by C. F. Waller
“How fast?” I inquire. “Like fast zombies or the painfully slow undead?”
“Fast,” she nods, pausing to chew, “and Dad saw one take a bullet in the forehead and get back up.”
“You could keep shooting them?” I suggest.
“Yes, my mother tried that approach, but eventually you run out of bullets.”
“Lock them in a jail cell of some kind?”
“I’m talking about a long term solution,” she argues. “Although your idea has some merit.”
“Possibly you will just tell me the answer?”
“Your mythical Shelly used arrows tipped with some sort of injection system that pumped a chemical and turned their blood into concrete.”
“And this kept them down?”
“Longer than bullets,” she sighs, waffling a hand in front of her to indicate the number is flexible. “Long enough to box them.”
“Box them?”
“She had metal boxes somewhat bigger than a coffin. Inside, there was a maze of walls in the shape of a man. You saw them at the house.”
“So they couldn’t move?” I challenge her, wondering how this is different from a box without the maze.
“Yes, but inside the maze there were guillotine blades at the neck, upper arms and thighs. She dropped them on top of the maze and then closed the top.”
“So they were caught on the blades or did it dismember them?” I shudder.
“She threaded two huge machine screws into the lid, and then used a motor in the box to draw the top down. He said when the lid closed there was audible pop, then a spray of blood as it sealed.”
“Those were the boxes at your father’s home?”
She nods.
“It looked like the tops were welded shut.”
“Yes, then she tossed them into the Pacific Ocean,” she boasts with a huge smile. “She joked that she drilled a couple holes in the lid before she sunk them. In case the minions got thirsty.”
I push my half eaten egg roll to the center of the table as my stomach turns over for the second time today. I wince, thinking about a decapitated immortal trapped in a box at the bottom of the sea. To what end was this necessary? While I have not seen them with my own eyes, the punishment doesn’t seem to fit the crime. The sheer sadism is appalling.
“Did these immortals possess super human strength?”
“Not that he mentioned.”
“Then why dismember them? Wouldn’t a steel box welded shut have done the job? Seems a little vindictive and cruel.”
“They weren’t playing by the Marcus of Queensbury rules.”
“How did he describe this Shelly?” I inquire, changing the direction of the conversation.
“Maybe ten years old, long red hair, spoke mostly German.”
This is curious. The myth or fairytale, as it were, passed among our kind was of twins. One who grew into her forties before her aging was arrested and her identical sister who remained frozen in a perpetual state of childhood. The description of Shelly matches quite well with the latter sister.
“Your father saw this girl with his own eyes?” I inquire.
“Yes, and so did your precious Beatrix.”
“And there was only the child?” I ask, thinking her twin might have been with her.
“She had a few henchmen who did all the grunt work, but she handled the bow and arrows.”
“The others were not like us?” I verify.
“Nope, and the Queen killed them all trying to retrieve her people, including Shelly.”
“You mean Sindri,” I correct her. “Sindri was the child.”
“Right you said twins,” she pauses in thought. “Dad did mention she complained about being called Shelly.”
If in fact Arron Faust actually encountered a living, breathing version of the myth it would lead me to believe that other myths, like the Primitus, could also be true. Beatrix no doubt would have been amused at the capture and torture of her pursuers. She had quite the taste for the macabre.
“How did she manage to sneak up on them?”
“She followed my father and the others as they fled and then ambushed her prey when they attacked.”
“Sounds about right,” I groan. “As I previously stated, she isn’t a hero or an enemy in the fairytale. As likely to harm you as save you. Her motives were assumed to be self-serving.”
“And she is supposed to have a twin?”
I nod my assent, but was under the impression we were the last. I suppose if this Queen was mistaken about Dorian being the end of our line it’s possible others exist. I myself seem to have been left off her hit list, although Jenn did say that Beatrix was telling everyone I was deceased. Did she believe this to be true or was she covering for me?
The conversation dwindles away as the sun falls from the sky. Having gotten virtually no sleep last night, I drop off in a chair with my feet up. Jenn must have tossed a blanket over me, as I am covered at daybreak. I find her in a deep sleep then checking my pocket watch, see that it’s just after six in the morning. In hopes of finding a cup of coffee, I don my suit jacket and stroll across the manicured grass to the church parking lot. Leaning on the front fender of the Mustang is an elderly man blowing on a cup of coffee, the plastic lid leaking steam into the air.
“She won’t succeed,” he voices loudly when I am still several car lengths away. “I assume you’re aware of what she’s planning?”
“I only just became aware of her intensions yesterday, but she does have something of a green thumb.”
“She won’t succeed because it’s blasphemy Mr. Grey. Miss Ben-Ahron is long gone from this Earth. Whether her destination was heaven or hell there is no coming back.”
“Any guesses on which place she went?”
“I assume you’re far older than me,” he rolls his eyes. “Did you know her?”
I shake my head. “And you would be?”
“Father Michael, albeit two decades retired. You don’t remember me?”
This would make him the young Father Michaels grandfather, but I do not believe we have met. I did quite a bit of stalking, but can’t place his face.
“Edward Grey,” I offer putting out my hand, but receiving no shake in return. “Have we met previously?”
“Who knows with you people,” he huffs.
“Understood,” I nod and pause, wanting to steer the conversation back to either Jenn’s mother or coffee. “We were discussing Miss Ben-Ahron’s final destination.”
“No one can know where her soul went, but if she’s with our Lord then she won’t want to come back.”
“And if she’s not sitting on a cloud playing a pan flute?”
“Then her dark master is even less likely to release her,” he advises with a raised eyebrow.
“No, I suppose not. Did your grandson tell you Jenn was here?”
“Not in so many words,” he admits, pointing down the road to the west. “I only live a few towns over. The office manager called me last night.”
“Were you here in 2041?” I ask, thinking one of the ladies I saw in the parking lot on arrival probably made the call.
He nods and then squints his eyes, twisting his head slightly as if recalling something distasteful.
“Might I press you for a firsthand account?”
“Mr. Faust told me he wanted to exhume his wife to retrieve a piece of jewelry. It’s not unheard of, but given his wealth it was hard to imagine anything being irreplaceable.”
“Possibly a sentimental reason,” I suggest, but think of the huge diamond ring.
“I believe in fact he just wanted to gain access to her remains,” he alleges, tapping his index finger on the fender. “I had her taken to the same room you visited yesterday. I opened the casket, then at his request, left the room.
“So you didn’t technically witness the interaction?”
“Not all of it, no,” he shrugs, pausing to take a sip. “I waited outside expecting them to take only a few minutes, but aft
er ten minutes there was a commotion.”
He stops there putting a hand to his forehead. While massaging his brow he mutters under his breath. I wait sniffing the air, desperately wishing for coffee myself.
“Mr. Faust was kneeling over my groundkeeper Alexi. You’re aware there is a door leading out to the cemetery. I have no idea why he had come in, but he was pale and still. Shallow, anguished breathing was the only sign of life. Faust’s daughter, your travelling companion, was standing beside the casket, which was on a tall rolling dolly. I was only just tall enough to see across the open lid, but not inside. At the time I was unable to understand what I was seeing.”
“I may have some idea, but please continue,” I implore him, thinking of Marigold.
“She staggered back and would have fallen except for her father’s quick move to catch her. I’m watching this, but then a muffled whistling sound drew my attention away.”
He pauses again, but on this occasion seems unable to continue. He takes a sip of his coffee, the cup lifted by shaky hand. I wait, but then curiosity gets the best of me.
“Please continue.”
“I called an ambulance, but Alexi died later that day. They claimed he must have had an allergic reaction to breathing in mold spores.”
“Yes, but before that,” I beg, concentrating on the whistling.
“Mr. Faust collected his ring and his daughter quickly recovered from her fainting spell. He requested we return Miss Ben-Ahron to her rest. They left in a hurry and I did not see him again for some time which was odd.”
“He attended church services regularly?”
“On a rare occasion, but came to visit the grave every week. It was several months before he resumed his visits.”
“What did you leave out?” I urge. “You mentioned a sound.”
“Mr. Grey, there are some things you cannot un-see,” he warns. “Perhaps you would not care to know a thing such as this.”
“What can’t you un-see?”
“As I stated, my view of the casket was obscured, but I believe Miss Ben-Ahron’s corpse attempted to take a breath.”
“Attempted?”
“Yes, the whistling sound was the air rushing past the stitches.”
“You lost me?” I shrug. “What stitches?”
“When they embalm a body and prepare it for burial they often sew the mouth shut for appearance sake,” he explains. “This also illustrates that there are sounds you cannot un-hear.”
I’m dumbstruck by the visual produced from his explanation. Any attempt by my brain to discount his tale is washed away by the stern look thrown at me. He watches me and nods slowly as I come to grips with his words. Just the expression on his face tells me it’s a sound he will never forget. A sound I’d prefer to never hear.
“Just one?” I stammer. “The breath, it was just that one?”
“Yes,” he assures me. “There was no further stirrings from Miss Ben-Ahron. I do not claim to understand the sorcery performed by your companion, but heed this warning. Only God on high can perform such things. To my knowledge, other than Lazarus, it’s a trick he’s only done for his son. I advise you to convince Mrs. Faust to leave her mother to her rest.”
We fall silent, the morning sun rising higher in the clear blue sky. He sips as we stand in a silent standoff, then pushes away from the car and backs away.
“Is it possible you were mistaken?”
“Of course,” he nods, turning as he walks and looking back. “Still, it would be better for everyone if her daughter left well enough alone.”
“Agreed,” I respond, aware he’s pandering to me.
“Best of luck Edward,” he offers, strolling away across the parking lot.
I stop briefly in the sanctuary for some reflection, then return to the cottage. It’s unlikely anything I say could change Jennifer’s course. Do I want to stay here and witness this attempt or should I run? I stand with my fingertips on the doorknob for some time in contemplation. What obligation do I actually owe Dorian?
Chapter Eleven
With all day Saturday to kill, Jennifer convinces me to take a side trip down the Autobahn. Sixty miles south, we pull into a self-storage complex where she has to sign in at the office. She explains that there are no cars allowed inside the gates on weekends. We pass through a climate-controlled building with hundreds of miniature blue garage doors, before coming out the backside into the sunlight. Here, larger orange doors of several sizes run down the sides of narrow buildings lined up like a small town. We have to pass at least two dozen before she comes to a stop in front of number 656, featuring a double wide door. She swipes a slide card procured at the office and the door slowly rolls upward.
Inside, the space is as large as several two car garages, the roof vaulted in the center reaching maybe twenty feet. It’s clear at least one wall has been removed between this space and the unit next to it. The result is a cavernous room. White sheets covered in dust hide random pieces of furniture or possibly boxes. Without removing the covers, one could never be sure. Two banks of lights flicker on overhead illuminating what appears to be a hardwood floor. Why would anyone install a hardwood floor in what’s basically a garage? Footprints crisscross the area in circular patterns, visible by the disturbed dust. Jennifer watches my reaction and seems amused.
In the center, at an angle is something at least sixteen feet long and eight feet across. A glance at Jenn is returned with a smile. She waves an arm indicating I may enter. Once past the rolling door, I am greeted by a crystal chandelier hanging over the center of the room. From behind me, there is a click and then the opulent light fixture glows to life. The crystals are cut in different patterns instead of one consistent theme, giving it a charm bracelet effect. A dozen brass candle holders sit unused in the center inferring it pre-dates electricity and was upgraded at some point. A feeling of deja-vu washes over me.
“It was Dorians,” I mutter, recalling it from a ballroom in Austria. “It was in his house.”
“Yeah, this was his storage locker.”
“Only Dorian would lay an oak floor in a garage.”
“Feel free to look around. In all likelihood this is the last time anyone will be here.”
Frowning at her inference we will soon be dead, my eyes gaze around at the dusty sheets. Jennifer scoots past and makes a beeline for a dozen file cabinets along the back wall. To the left of the large centermost item, the floor is covered by an Oriental area rug. Pulling the sheet off the object on the carpet reveals a Queen Anne chair with red velvet fabric. Pulling the sheet beside it uncovers a small round table with an oil lantern sitting atop it. I take a seat and try to imagine Dorian sitting here reading a book. I wonder is Bee ever visited here.
“Thought you might like to see these,” Jennifer suggests, walking around the large object in the center holding a thick leather bound album.
I take it from her, remaining seated, and flip it open across my lap. The curled edges of black and white photos fill the large pages. Tiny triangle sleeves adhered by glue hold down the corners, but many have dried out and fallen off. The gutter of the album is full of them. Holding it up slightly to catch the light reveals Dorian and I standing in front of the partially completed Washington Monument. There are a half-dozen similar spanning two pages because on that cloudy day his photographer wasn’t sure about the light. They have to be from the mid 1800’s as the monument ran out of funding midway through the construction and sat this way for over twenty years. Dorian always found amusement in New-World red-tape.
Flipping through the pages reveals a wide array of exotic locations. The closer to the present they become, the clearer the images. Midway though I find the cherubic face of Beatrix Moffat. She and Dorian are pictured on the bridge overlooking the Seine River. Dorian is leaning on the rail facing away, but my Bee is looking over her shoulder wearing a slight smile. That’s my Bee, always looking more contemplative than at bliss. Another photo taken the same day shows them leaning on each other. I
strain to read any context, but can’t. The blurry image hides their hands from view. Are they holding hands?
Near the back, I come across two pages of pictures from the lake house in Michigan. There are two in particular of just Bee and myself. In one, we are slow dancing to music crackling out of the transistor radio Dorian always had on him. He was so intrigued by the new inventions. There in stark grayscale, Bee and I stare into each other’s eyes. In the second, taken without my knowledge, Bee leans out of sight on the back of the house as we share a kiss. I don’t recall this specific moment as we often slipped away on those nights, but close my eyes and imagine the scent of her perfume. In the photo, my hands pin Bee to the wall aggressively, her blouse pulled tight across her chest. If you could see passion, this would be the photo to illustrate it. I jump when Jennifer peers over my shoulder and her breath hits my neck.
“Look at you two,” she snickers. “Crazy kids.”
“Do you find humor in my suffering?” I snap, lost in the moment captured on photo paper.
“No, I didn’t mean, sorry, take any you like,” she stammers. “You’re the only person alive who was actually there.”
“That is a rather sad truth,” I complain, peeling the two pictures from under the glue corners and slipping them in my vest pocket.
Jenn looks hurt, but doesn’t speak. Possibly, I was too harsh in my frustration over things lost to the sands of time. Or maybe I can’t stop imagining Dorian and Beatrix holding hands. Was that all they were up to?
“Sorry, thank you.”
Jenn bobs her head, then, goes to the right side and starts pulling the sheets off several tall piles eventually revealing an Anwar with ornate brass door knobs. The wood is dark and a trim piece along the top features an eagle. When the doors swing open it reveals many weapons of war. I assume they were collectables given Dorians pacifist ideology. Stepping closer, a half-dozen swastikas are carved under the Eagle. Where on earth did he come across this macabre item? Having gathered a brief case from somewhere in the storage room, she removes a bunch of the j-hook clips like the ones I saw on the gun removed from the coffin. These drop in with a thunk, suggesting they are full of ammunition.