by Ron Ripley
“Alright,” his mother said with a sigh. She gave him a quick kiss, wiped off the faint trace of lipstick it left behind from his forehead, and then she hugged him tightly. “Alright.”
His father gave him a pat on the head and then Shane watched them leave. The limousine was at the front door and in a moment, the large black car pulled away with his parents inside.
With his parents gone, Shane left the parlor and went upstairs to the library. He found a copy of Sturm by Ernst Junger, and he sat down in the chair with it. Patiently, he looked at the words and carefully translated each sentence in his mind. Line by line, paragraph by paragraph. He worked his way through the first page, and then the second.
His eyes grew tired, and he stifled a yawn as he tried to stay awake.
He was always tired.
He never felt as though he had rested.
The dead were too noisy.
The light went out, and the door clicked shut.
Shane heard the lock turn.
His hands started to sweat, and he put the book down on the desk. His heart threatened to beat its way out of his chest, but Shane forced himself to breathe. He needed to be in control.
Something or someone would be in the room soon, and it wouldn’t be Carl.
He could feel the difference in the air.
“Shane,” a female voice said. “Shane Ryan.”
It wasn’t Eloise. A hint of darkness stained the voice and filled him with fear.
“Shane,” the female said again, dragging his name out in the darkness.
He realized the room was completely black. He couldn’t see anything. He felt as though he had been thrust into a box and the lid slammed shut.
The oubliette, Shane thought. This is what it would feel like to be in the oubliette, with no way out.
“Who are you?” Shane whispered.
“Vivienne, or Nimue,” the female said, laughing easily, frighteningly. “You should read Le Morte D’Arthur, Shane. I draw my name as easily as he drew the sword.”
Shane had read The Death of Arthur. “You’re not the lady in the lake.”
Vivienne snorted in disgust. “What do you know? You’re still clinging to your meat. Come to the pond, Shane. Come down and swim with the ducks.”
“You don’t like ducks,” he answered.
“I hate them!” she spat, and Shane reeled back in surprise and horror. A stench had suddenly enveloped him. The odor choked him, and he nearly threw up as he pushed himself back away from the desk.
He wanted to jump out of the chair, but he knew he couldn’t.
The room was too dark.
She was in the room, and who knew how much bigger the room could get. The house followed no rules.
Shane could literally become lost in the library.
“You’ll visit me soon,” Vivienne whispered, her voice suddenly close to his ear. “Yes, you will, Shane. You’ll have no choice. You will visit me soon.”
The light in the room flared into life, and he turned away. He rubbed at his eyes and a moment later he was able to see again.
Shane was still in the chair, but it was by the door instead of behind the desk.
Wet footprints dried slowly on the hardwood floor.
Shane took a deep breath and wondered if he could make it to the relative safety of his bedroom.
Chapter 25: Introductions are Made
Shane had barely finished his morning medicinal shot of whiskey when the doorbell rang.
Jesus Christ, he thought. He put the glass on the bed table and hurried down the stairs. Who the hell is here this early?
Shane needed to get into the root cellar.
He needed to look for his parents.
It can’t be Detective Lafontaine, he thought as he reached the door. Six thirty is way too early.
Detective Marie Lafontaine stood at the doorstep dressed in her ‘civilian’ clothes. Once more Shane was impressed with just how attractive the woman was.
“Shane,” she said, nodding her head. “Is this too early?”
“No,” Shane said, stepping aside to let her in. “I’m just surprised.”
“Well,” she said as he closed the door, “I drink coffee pretty early in the morning.”
Shane looked over at her and saw her smile.
He chuckled, shook his head and said, “Yeah. I didn’t think about the time.”
“So,” she said, looking around. “Since I’m not here on official business, are you going to introduce me?”
“Yes,” Shane said.
Marie looked at him. “Did you have a drink?”
“I have a drink every morning,” Shane said. “And every night.”
“You might have a problem, Shane,” she said. There was no condemnation in her voice, no tone of judgment.
“I do have a problem,” he said tiredly. “I grew up here. This house is a nightmare, with brief moments of respite.”
“Then why did you come back?” she asked.
“I need to know what happened to my parents,” he answered.
Marie frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Your uncle didn’t tell you?” Shane asked.
She shook her head. “He plays things close to the vest.”
“Fair enough. Follow me into the kitchen,” he said. “I’ll tell you in there. Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes,” she said.
He led her in, pulled out a chair and fixed his toast, coffee, oatmeal, and his water. “Coffee?”
“Please,” Marie said. “Yours is a lot better than Uncle Gerry’s.”
“Thanks,” Shane said, chuckling.
“When did your parents disappear?” she asked after he had gotten everything ready and sat down across from her.
“When I graduated from boot camp, basic training down on Parris Island,” Shane said. “They were supposed to see me graduate. They never showed up. My father didn’t go to work for a few days, and his boss got nervous. My dad never missed work. Not if he could help it. The police came, checked out the house, found it unlocked. But, no sign of my parents, though. It’s been almost twenty-five years.”
“Did you ever find out what happened?” Marie asked.
Shane shook his head. “It’s the only reason why I’m back here. Some of the dead are alright, like Carl.”
“Carl?” she asked.
“He’s probably the young man you saw in the window,” Shane said. “He shifts his form from young to old and back again. I don’t think it’s intentional. Anyway, I was going to start looking for my parents this morning. I didn’t expect you to be here quite so early.”
“Shane,” Marie said, looking at him with concern. “We went through the house the other day. We didn’t find anything or anyone. And we’re experts at finding stuff.”
“They’re still here,” Shane said softly. He drank some of his coffee, and he gave her a small, tired smile. “I doubt they’re still alive, but they’re still here.”
Marie looked at him for a moment and then she asked, “Where do you think they are?”
“I don’t know. I know where they went in, and so I can only follow,” he answered.
“What do you mean?” Marie asked. “Went into where?”
“Into the house,” Shane said.
“They were already in the house when they disappeared, right?” she asked.
“Yes, but you can disappear into the walls. Places and rooms which shouldn’t exist, but they do anyway.” Shane finished his coffee.
“You’re not making any sense, Shane,” she said.
“She doesn’t seem to know anything,” Carl said from behind Shane.
Marie stiffened, her cup shook in her hand and splashed coffee onto the table.
“Not about this, no,” Shane answered.
Carl’s voice moved from behind Shane, his next words spoken from near the sink. “Do you wish for her to see me? She shall, perhaps, understand you a little better?”
“Are you throwing your voice?�
�� Marie asked, looking at him with a confused expression.
“No,” Shane answered. “I’m not.”
Carl suddenly appeared, the edges of his body hazy, as though viewed through a camera with a scratched lens.
Marie’s eyes widened with fear, and the coffee mug fell from her hands and struck the table loudly.
Chapter 26: Shane, December 31st, 1988
Shane was home alone, his parents now comfortable with the idea. It didn’t bother Shane too much. It was better to be awake in the house than to be asleep. Occasionally the dead startled him, but being awake when it happened was much easier to handle. When Thaddeus or Eloise slipped into his room and whispered in his ears, the initial fear was terrible.
With his parents at Mrs. Kensington’s New Year’s Eve party, Shane was free to do what he wanted. Within reason of course.
Shane knew his limits. An entire pack of Oreo cookies and a gallon of milk was unacceptable for a snack. Perhaps he could get away with half of each. He was hungry.
He whistled as he took a handful of cookies out of the package and then went to the fridge. Shane took out the gallon, stood there with the refrigerator door open and drank long and deep. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, returned the milk to its proper place in the fridge, and closed the door.
With a satisfied belch, Shane left the kitchen and popped an entire Oreo into his mouth. He made his way to the second floor and headed towards the library.
From the third floor, he heard the groan of old hinges.
Shane stopped and listened.
The noise sounded again and slowly shifted into a long, drawn out squeal.
He had been to the third floor only a few times but he had never stayed long. The temperature up there was always colder, the walls barren of decoration. None of the lights worked, even though an electrician hired by Shane’s father said they should. The doors in the hall were always locked, too.
They were always locked.
Shane walked to the small, hidden door at the end of the hall. He opened it and took a step back. The lights were on in the stairwell.
He stood in the doorway long enough to finish his cookies. Shane brushed his hands off on his jeans and then he climbed the stairs. Another door stood at the top, he opened it and stepped into the third-floor hallway.
Light spilled out of every wall sconce. Out of the four doors in the hallway, the last one on the left was open. Not a little, or only slightly. Not half, but fully open and against the wall.
Shane heard music.
A violin.
The music drifted out of the open doorway and slipped down the hall. Each note followed the other gliding off the bare plaster and along the worn wooden floor.
Shane approached the open door carefully. The music gradually grew louder and soon he was only a step away. For a moment, he paused, took a deep breath, and moved forward to look in.
Shane blinked and shook his head.
A set of stairs stretched up in front of him. They led to a fourth floor, but there wasn’t a fourth floor. At least not when you looked at the house from the outside.
The strange stairwell was dim, and Shane could barely see a door at the top. The sound of the violin came through it and rolled out and around him.
Shane took a moment to build up his courage, and then walked up the stairs.
The music increased in both tempo and volume.
The unseen musician seemed to sense his approach.
Shane paused for a moment, and so too did the music. The last note hung in the air and lingered.
Shane, in spite of the trepidation he felt, smiled and continued up the stairs.
The music started up again.
The door at the top of the stairs was tall and narrow, barely wide enough for Shane to pass through if it was unlocked. He reached out and took hold of the cut crystal doorknob, found it warm and the edges smooth, as he carefully turned it.
The latch clicked loudly, and the door swung into the unknown room.
The music washed over Shane as he stepped into a dimly lit space. Thick rugs covered the floor, and stacks of written music were piled around the room haphazardly. The room, like the door, was tall and narrow. It was also long and barren of windows. On the wood-paneled walls, dozens of violins and their bows rested on individual shelves.
The end of the room was hidden in a shadow behind a solitary floor lamp. The music came from the darkness; a pure, beautiful sound. Shane’s heart ached with each note.
He cautiously walked forward, and the music stopped.
“I’m sorry,” Shane said softly. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting, Child,” a man said. The language wasn’t German, or French, but something else. Similar to French, but not the same.
“Will you continue to play?” Shane asked, and he couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice as he heard himself speak the man’s language.
“Of course, I will,” the man chuckled. “I had heard of your ability to speak, but I did not know it would include my own.”
“What am I speaking?” Shane asked.
“Italian, Child,” he said.
“Are you dead?” Shane asked as politely as he could.
The man laughed. “Yes. I am dead. Long dead, I am afraid.”
“May I ask your name?”
“You may, and I will even tell you. Roberto Guidoboni.”
“Why are you here?” Shane asked.
“My music,” Roberto said. A beautiful note escaped the shadow. “I feared I would not be able to make my music after my death, and so I built myself this room. I put my violins in it, and when I was sure death was near, I locked myself in.”
“But,” Shane hesitated, then he continued on. “But, this room doesn’t exist. It shouldn’t even be part of the house.”
Roberto laughed. “Well, it did exist. It was a secret room in my house, yet it burned. Later, when Anderson purchased my home, my room remained, and the new house kept me here. She lets me play. When it suits her.”
“The one in the pond?” Shane whispered.
“Yes,” he answered. “The one in the pond.”
“Will you… will you still play?” Shane asked, hopeful.
“I will. You are not afraid of the dead?”
“Not all of the dead,” He said.
Roberto chuckled. “Well said, Child. Well said. Would you look upon me as I play?”
“Yes,” Shane answered.
“Excellent.”
The light shifted slightly, and suddenly Shane could see Roberto Guidoboni.
A skeleton clad in rags.
He sat on a high stool, the tattered remains of house slippers on the bones of his feet. He tucked a violin under his chin, somehow worked his fingers around the neck of the instrument to place them on the strings, and carefully drew the bow back in one long, graceful motion.
Shane sighed and sat down on the floor. He closed his eyes and listened to the music the dead man created.
Chapter 27: The Root Cellar
“Marie,” Shane said gently. “Marie, are you alright?”
She turned her attention away from Carl and stared at Shane. She blinked several times and then she asked, “Is this real?”
Shane nodded.
“How?” She said, looking over at Carl and then back to Shane. “How can this possibly be real? There are no such things as ghosts.”
“Will she be well?” Carl asked.
“Yes,” Shane said. “I think so.”
“What are you speaking?” Marie asked. “Is it German?”
“Yes,” Shane said.
Marie looked at him, shook her head and said, “This is real.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Shane said.
“Okay,” she said. The muscles of her jaw tightened and relaxed several times before she nodded. “Okay. Does he speak English?”
“He does,” Shane answered.
“No,” Shane said, trying not to smile.
Marie frowned. “Why not?”
“He doesn’t like to,” Shane said.
“Well,” she said, “does he know where your parents went?”
“No,” Shane said. “Just where they went in.”
“And where did they go in?” She asked.
“The root cellar.”
Marie stood up. “It’s in the pantry, right?”
“Yes,” Shane answered, standing up as well. He walked to the pantry and opened the door. He turned on the light and pointed to the trapdoor which led down. “I need to go down there.”
“Let’s go,” she said.
“What?” He asked.
“Let’s go,” she repeated. “I need to see what’s down there.”
“Tell her it isn’t safe,” Carl said, stepping towards them.
“It’s not safe,” Shane said. “Not at all.”
“I know,” Marie said, smiling tightly. “I figured it wouldn’t be. Will your friend be coming with us?”
“No,” Shane answered. “It’s not safe for him down there.”
“He’s afraid?” Marie asked, surprised.
“Yes,” Shane said. “Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean he wants to vanish from the world. Are you sure you want to go down there with me?”
“Absolutely sure,” she said.
“Okay,” Shane said. He walked into the pantry, bent down and pulled up the trap door.
A terrible wave of cold air rushed out of the darkness, and Shane staggered back. He and Marie coughed and wheezed at the stench of old death heavy in the air.
“Jesus Christ,” Marie hissed. “It didn’t smell like this yesterday when we opened it.”
“I don’t remember it ever smelling like this,” Shane said. “Or it being this cold either.”
He took a small LED flashlight off a shelf, turned it on and pointed it down the ladder. The darkness tried to eat away at the cone of light, which revealed a hard-packed dirt floor. Shane looked over at Marie.
“Ready?” He asked her.
“Yes,” Marie said, nodding. She slipped a hand into her pocket and took out her own flashlight. Marie grinned at him. “Better than a boy scout.”