The Grotesques

by Tia Reed

  A faint chant drifted out of the nave. She edged toward the distorted sound. The statues loomed on either side, their expressions no longer serene and saintly but judgemental and accusing. Ella swung the torch from left to right, half expecting them to change position. Stop being fanciful, she told herself. Then she swallowed because she knew what she had seen on the roof.

  She chose to walk down the central aisle, as far from the stone personages as was possible. She was relieved the chant did not originate from their mouths. As if, she told herself, but she was not sure she would have been completely dumbfounded if it had. Petrified, yes, but not surprised. She hurried through the choir and turned left into the south transept. The grille to the lower area was unlatched. The chanting, still a faint, indecipherable sound, had assumed a more urgent tempo. Her skin prickled as the sensation that someone was watching intensified. She pivoted and checked the rear, then swung the beam up. It did not even brush the balustrade. Taking a deep breath, she went down.

  In the stone chamber, wooden torches burned in wall sconces behind the grey arches. She rattled the handle on the door to Romain’s workshop. It was locked. Banging produced no answer. She listened but could not hear anyone inside. The chant grew louder. It tingled with an undercurrent of power, pulling her almost involuntarily toward the stairs. The sounds had separated into words, foreign but discernible. She recognised it now as the same hymn that had played at the Travellians’. Breathing fast, she passed through the arch. The door to the crypt stood wide open. More torches lit the stairs. Ella dropped wary feet onto each step.

  The crypt was illuminated solely by white candles in an array of metal candelabras of varying height. Scattered around the edges of the room and perched on the tombs, their flickering flames cast evil shadows against the polished walls. Ella’s heart thumped wildly. She decided against calling out, reluctant to reveal her presence to the human or monster which prowled these walls. In the unlikely event that it didn’t already know she was here.

  She tried not to look at the effigies. In the candlelight the marble faces appeared peaceful, and yet she knew, wherever the women were, whatever they had endured, these likenesses told a lie. She crept past. And abruptly stopped. Her mind raced as she replayed her walk in her mind. Eight coffins, each with an elaborately carved effigy on top. Six missing girls and Matt Hayes. Seven coffins by light of day. Eight in the dead of night. Not even Romain could have worked that quick. How then?

  Her heart almost bouncing into her throat, Ella inched back to the last tomb. And broke into a cold sweat. Two seven-branch candelabras rested at head and foot of a striking likeness of herself. Unable to tear her eyes away, she studied every minute detail. Somewhere, anywhere there had to be a discrepancy that marked this woman as someone else. But the artist had done an incredible job, from the stray strands of hair that never seemed to sit quite right to the pert angle of her jaw.

  “Do you approve?” Startled, Ella jumped round to face Genord. His brutal eyes molested her. Unnerved, she took a step back. His lips curved into a wry smile. With the quickness of a large predator, he pulled a gun and aimed at her chest. “I think it a remarkable likeness myself.”

  She drew in a sharp breath as her knees started shaking. “Let me go.”

  “I think not, Miss Jerome. You want to know what happened to those girls. I think it time you found out.”

  “Detectives Hamlyn and Danes are just outside. They know I’m in here.” A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead and onto her eyelashes, blurring her vision.

  “That may be, but it is too late, I’m afraid.”

  “You won’t get away with it.” The words were barely more than a breath.

  “With what, Miss Jerome?” The assumed innocence in his voice mocked her.

  “Murder.”

  “I am disappointed. Do you think I would stoop so low?”

  Ella’s face twisted in confusion. “The girls. Are they alive?”

  “No. They are dead.” He took a step forward and caught her arm in a vice-like grip. “It was nothing so mundane as murder, though.” He turned his lips into her ear and whispered, “It was sacrifice.”

  Ella’s blood turned cold. “This is a church.”

  “It would seem that way, wouldn’t it? But it was built for a very specific purpose.”

  “It’s still holy ground.”

  “Its sanctity has been violated.”

  “Look, it’s not too late, Genord. Let me go, and I’m sure the prosecutor will cut you a deal.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, my little pet is hungry.”

  Ella glanced around, afraid the monsters had found a way down, afraid what she had thought was Caroline Jones was in reality a mutant beast Genord intended to set upon her. He waved her on. She walked, certain he would shoot if she ran. She stopped when she reached the bare wall at the far end of the crypt and turned to face her captor.

  “The lowest stone in the wall in front of you will move. Depress it.”

  One eye on the gun, Ella dropped to one knee. She needed both her hands to grate the stone back.

  “Now lift the floor stone.”

  Ella inserted her hand into the hole, tucking her fingers under until they rested on the bottom of the stone square. “Did you frighten all the girls into doing this?” she fished, hoping to delay.

  “On the contrary. Most were extremely obliging until they realised the fate I had in store. Now lift the panel, Miss Jerome.”

  The stone was not as heavy as she had expected. As the corner rose, she pushed herself up and flipped it into Genord’s path. The bang echoed through the chamber as the foul stench of stagnant water drenched the room. Ella gagged and moved back.

  “Down there, my dear, is the underground passage you were seeking. Your fate awaits you within.”

  “Then the girls are all in the Port River.”

  “I believe the remains of Alicia Moffat and Melanie Denham were extracted from the river, yes. It is only a matter of time before some part of Joanne Travellian surfaces.”

  “You drowned them.”

  “Sacrificed, my dear. You really do not use those ears of yours.”

  “And the others?”

  “Things did not go as planned. But little twists add to the fun of the game, don’t you think?”

  “Adam?”

  He smiled.

  Her heart turned to ice. “What happened to them?”

  “That, Miss Jerome, is not your concern.” He gestured the gun toward the hole.

  “What’s down there?”

  “Take a look.”

  She crouched by the hole, trying not to breathe too deep of the putrid smell. Ripples rocked the glassy surface. She gasped as wood emerged, and shone the torchlight along a thick, headless neck carved with scales. The artist had done a meticulous job of painting them a lifelike shimmery sapphire.

  “What is it?” she asked, though she thought she knew.

  “It is a dragon.”

  “Wooden carvings and holograms don’t kill.”

  “Would you believe this dragon is quite real?” She shot him a quizzical look. “I didn’t think so, but it is the truth. Now, will you go willingly, or shall I shoot?”

  After all she had seen, Ella certainly did believe, and as much as the journalist in her craved information about the what and the how and the why, instinct screamed Genord was not about to tolerate delay. She had, if she was lucky, one more chance to stall.

  “Why are you doing this, Genord?”

  “If you have not had the wits to discover it, I shall not waste my breath explaining, especially if your friends are outside. The world will soon suffer the truth. Goodbye, Miss Jerome. I cannot say it has been a pleasure. Your interference has made my life more difficult this last week.” He braced his wrist. The barrel of the gun threatened.

  With as much strength as she could muster, Ella lunged and spun the floor stone into Genord’s legs, ducking to the side to avoid the gun shot that never c
ame. Genord stumbled. Ella leaped at him, the force of her flight driving him to the ground. The gun flew from his hand. Ella rolled off Genord and scrambled to reach it. Genord grabbed her ankle, holding her tight and flipping her to the floor. She stretched. Her fingers brushed cold metal and hooked the trigger guard. Twisting, she pointed the gun and shot. Genord’s head snapped back. She pulled her leg, but he held fast. She shot. His head jerked. He let go.

  She scuttled back, gun pointed. Her chest was tight, her hand shaking, but she could swear she had hit the psychopath. Except, bloodless and unhurt, he was rising like some fiend from a horror movie. Somehow she found her feet and fired again. He walked straight through her shots, forcing her against the rough wall. His hand seized her wrist, squeezing and shaking until she dropped the gun. Ella kicked out, sending it sliding. Unbalanced, she lost her footing. With phenomenal strength, Genord dragged her up as the gun hit the corner of the dislodged flagstone. Her shoulder burned as he stretched her arm. She struggled to get her feet under her but her shoes kept slipping. In a desperate bid, she slid her body forward and used her foot to knock the gun. It plopped into the water. Genord seized both her wrists and jerked her to her feet at the edge of the hole.

  “They—know—where—I—am, Genord.” She could barely stand, she was so scared. She found herself praying for any end except this, where all that remained of her would be a severed, petrified limb.

  “It matters not. I am ready to reveal my might to the world.”

  She eyed the hole. Her fingers clutched at his clammy wrist. “If we struggle, there’s as much chance of you going into that hole as me.” She was tense, ready to scratch and bite, but he was so much stronger than she.

  “No, my dear there is not.” He let her go. Just like that.

  She backed away, wondering why he had changed his mind, not trusting his derisory smile. The ghostly blue image of a dragon head writhed out of the wooden neck. As its glow brightened, Ella bolted for the stairs. Blue light flashed around her. She was going mad because all she could think, before pain seared through her, was it took the crazed, screaming form of Alicia Moffat, pulling at her hair, scratching at her eyes, kicking her back. She collapsed. The world darkened and lights spun about her head. The next thing she was aware of was Genord standing over her.

  “You see,” he said. “I have no need of so crude a weapon as a gun, but to convince you otherwise would have deprived my pet of power, not to mention me of my amusement. I so desired you meet your death fully conscious of your fate. There is power in fear, Miss Jerome, and I have not yet come into my full measure.”

  He grabbed her arm and dragged her. She forced her weakened legs to bend. Her strength had ebbed too far for her to tackle her captor, but she was not going to make this easy for him. He dumped her by the hole and stepped round to kick her in. The blue head was shining above the water. Its teeth were solidifying into terrifying fangs. She grabbed the edge, a ploy that would grant her seconds at best, and braced for the impact. As Genord raised his foot, a yell split her head. Romain was rushing at them, a heavy candelabra in his hand. Its candles streaming flame, he swung it at Genord. Mid-way through the arc, Alicia’s blue spirit crackled through the metal. Romain howled and dropped it. Candles rolled free, their flames flickering out. The teeth in the dragon head dulled as the wooden neck descended.

  Ella was not about to wait to see who would prevail. She rolled onto her hands and knees and crawled toward the tombs, grabbed a corner of one to help her up, then scampered through the crypt and up the stairs. Feet pounded behind her. She dared not look back. Tripping over the top step, she slammed the door closed. It sprang open before she had cleared its arc, knocking her to the ground. Scrambling up, she headed for the stairs, but a rough hand shoved her toward the workroom door. She collided with the wood as Romain’s husky voice rasped at her.

  “In. In.”

  Shoving her away from the handle, he yanked the door open. Ella, panting heavily, considered fleeing to the nave. Just her luck the transept above was dark, no indication that Rob and Danes had found a way in.

  “In or die.” Romain, clawing at his face in agitation, stared at the arch behind the steps. A drop of blood dribbled down his cheek and onto his chin. Footsteps echoed. He gawped at her and fled into his room. As Genord reached the chamber, she dashed after the hunchback. As soon as she was through, Romain banged the door closed. She heard a bolt scuff home.

  The windowless room was pitch black. Hands in front of her, Ella shuffled forward and stubbed her toe on a tool. Moving around it, she bumped into the central workbench.

  “Shh,” Romain cautioned.

  Ella gripped the table, sure she would collapse without its support. Determined to put as much distance as possible between herself and the door, she edged toward the back.

  Genord’s icy laugh echoed around them. “You do realise you are trapped, my dear. Submit to me or succumb to Romain’s special treatment. If you knew what he has in store for you, I think you might open the door.”

  Ella forced herself to take slow, full breaths. The room was stuffy and stale with a musty odour that brought a sharp recollection of the night of the fire.

  “No?” Genord continued. “Very well.”

  The odour intensified. Ella felt goose bumps erupt along her arms. Romain hobbled about, seemingly oblivious to the tools he kicked. It was a small mercy the noise allowed her to track his progress but the flapping that stirred the air above was a curse. Ella felt her chest tighten. She patted the table, searching for something she could use as a weapon. Her hand closed on a chisel. She seized it so tightly her knuckles hurt.

  A thump shook the door. It was followed by another, and the sound of dry wood splitting. My God, Ella thought as she suddenly comprehended the reason for the crisscrossed wooden beams, Genord’s breaking through. He must have done this before. An image of the missing girls cowering in this trap with Romain, whose sanity she did not fully trust, flashed through her mind. At the third thump, a draught stung her eyes. Something settled on the workbench. She heard it shift, nails clicking on the wooden surface, felt a breeze from the flap of what she could only guess would be wings. Just when Ella thought she would be sick, Romain lit a candle. The pale flame illuminated a monstrosity perched at the other end. Crouched on sinewy haunches, it watched the door, head ducked between shoulders, wings tucked as though ready to pounce. One candle after another sprang to life, each accentuating the impossibility of the beast. Fear alone kept Ella on her feet. She raised the chisel, ready to strike. The beast turned a lioness-like head toward her, its snarl flashing razor-sharp canines in warning before turning back to its post.

  Genord continued to strike the door. A stray thought of the psychopath hacking Alicia Moffat to pieces materialised in her brain. Alicia metamorphosed into her. Frantic, Ella looked around the room and sprang at the inner door. She yanked it open. It led to a spartan bedroom, with nothing more than a cot and a wardrobe and no way out.

  A rough hand seized her shoulder. Screaming, Ella spun round and jabbed with the chisel. Her arm arced through air. She overbalanced, would have fallen had Romain’s hand not been bracing her shoulder. With surprising force, the hunchback wrenched the tool from her hand and flung it across the room. It clanked against the side bench, falling to the dirt floor with a dull thud.

  “Quiet,” Romain drawled, his lips contorted into an open-mouthed grimace. His eyes darted from side to side as though searching for the enemy, who, as far as Ella was concerned, was clearly behind him. “Quiet,” he repeated more softly, when Ella had forced herself to stillness. Every fibre of her being was rigid in anticipation of a life or death fight. Her spread fingers formed claws by her side. The back of her head was pounding from the tension in her neck. Her eyes searched vainly for a substantial weapon while tracking Genord’s progress into the room and watching the unnatural creature that thankfully remained intent on the door.

  “Yes.” Romain nodded at her. “Quiet. Still.”
/>   The hunchback hobbled to the side of the room, returning with a large iron pot he struggled to sit on the workbench. The tip of an axe cleaved through one of the planks in the door. The surrounding wood cracked and splintered as Genord struck again. Romain started hyperventilating. He removed a knotted wooden cross from the wall and jabbed it into the dirt in front of the door, then pointed to the door and muttered something incoherent. The cross began to glow. Sigils lit up along the jamb. Crazy how the thing she fixated on was the segment missing from that cross, a fragment that matched the splinter she had removed from Joanne Travellian’s bust. She hadn’t noticed the first time she had seen it; the defect had been on the far side, but oh dear God, here was proof Romain had murdered Joanne. He was going to sever her head and turn it to stone.

  “You force me to this,” Genord said. Blue light cracked through the wood leaving a fist-sized hole. The surrounding wood smouldered, the hot red splinters threatening to burst into flame. The light from the cross flared, and the embers died.

  Ella cursed whatever black cult she had stumbled into. Eyes glued to Genord’s progress, she didn’t notice Romain had procured a knife until he slit her finger in a quick movement that was over before she could react. Shocked, she backed away, staring at her throbbing middle finger and the blood it dripped onto the dirt floor. Romain shadowed her movements. As she bumped against the wall, he held the rusty, blood-stained blade between their faces. Ella raised a protective hand.

  “Blood,” Romain demanded. “Blood or die.” He pointed the knife at the pot.

  Blue light flashed through the wood, widening the hole to the size of a dinner plate. Romain jumped nervously. “Quick,” he rasped. Ella stood frozen to the spot. He grabbed her and dragged her to the workbench. Dropping the knife, he held her hand over the pot until three drops of blood had stained the grey sludge inside. Releasing her, he mixed the blood in.