"Thanks!" Seymour said.
"After the papers are signed, we should get around to filming in, say, six to eight months." "Six to eight months?'
"We only do thirteen shows a season, Mr. Tarnish, and two segments a show. We've got a huge backlog." "Thank goodness," I muttered.
Kenny waved and headed for the steps. "So long," he called. "We'll be in touch."
Seymour closed the door and faced me. "I need action now. Not in six or eight months." He slapped his forehead. "Damn, I forgot to tell him about the magic circle!"
I touched his arm. "Don't worry about it. You heard Kenny. He said you were a good enough prospect anyway. But now that you mention it, didn't you say something earlier? Something about finding that fleur-de-lis pentagram design in another part of the house?"
He nodded. "Upstairs."
"Show me."
We climbed the wide wooden staircase to the second floor, passed through a long, dim hallway dominated by a suit of armor at one end and a loudly ticking grandfather clock on the other. Seymour guided me through a door and into the master bedroom.
"Check out the front of that nightstand," he said, pointing to a boxy piece of furniture beside a massive canopied bed.
About the size of an old-fashioned television set, the stand appeared to be mahogany stained in black. Bolted to the front of the piece was a sterling silver relief the size of a serving platter. Just as Seymour said, the relief's design was that odd fleur-de-lis pentagram. I bent down to touch the metal, and discovered the design had a use. It was a handle.
"This isn't just a nightstand, Seymour. It's a cabinet." I tugged the handle and the front opened wide.
"Holy secret compartment, Batman!"
Inside the cabinet were three glass tiers. A delicate tiara made of silver rested on the top shelf; the middle held a silver hatbox. A leather-bound book rested on the bottom shelf. Embossed in silver on its cover was the fleur-de-lis pentagram. There was no tide above the design, and the spine was blank. I lifted the book and paged through handwritten incantations and drawings of magical circles as well as other occult symbols.
"Did Miss Todd write that?" Seymour asked, peering over my shoulder.
I shook my head. "The person who scribbled these notes had a much bolder hand. Heavier, too. See the large size of the letters and numbers? 1*11 bet this was written by a man."
Seymour took the book from my hand and paged through it. "I see some Latin in here and some Greek, but almost everything else is gibberish. I can't make heads or tails of it."
"It must be important, because Miss Todd wanted you to have it." "Huh?"
"Don't you remember the 'special book' she cited in her will? I have a pretty strong feeling this is the book."
Seymour glanced at the cabinet. "What's in that hat box?"
As I pulled out the box, my eyes drifted to the object behind it—a polished steel dagger with the pentagram design on its hilt.
"Leo Rollins has a dagger like this one!" I lifted the blade and examined it. "It looks exactly like the one J. J.'s mother had, too."
"Whose mother?"
Watch it, baby. You're speaking of things long past
"Not so long," I silently replied. "This very dagger—or Leo's, for that matter—could be the very same one you showed me from your case."
"Earth to Pen? Who is J. J.?"
"J. J.? Oh, he's, um, a—"
A customer, doll.
"A customer, doll," I repeated to Seymour. "I mean, a customer of the bookshop! Anyway, don't you think it's odd that Leo has a knife just like this?"
"I guess." Seymour took the knife. "I wonder where Rollins got it."
"According to him, an antiques store in Newport."
I pulled out the hatbox, moved it onto the bed, and opened the lid. The box contained a tape recorder. I took it out.
"There're audiotapes in here, too." Seymour grabbed the tapes and scanned them. "They're all dated recently—a few days apart."
I shuffled through the four plastic cases and recognized Miss Todd's tiny, precise handwriting on each label. The tapes were time coded, each starting at around nine or ten P.M. and ending at midnight or later.
"There's a tape left in the machine, too." I pointed.
Seymour read the label. "It's dated June 8."
"That's the night before Miss Todd's body was found."
We exchanged glances. Then, by silent consent, Seymour pressed Play.
No sound greeted us. After a minute, my fingers spun up the volume control and we suddenly heard the whispered thoughts of a person now dead. This was far from a unique occurrence for me, but it clearly unnerved Seymour. He swallowed hard.
"I am now inside the circle where the spirit cannot harm me." Miss Todd's voice was quiet, tremulous yet determined. "The candles burn and I am holding the sacred dagger in my hand. I am waiting for the spirit to make itself heard..."
After a protracted silence, there was a shuffling sound as if the woman were repositioning the tape recorder. More silence. Then—
"Still quiet, yes! But I know he will come because he hates me so. Hates me for what I've done. When he does come, I'll record the noises he makes on this tape and play it for that dolt Bull McCoy. Then that oafish policeman will know I'm not just some delusional old woman!"
"You tell 'em, Timothea!"
"Shhh, Seymour."
But no sound followed. Once or twice, Miss Todd could be heard clearing her throat. Then came the sound of a car rolling by outside, followed by more silence.
Impatient, Seymour grabbed the tape recorder and fast forwarded. When he hit Play again, we heard a loud rushing noise, like a high wind battering the walls.
"Turn it down!" I shouted.
Even after Seymour lowered the volume, the noise was obviously deafening. Miss Todd had to yell to be heard: "Eleven fifty-five P.M. and the spirit is attacking now! Listen to it roar!"
The noise abruptly ceased. I heard Miss Todd's gasp of surprise, and then: "You're clever, but not clever enough! You realized I was recording you, but it's too late. I have you on tape again!"
Seymour rewound the tape and found the place where the weird sound began. "I can hear him now," Miss Todd whispered. The rushing noise built slowly, becoming louder until it ceased. Seymour turned off the machine and his bugged-out eyes scanned the other tapes.
My own head was spinning, and it wasn't just the residual effects of those Long Island Iced Teas. Miss Todd had recorded evidence that this mansion was haunted. So—
"Why in the world did she stay here?"
Seymour exhaled. "You heard Mr. Stoddard. She had an emotional attachment to this house. The noises only started a few weeks ago. Seems to me she was trying to use magic to get rid of this spirit, or whatever it was. Or maybe there's a logical explanation for these weird sounds."
I shook my head. "However you want to explain it, she had to be frightened, and to face that kind of fright alone for all those nights? Imagine the strain. It's no wonder the poor woman's body gave out."
"I wish she would have said something to me!"
"Seymour, do you realize what we have here?" I held up one of the audiotapes. "This is proof that the strange sounds Miss Todd heard were real. Not some figment of her imagination."
Seymour nodded dumbly.
"We have to call Eddie! We have to turn this over to the authorities—"
"No!" Seymour grabbed the tape from my hand and threw it back into the box. "These tapes will only make things worse." "What! How?"
"Dr. Rubino claimed Miss Todd was suffering from dementia. He ruled her death to be from natural causes. But Chief Ciders is still convinced I frightened Miss Todd to death with fake noises. The only thing these tapes will prove is that Miss Todd wasn't suffering from dementia! There really were noises." Seymour grimaced. "I know Ciders is just waiting for some kind of evidence like this. If he gets hold of these tapes, he'll just say I made the noises to kill Miss Todd so I could inherit her house. He'll use these to f
rame me for murder!"
Listen to the mailman, baby. The lettuce he’s handing you ain't funny money.
I closed my eyes. "My God, Seymour, you're right. But we should at least listen to every one of these tapes."
"We will." Seymour stifled a yawn. "Just not now. In the morning when the sun is up, and the house won't seem so..."
"Creepy?"
Seymour nodded and returned the tape recorder to the hatbox. He put the lid on the box and shoved the thing back into the cabinet, right next to the dagger. As he closed the cabinet up again, the grandfather clock in the hallway gonged the hour.
"Ouch," I said. "Two in the morning and my head's still fuzzy."
"Then you better sleep over."
"I couldn't impose, really," I said, even though I was pretty sure my blood-alcohol level was high enough for a DWI charge. The thought brought a vision to mind: Bull McCoy pulling me over and demanding I walk a straight line. Eesh. That did it.
"Where would I sleep?"
"Right here in the master bedroom. The same guys who delivered my new king-sized mattress also transported my bed from my old place. I set that one up in one of the guest rooms." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I can sleep in there and you can sleep here in the king canopy bed. It's where Timothea slept."
Just the answer I didn't want to hear.
CHAPTER 18
Things That Go Bump
I hear voices crying in the night and I go see what's the matter. [But] You don't make a dime that way.
—The Long Goodbye, Raymond Chandler, 1953
LIKE THE LIVING room below, the master bedroom held all the cheer of an upholstered coffin. The windows were covered with bulky brocade, the four-poster bed was topped with a thick velvet canopy, and the weak bedside lamp barely held off the oppressive shadows. Surrounded by dark-stained, ornately carved furnishings, I felt like a fly caught in a gloomy cobweb.
Seymour pointed to the massive bed set against the wall. "You'll be sleeping on Superman sheets," he warned in a sheepish tone. "They're the only ones I had that were big enough to fit this sucker. Sorry. I should have had king-sized sheets delivered with the mattress."
"That's okay. I always liked the Man of Steel. I feel bad kicking you out of your own bedroom, though."
Seymour glanced around. "I actually prefer a northern exposure. I'd planned on moving this bed into the guest room next door, but guess what." He grabbed one of the bed's stout mahogany posts with both hands and shook it. The canopy quivered a little, but the bed didn't budge. "It's bolted to the floor! The moving guys couldn't understand it, and they couldn't move it, either. Saved me some money though." He tapped the baseboard and grinned. "I didn't need box springs. It's a platform bed."
He lifted the mattress to show me the wooden planks underneath. "Don't worry. Even without the springs, the bed seems comfortable enough."
"Seems? Haven't you slept in it yet?"
"This is actually my first night in the mansion. I was supposed to stay here last night, but I was packing up my collection at the old place and it got so late I just crashed on the floor of my old room."
I got the distinct impression from Seymour's shaky tone that he wasn't all that eager to be alone in Miss Todd's house tonight. This eased some of my guilt about displacing him from the master bedroom—but it failed to mitigate the creepy vibe I was feeling from this space.
"Most of the drawers and stuff are still filled with Timothea's things, and my crap is still packed up in bags and boxes." As he spoke, Seymour fumbled through a pile of clothing on top of a chest of drawers. He tossed me a white T-shirt still wrapped in its original plastic. "It's extra large, big enough for you to sleep in if you like."
"Thanks, Seymour." I stifled a yawn as I tore open the plastic wrapper around the big shirt. "Well, goodnight."
I expected him to leave right then, but he didn't. He didn't say anything, either, just stood there in the middle of the bedroom staring at me for an awkward minute.
"Something on your mind?" I finally asked.
He shifted from foot to foot. "You've been a good friend to me, Penelope."
"Thanks. You've been a good friend to me, too."
"Do you think that you and I should maybe—" He glanced away, then back to me. "I don't know, maybe be more than that?"
Uh-oh, said the ghost in my head.
My entire body went rigid. Maybe sleeping over wasn't such a good idea. "Um, Seymour, I don't really feel that way about you."
Seymour blew out air. "Oh, good! I mean... I really like you and all, Pen, don't get me wrong, but as a friend. I just don't feel that romantic chemistry thing, you know?"
"Chemistry, right."
"See, I didn't want you to think I was insulting you or anything."
"Insulting me?"
"By not making a pass."
Oh, brother.
"Listen, Seymour, I think you're a great guy." I took his arm and began walking him to the door. "But I wouldn't want us to put our friendship in jeopardy, you know? That's too important to me."
Good line, baby. You think that up all by yourself?
Seymour nodded. He stopped in the doorway and looked down at me with an excessively sympathetic look in his eyes. "I agree with you, Pen. Let's just keep things on a friendship level between us. It'll be better for you in the long run. You'll see."
I gritted my teeth. "Anyway, you have other romantic prospects to think about, don't you? I mean, April Briggs was all over you tonight."
"You noticed, too, huh?" Seymour waggled his eyebrows. "She couldn't keep her hands off me, but you know, there was still something missing with her."
"Missing?"
Seymour shrugged. "That chemistry thing again. I told her all about my comic collection, my pulp magazines, too, and she wasn't even impressed. Hardly knew what to say."
"Well, not every couple has everything in common. On the other hand, Seymour, maybe April's not the one for you. Aunt Sadie always says there's someone for everyone, and I'm sure your soul mate's out there somewhere. You'll know her when you meet her."
Nice, baby. That's a much better line.
"Well, maybe you're right, Pen." He smiled and walked into the hall. "Pleasant dreams, okay. I'll be in the next room if you need me."
I closed the door behind him and collapsed against it. "Lord, what a night." With a sigh, I moved back into the center of the shadowy room and glanced around. All of a sudden, I felt very alone.
What did I tell you before, doll? With me around, you 're never alone.
"I'm glad you're here, Jack," I said as I changed into the oversized T-shirt. "Even though you really should have listened to me and ducked out. You dodged a bullet tonight with that Spirit Zapper guy, you know?"
Dodging bullets was always my specialty. Until the last one, that is ...
"My point exactly. You can't be too careful."
I yawned as I pulled down the bedcovers and climbed into Seymour's Superman sheets. I yawned again as I switched off the bedside lamp. Still sitting up, I looked around. With the light off, this room was much darker than my own room on Cranberry Street, where ambient light from the street seeped softly through my thin curtains. The closed brocade drapes on Miss Todd's tall, narrow windows blocked even the moonlight.
They seemed to block all sound, too. Not that there was much to block in the first place. Up here on Larchmont, car traffic was minimal, pedestrian traffic was practically non-existent, and Miss Todd's mansion sat high on a hill, a fair distance from her nearest neighbor.
I swallowed. The silence felt tomblike.
"Jack?"
Yeah?
"You want to talk?"
Get some rest, baby. You've had a long day. "But, you've been gone the last few nights. This is a good time to catch up—" No, it isn't.
I stifled a yawn. "Why don't you tell me more about that case of yours?" I yawned again as I settled myself under the covers. "Did you ever find"—(yawn)—"little J. J. Conway's mother?"
If Jack answered, I didn't hear. I passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow.
"WHAT THE—?"
A noise woke me from the sleep of the dead. I lay on my side, stiff and still, peering into the inky dark.
"Where ami?"
The mattress didn't feel like my own. I glanced around and saw four posts, a thick canopy draped overhead. That's when I remembered: I was in Miss Todd's room. Then the noise came again—
BOOM!
The thunderous explosion shook the massive bed. Another one came and then another. "My God!"
More booms came in rapid succession, until the sounds overlapped like the mechanical roar of a freight train running right through my head. I sat up and screamed—
The noise abruptly ceased.
A moment later, the master bedroom's heavy door slammed open. By the light of the hallway I saw Seymour standing there in pea-green Incredible Hulk pajamas.
"Pen! Are you okay? I heard you screaming!"
"Did you hear it?" I asked, clicking on the bedside lamp.
Seymour blinked. "I heard your
"Not mel Those booms! Like a giant stomping through the mansion! Then it started running. The rumble was so loud the bed was shaking!"
Seymour's expression was no longer alarmed, and I stopped chattering. He shook his head. "Listen, Pen. I think you had a—"
The Ghost and the Haunted Mansion Page 19