“Why do you think you deserve her?”
“She’s my daughter!”
“She was your daughter. But that was before you offered her to me. Before I gave her the gift.”
“You took her from me!”
Virginia hid behind Isaac, unable to speak, move. As difficult as it was to accept, she knew there was nothing more she could do for him now; he was on his own. It’s the only way, she told herself, the way it has to be. She now realized that Isaac would never forgive himself, his heart was scarred too badly to ever heal. He would battle with the illusionist, with the death of his wife, with his guilt, and he would die doing so.
“I didn’t make her a part of this, you did,” said Lucius. “I gave you the opportunity to go away, but you would not let me be, you would not give up. And now here we are, exactly how you knew it would end.”
Isaac nodded. The wave of courage had died and now all that washed up were shells of guilt. This vile thing that had kept prisoners locked in iron cells below the mansion, torturing these innocents to no end, was right about him. None of this should have happened, and all of it was his fault. His only hope to save Amy would be to convince the illusionist to free her, a task that would not be easy, or likely possible.
“You’ve been here before, haven’t you? This isn’t the first time your back has been against the wall, is it?” He had now led Amy to the foot of the steps. Her hands gently rose. “So why do you seem surprised? How many times must it take before you learn your lesson?”
“Please,” Isaac pleaded. “I'll do anything.”
Isaac bowed his head and stared down at the maroon carpet. He was losing the battle and the jury was turning on him. He could feel their confounded stares, their disappointment with him. They had expected more. They had expected him to put up a fight, but he was giving in, disappointed with himself.
“In that case, I will give you a choice,” said Lucius. “I will leave your daughter, alive and unharmed, if you agree to take her place.”
“Fine,” Isaac quickly said.
Virginia jumped up from behind Isaac and grabbed the back of his coat. “Isaac, no.” She couldn’t sit back in silence anymore and watch him give up hope, watch him fall to pieces. “Remember the others. He’ll kill her.”
Isaac glanced back at Virginia. She released her hand from his coat. Simmons was hunched over behind her, mouth open, with an I can’t believe what I’m seeing look on his face.
Isaac returned his focus to Amy. “I followed you here,” he said. “I know the things you’ve done. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” He paused to fill his lungs with the orange, smoking air. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because my mercy is the only hope you have left."
Isaac had begun to formulate a final plea, when Amy began to convulse violently on the stage, slow at first, then faster each second. Her arms jerked behind her hips. Her hands clenched into a tight fist.
“Stop!” Isaac screamed. “What are you doing to her?”
No answer.
Amy’s body continued to shudder. Tiny rings of fire opened up on her chest and broadened to her extremities as though her skin was made of paper and an entire pack of lit cigarettes burned holes from within her. The orange rings thickened, assembled, and would soon bring forth he that lay beneath the departing skin.
Isaac fell to his knees and covered his eyes with his hands. He couldn’t watch this happen. He couldn’t watch his daughter slowly burn apart until there was nothing left. Moments later, he removed his hands from his diluted eyes and stared down the red aisle at a mysterious figure in a dark blue ruffled cloak, standing in the very spot Amy had stood before the smoldering rings of fire took her away.
The dark figure was an exact mirror of the illusionist’s former self, a living replica of the small stone statue. His head was lowered. His pale, wrinkled hands rested before him, palms up. Though the face of the illusionist was hidden comfortably in shadow, there were two white balls of light enclosed within the hood glaring across the room at Isaac.
And it was at this moment, the lost sensation returned.
Isaac recognized the glossy eyes and the prominent glare behind them. They were the eyes on the other side of the double doors; eyes that enjoyed watching him suffer; eyes that wanted to know how much he could take, how far he would go, and now, as he fell from the end of his thread, those eyes would finally get their answer.
Isaac reached into the inner pocket of his coat and slowly removed the 9mm. He braced himself against the floor with his free hand and lazily pointed the gun in the direction of the illusionist.
The sanctuary filled with laughter, a hollering cackle. Isaac flexed his eyebrows together, angry that the he was not being taken seriously. His index finger gripped the cold trigger tighter, a little further and a bullet would release from the chamber.
But the laughter continued.
Then the illusionist spoke for the first time since the fiery rings took Amy and delivered him.
“What do you intend to do with that foolish thing?” It asked, though the voice had changed. The voice was still quite deep, but no longer sounded as sinister as it once had. This voice was human. “What has it given you all your life? Protection? Is that it? Or, perhaps, a dead wife?”
“Don’t listen to him, Isaac,” said Virginia.
“You and me, we aren’t so different,” Lucius continued, now pacing the stage. “We both killed someone we loved. The only difference is you let yourself become tormented by it. You let guilt become your greatest weakness.” He stopped in the center of the stage. “I did not. I became stronger because of it. I let it become my greatest strength. Where you fell, I rose.”
Virginia grabbed Isaac from behind and shook him as though she were trying to wake him from a trance. She told him to drop the gun, many times, but he hadn’t heard her. His mind was lost in a place she couldn’t access, in some dark closet of feelings. He had finally brushed the dust off the shelf and was frightened at what he found underneath, the mess he had covered up and left to be forgotten.
“But don’t let my words deter your fate,” said Lucius, stepping to the foot of the stage. He lifted his arms up to his side until they were even with his shoulders, widening the target. “Kill your daughter like you killed your wife!”
Isaac gradually lowered the gun and whispered, “Please forgive me.” Then he raised the gun again, but this time he wasn’t pointing it at the illusionist.
He could already taste the metal inside his mouth. The hollering cackle had returned, louder than before, but Isaac ignored it. He had already decided what he would do, and nothing would change his mind.
Nothing.
The gun sailed out of his hand, smacking against the wooden pew beside him and spinning to a stop against the right wall. Even without his wife, without Amy, he had decided he would face the dusty shelf, and with all his strength, try to take it apart and rebuild it. And he would begin now.
He buried his face in his hands. Tears formed a swamp of his eyes. Laughter was all around, circling in his head, taunting him as he wept.
Virginia knelt down behind him, put her arm around his waist, and softly rested her head down on his back.
Tears fell and laughter echoed.
There seemed to be no end to any of it, yet, at some point, while his head was in his hands, completely unaware of what was happening around him, Isaac had cried out.
He only spoke two words, but they were enough.
It was all they needed to hear.
“Help me!” he had cried.
14
Silence fell over the sanctuary. The tears quickly left with the laughter. Isaac raised his head, stood up, and peered around the silent room. Virginia and Simmons were behind him, their heads turning in every direction, their eyes carefully searching the environs. He looked to the stage, at the illusionist. The white balls of light weren’t glaring at him anymore. The long, dark blue hood swayed left and right, surveying the room with the rest.
/>
A presence was here, everywhere, and it was something the group recognized, but more importantly, it was something that remembered the illusionist.
Soft whispers began circulating in the air. The whispers came from the floor, the ceiling, and everything in between, even the orange smog above.
The voices grew louder, closer.
The group huddled together in the center aisle and looked across the maroon carpet at the illusionist. His hood had stopped swaying and the glowing white inside were once again focused on them, however, this time the eyes weren’t filled with laughter, but a deep, consuming fear.
The whispering had now reached its pinnacle of volume, and as it did, there came another sound, an acute, yet subtle swish of heavy chains dragging against stone—the sound of slavery.
Moments later the first of the prisoners appeared from behind the stage, chained together at their necks, crawling through the red curtain.
The illusionist turned around and saw the pale figures behind him with their black mouths open, hissing. He gradually stepped backwards down the steps, not turning his attention from the prisoners.
Another set of ghosts climbed from the maroon carpet, cutting off his path. He fearfully stepped back on to the stage, now surrounded from all directions, and forced to face the wretched things that haunted him. Some of the prisoners were close enough to claw at his feet, but as they did, the illusionist would swipe them away with the back of his hand.
The ghosts flew backwards, shrieking, with their arms crossed in front of their pale faces shielding themselves from the poisonous swipe of the illusionist’s hand. Lucius was determined to keep the hissing spirits at bay, but more came.
Isaac glanced up.
A group of prisoners appeared from the ceiling and crawled down the walls, their vacant sockets locked in the direction of the stage. Many more followed from the ceiling, and then some crawled from behind the double doors, passing around the group.
They came from the walls.
The floor.
The air.
With each second that passed, six more would appear, always hissing, always chained.
“My God,” Virginia muttered, hand over mouth. “There are hundreds of them.”
The spirits were passionate about being back on the stage, about being a part of the show. This was their moment to enact a bit of vengeance upon the thing that had delightfully tortured them, and they would not let the moment slip. But the dark cloaked illusionist wasn’t slipping either. It would take all of them, working collectively, if they were to carry out the reprisal.
They packed around the stage, each ghost tightly clenching the one before it, pushing the herd closer toward the goal in the middle. For once, since the show began, the illusionist appeared to be losing ground. He could no longer fight them off so easily, there were too many of them now. The poison was rapidly losing its effect, unable to permeate through the wall of prisoners.
Then, accompanied by a gasping sound, which swooped over and across the packed sanctuary like a drowning wind, the first ring of ghosts reached into the body of the illusionist. Their hands formed a large fist inside of him and began tugging outward, with each ring after clutching the one before them.
The illusionist writhed back and forth, roaring. His hooded head fell backwards, gazed up at the ceiling. He tried to shake the hands away, one by one, but the fist would not break. The prisoners pulled relentlessly, gathering more and more strength as a group, determined to free the mortal from their master’s grasp.
The final act had come.
The illusionist let out one final roar, exerted one last futile tear at the internal fist, before a fiery breath of smoke exhaled from his body launching a transparent shadow of him into the air. The circular mass of prisoners toppled backwards like a chain of dominos as a cold draft parted from the center of the stage.
All eyes in the sanctuary watched the cloaked shadow slowly rise into the orange fog above and break apart at the ceiling. After the last vestige of air departed, the assembly of prisoners faded away, together in peace, for the last time.
15
The group was still huddled together in the center of the aisle, waiting for the thick smoke to clear. When the smoke finally settled, Isaac stepped forward and saw that the ghosts had left something behind, curled up on her side in the center of the stage. It was their way of saying thank you.
Isaac ran across the maroon carpet, up the three steps, and stopped in front of his daughter lying motionless on the hardwood floor. When he knelt down, he could see her eyes were closed. Virginia and Simmons ran up from behind and stood over Isaac, looking down as he touched his hand to Amy’s cheek. Her face was cold and wet with sweat, as were her blue pajamas. Isaac brushed her hair back from her face with his hand and softly said her name.
A moment later, her eyes opened.
Amy picked her head off the stage and stared up at her father. “Dad?”
Isaac smiled down at her then leaned over and held her tightly in his arms. “Are you okay?”
“I’m tired.”
“I know. I’m tired, too. But we have to go now.”
“Are we going home?”
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, still holding her in his arms. “We’re going home.”
The group strolled to the double doors at the end of the aisle. Isaac had his chin down, holding Amy’s hand the entire way. He noticed the pistol lying against the wall to his left, fully loaded, but he had no desire to pick it up.
When they arrived at the double doors, Isaac stepped to the front of the group and unlocked the dead bolt. Here he was again staring down at the brass handles. Just moments earlier, he was certain he would die here, perish with the rest of the prisoners in this torturous place, but somehow he had survived. He would leave the mansion with his friends behind him and his daughter’s hand nuzzled comfortably inside his own. He would walk out of here a changed man.
The trial was over.
Isaac leaned over and rested his hand on the brass handle, but when he turned it downward, the lock slammed back into place. The bolt quivered between the doors like a tired muscle straining to stay flexed. He reached up from the handle and tried to turn the lock back to the left, but it wouldn’t be as effortless as the first time. He fought with both hands to turn the rebellious lock, yet every time he reached the halfway point, the bolt would slowly pull back stronger and more resistant than before. But it wasn’t until he heard the stone mansion yawn, that he finally gave up.
The sonorous aching sound shook the stone walls. The mansion was filling its lungs, stretching its legs, and preparing to bury them under its enormous weight. The group turned from the double doors and looked high up on the walls at the flaming torches jumping in the metal rings.
Virginia swallowed. “He’s still here.”
Seconds later, the group of four ran up the aisle with only one thing on their minds.
Escape.
16
The sanctuary steadily darkened, as one by one, the flaming torches fell to the floor throwing sparkling orange embers into the air. Two rows of pews quickly caught fire. The hardwood stage collapsed as the knocking feet trampled over it. The ceiling clattered, cracked, and crumbled, sending large chunks of gray stone plummeting down from above like meteorites.
The group was halfway through the backstage area before Virginia realized they now ran in the dark. The lantern was spent, dry of fuel. She dropped it to the floor, passing the table of tortures. The glass smashed then jingled and bounced up and down on the pulsing floor. Scalpels spun off the table, teeth fractured under their feet.
They could hear the house crumbling from above, fearing the walls would soon close while they ran down the winding passageway to the study. From the study door, the group turned left and ran down the cellblock. The cells were empty. The prisoners could not help them anymore, not even light their way through the darkness.
The black pane windows shattered sending glass sailing
through the chamber. The iron bars twisted from their holes and battered against the floor. Ahead, the silver chains swung in circles, viciously beating against each other. The group would have to crawl underneath the chains if they were to pass through without being strangled—worse, decapitated.
Isaac sent Amy first, promising to follow. She pressed down against the cold floor and slowly crawled underneath the swinging chains like a soldier slithering under barbed wire. There was nothing but darkness before her, and a loud clanging sound above. “Dad, are you there?”
“I’m here, honey,” said Isaac, glancing up at the sharp, metal neck braces circling inches above his head, eager to slice into the roof of his skull. “I’m right behind you. Keep your head down.”
“How much further?”
“Not far. We’re almost there.”
Moments later, Amy stood up, free of the chains, and waited for her father to appear underneath. Soon after, Isaac crawled out and wrapped his arms around his daughter, warming her cold, damp body. Then he released her, knelt down, and pulled Virginia to her feet. He wanted to throw his arms around Virginia as well, let her know how grateful he was that she stayed by his side, but he resisted the temptation.
Simmons was by far the heaviest of the group and it took him longer than the others to free his body from the possessed chains. He breathed hard and clasped a hand to his chest as he stood up. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take."
The group turned the corner to the left and hurried down the long, dark hallway. The laughter had quieted, but the rumbling grew stronger. The stone mansion was quickly losing its support, in minutes it would cave to the pressure supplied by the illusionist.
Virginia was the first to climb the ladder leading back up to the second floor. Amy followed, then Isaac and Simmons. Dust filled the cramped space. A few of the metal rungs broke off as they ascended. One by one, they reached the top of the ladder and slid through the whole in the wall, back into the upstairs bedroom.
The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller Page 21