do.

  The real goal of this trip was to save his son from the life of ruin that closed in on them with every new piece of mail, every new note on the door. The secondary but conveniently timed purpose of this trip was to see his estranged and aging mother, now near the end of her days.

  He tried to summon thoughts of his late father instead of the woman he’d never called “Mom,” but all he could think of as they made their way through the long hollow was how cold and subtly cruel to him she’d been when he was growing up. Even through the veil of time, her eyes lacked true affection, every glance loaded with accusation. Bruce had been the first male child born into a long line of women, and his mother made it known, even at a young age, that the simple act of his birth meant the death of something important to her.

  Mother had been a powerful figure in his boyhood years at the manor. Despite her utter failure to provide any kind of maternal nurturing, he nevertheless had always perceived her as a wall of defense that kept him protected. Not in the way a normal mother protects her child, but as the final safeguard against the ominous force that lurked just beyond the reach of his own senses, which tried constantly to unleash its dominance over him and the manor. It was strange to recall even now.

  Although Mother had undoubtedly been under its influence, she also seemed to be the reason it had not consumed him, or his father, completely. The memory of these things manifested in a surge of gooseflesh over his skin. Mother had exuded oppression and power in every moment she spent near her son, moments that were more infrequent as he grew into adolescence. By the time he was a teen, she had become little more than a grim shadow that skulked about the manor.

  So, while his childhood had not been completely joyless, it was certainly devoid of childhood bliss. Not even a forced attempt to refocus on memories of time spent with his father, whom he had loved deeply, or time spent playing in the perpetually gray wood, could overcome the power of the remembrance of Mother’s disfavor toward him, her mindless accusations and the sense she instilled in him that he was to blame for the end of something significant simply by being born.

  He shut down the memories. He focused on driving and avoided thinking about Mother alone out here these past several years. He succeeded only in part; the vague sense of sorrow and guilt overrode his long-held conviction that he was justified in leaving the way that he had. But now it was close to being over for her. She had called, and he had come.

  The road continued on and they followed the curves, drove over the crests of hills, passing occasional rocky clefts. Across a small valley, they saw an arch that had been created by a collapsing cave. It looked like an entrance to some forgotten dwarven realm; Bruce pointed it out to the boy and they made a story out of it. Little Cody marveled at the tale and added to it, and Bruce smiled at how his R’s sounded like O’s, enjoyed the still-babyish sound to his voice, even as he realized his son was getting older. Even so, just past the toddler years, he was too young to have lost his mother. At least Cody had a few good years with a real mom, a mom who loved her child with every grain of her being. Bruce recognized that the power of his wife’s love for both him and Cody had carried them a long way, even after her death. It was a poignant contrast between Heidi’s passing and the impending death of his own mother. The thought lanced him with grief, but he held on to his smile.

  Soon, they could no longer see deep into the forest. More trees made a narrow passage of the rough, unpaved road. Black locust, cedar, and hickory trees rose tall and ancient, stripped bare by frost. Branches of ash and witch hazel, bereft of their blossoms, trembled in cold winds and entangled with the underbrush to make a thick nest of the surrounding woods. The engine of Bruce’s old ’76 Cutlass sounded weary. Long past its prime and too old to shine, he’d bought it for $200 after the Nissan was repossessed last month. But the Cutlass found kin with them—road worn and weary, hurting and low on luck, not yet ready to give up.

  The needle of the gas gauge had hung below “E” for the last few miles. Still he drove on. He was figuring on having enough gas to make it to the manor; there were usually at least ten gallons of gasoline on hand at any given time for landscaping equipment and grounds vehicles, which probably consisted of no more than a riding mower these days. He took for granted that would still be the case after all this time. He had no idea if Mother even continued to have the grounds maintenance worker come out to the house anymore, but he had to go on blind faith. Not only were they so far back in the woods he couldn’t have made it back to a gas station if he’d wanted to, but he didn’t have the money to refill the tank anyway. He’d spent the last cash he’d scraped together on some bottles of water, a loaf of bread and two small jars of peanut butter and jelly. The one remaining credit card had just enough credit on it to save them in the event of an emergency, which said something for their current situation: running out of gas on their way to his boyhood home in the dead of an Ozark winter was not, by any measure against recent events, an emergency. Fate hadn’t done them any favors lately and didn’t intend to bestow them any favors now. Still, he thought they’d make it somehow, God knew why.

  The car engine stuttered, coughed, and finally died.

  Bruce steered the old vehicle to a stop along the side of the road.

  He glanced up into the rearview mirror, back to where his son Cody sat strapped into his booster seat. The boy was bundled up in a knit cap, scarf, winter coat, and mittens. His big dark eyes looked
back at him, full of all the good things, and Bruce knew in that moment he needed that boy just as much as the boy needed him.

  “Aw we dere, Daddy?” Cody’s cheeks were red as raw meat, chapped with the cold. The heater in the old Cutlass had died a few days ago. Warmth from the engine barely emanated from beneath the dash. Frigid air was their ever-present companion during the ride, making Bruce’s joints ache. His knees hurt so bad, the prospect of walking seemed grim.

  Bruce smiled back at Cody. “Just about, buddy. I think we’re going to have to walk a little bit.”

  “It’s co’d out dere!”

  “I know.”

  Bruce leaned forward and looked out the windshield. Perhaps the fates had lent a gentle hand at after all—the road before them wound through the trees and brambles at a steady incline, but leveled out about thirty yards away. The stone statue of an angel held a mailbox in its hands, his family name engraved on a tarnished plaque on its side: DAVENPORT. Just past the angel were two rows of elderwoods close to each side of the crumbling paved driveway, the trees so overgrown their branches entwined to make a perfect tunnel of tangled wood. A few feet past the opening of this thorny hollow loomed a black wrought-iron gate, two words arched across its rusty overhang in stark letters: ELDERWOOD MANOR.

  The sense that fate had given them a hand drained away as Bruce’s childhood memories edged in again, vague phantoms that taunted him as he crept closer to the main house. How long had it really been?

  Not long enough.

  “Daddy?”

  He mustered a smile for his son. His car door squealed as he pushed it open, slinging a small backpack over his shoulder. He pulled the seat forward, leaned into the back and unlatched his boy, then gathered him into his arms, carrying him to the gates of their destination. His son clung to him against the biting wind and the foreboding feeling of being watched.

  * * *

  Bruce pushed aside the unlocked gate and stared through the hollow. It was darker than the road from which they’d come. It curved slightly on its way to the house, so all they could see was a tunnel of wintery trees with no apparent end.

  “I want to walk, Daddy.”

  Bruce tensed when Cody spoke, as if he didn’t want the place to hear his son’s voice, to know that another generation of Davenport had returned. As much as his knees and lower back ached in the cold, he didn’t want to let his boy’s feet touch the ground here. He wanted to hold him tight, and never let go. But Cody was insistent and strong as a bear cub and was already climbing out of his arms.

  “Okay,” Bruce said quietly. “But hold my hand.”

  They walked silently together through the quiet passage. The cold was harsh in Bruce’s lungs, the smell of the forest crisp and damp. The road seemed longer than he remembered, but he wasn’t eager to arrive at their destination, dogged by a steadily increasing sense of regret, but it was far too late for rethinking things now. They had arrived.

  Reaching the end of the driveway, they paused and looked up at the manor.

  It had always been a bleak edifice even in its finest hour, and damned if he understood who would have wanted such a monstrosity built, never mind want to live in it. The entire structure was roughly the size of half a football field. It was two stories tall, and wide steps led up to a pillared entryway with a gabled roof that overhung the steps like an executioner’s cowl. To each side of that baleful egress, the wings of the house stretched into the woods in both directions. There was a massive bay window at the far left, beyond whose icy glass lay the formal dining hall. The other lower windows were arched and ornamented; the higher windows were built deep into elaborate surrounds like dark, sunken eyes. Two upper rooms had tall double doors that opened onto balconies. The balustrades were wrought with ornate designs that twisted the rails. The manor itself seemed to exude its own special kind of melancholic frigidness, a mausoleum of his dead past.

  “It’s like a man-chun,” Cody said, trembling.

  “I guess it is.”

  “Is it ’pooky in dere?”

  Bruce looked down at his son. Then he knelt, heated his palms with a misting breath, rubbing them together and then touching them to his boy’s frozen cheeks. He smiled into his son’s deep brown eyes. So alive. So much there…enough to keep him going.

  “We’ll start a fire and make some sandwiches, okay?” He had the bag of bread and fixings in the backpack.

  “Okay!”

  He stood, took Cody’s hand again, and then paused. He saw a figure, just a dark shape, standing behind one of the lower windows. No sooner had he spotted the form than it seemed to dissolve into the shadows within.

  Mother, he thought. But he didn’t say it.

  They started up the front stairs. As they neared the wooden doors that would grant them access to the manor, Cody stopped him with a tug.

  “Will you ho’d me, Daddy?”

  Bruce smiled and lifted him up into his arms. It felt better this way.

  The latch clicked easily. The door was unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The scent of old libraries and dank basements and freshly dug grave dirt wafted out. It wasn’t much warmer in here either. Although twilight had begun to fall outside, the gloom of oncoming dusk was preferable to the cavernous darkness inside the manor. They stood in silence for a moment, unmoving.

  Bruce didn’t want to go inside, even though he knew it was the right thing to do. The only thing he could do given his situation. Make amends, and perhaps (he was ashamed to admit that one desperate part of him hoped) Mother would be able to float him a loan until he could get back on his feet.

  Standing here now, he felt the hollow truth of the matter. Surely his mother didn’t have much left to her name. And it was certainly too late to turn back.

  He closed the door behind them.

  Bruce groped on the wall for the light switch. It clicked, the sound echoing in the massive foyer adorned with two gray statues of wood nymphs, a coat rack, and mirrors. The chandelier sluggishly responded with a wan glow. Most of the lightbulbs—little faux flames in crystal-adorned candlesticks—were burned out, and those that remained provided scant illumination. The reflective glass around them caught strange movements in obscure corners.

  Bruce’s breath came in short gasps. He clutched Cody to him, suddenly wishing they were back in his one-bedroom apartment awaiting the inevitable eviction, which he actually would have preferred. Anything would have been better than this. Why had he come here in the first place?

  Desperation.

  Pure and simple.

  He tried to catch his breath, and made it a point to keep his voice even, calm. He didn’t want to speak, but he had to. He had to speak against the darkness here, had to let it know that he was back, and he was not afraid.

  Oh, but you are afraid.

  “Mother?” The word echoed, hung, carried off into the silent corridors. They stood, listening.

  “Is your mommy here?” Cody whispered. His dark eyes took in the darkness of the house and Bruce didn’t like that at all—didn’t want any part of this place creeping into his son. He immediately knew what they would do: go out to the maintenance shed, raid the gas tanks of the riding mower or the work truck, put that gas in the car, drive back to town, and…and, well, make it work. Somehow.

  “Mother?” he said again. This time his voice felt stronger, heavy with the weight of lost years.

  The house was silent around them.

  He carried Cody through the foyer, past the open staircase that led up to a catwalk and the second floor. He wasn’t ready to go upstairs just yet. They went a little ways down the main hallway of the house, which ran beneath the stairs. It smelled of mildewed carpet, of the dankness of a cave. He went to the first door and pushed it open, stepping into his late father’s den. The lights in here did little more than the chandelier in the foyer had done. They could see the shapes of furniture like hunchbacked beasts near the grand stone hearth of the fireplace. There was wood, a box of kindling—not
much, but enough—and a few matches. Bruce worked in near darkness with Cody sitting close to him on the hearth. He listened to his son’s breathing and willed flames to erupt from the kindling, gently blowing to coax them into life. As the wood caught and became embers, he blew on the fire a little more and heat warmed his face.

  “Ahh,” Cody said, rubbing his tiny hands like an arthritic old-timer.

  At the sight of the reflected fire in his son’s eyes, Bruce smiled, until the boy’s gaze flitted quickly to the doorway and Bruce’s smile became a frozen rictus. He looked back.

  No one was there.

  “Was dat your momma, Daddy?”

  “Where?”

  Cody pointed at the doorway.

  “Mother?” he said. This time his voice trembled.

  No answer. The fire crackled. Did he hear a scuffing footstep?

  He went to the door. The hall was empty. With dusk outside and a complete lack of light in the house, he couldn’t see all the way to the end of the corridor.

  You called me, and I came, damn it. Here I am…where are you?

  He felt a crazy urge to run around the house and turn on all the lights, but he didn’t dare leave Cody alone, so he ventured back into the den.

  Quietly, they sat next to the fire, made PBJ sandwiches, crammed close together into one big chair, and ate them gratefully. Bruce’s stomach grumbled, and he fought off the tidal wave of despair that urged him to drown in self-pity.

  He finished his sandwich and was still hungry but didn’t eat any more. He wrapped his arm around his boy and held him close. Cody talked about dinosaurs, remembered the time they had colored a picture together of Superman and reminded Bruce that he’d colored the yellow in the wrong place on Superman’s emblem, and then Cody started to name all the things he could think of that were yellow. The fire warmed his face, and Cody’s rambling toddler-talk made him smile again, but no warmth seemed able to stave off the aching cold festering inside him.