Maybe I’ve gotten mixed up in something exciting, like an international, maritime drug smuggling ring.
I quickly dismissed the notion. This boat wasn’t going far; the owner had run it out a quarter mile from shore and dropped anchor. That confused me more.
All it would take was one police boat or coast guard patrol to find me. Maybe they’d come on board and look around.
But the thought was absurd. Nobody knew I was here. At best, my new enemy, that well-built man with the cruel smile, would be harassed by an overzealous game warden, but even that was unlikely unless he had put out fishing lines.
I struggled to control the panic that threatened to strangle me, throwing me into a fit of unmanageable terror, but eventually I gave in to my hysteria and began to scream, desperate to convey my distress to anyone within a mile or so who would listen. I probably carried on like that for a good five minutes before the door to my cabin opened and a soft, florescent ceiling light clicked on with a zap. Soft, quick footfalls sounded on pristine, grey carpet as I sniveled in selfish terror.
“That’s enough,” said a voice.
It can’t be. It just can’t. I must still be dreaming, and dreams don’t come real. Not in real life, not in the world of order and reason and predictability.
❃ CHAPTER 10 ❃
Slowly, I turned my eyes towards the deep voice, gazing in surprise at the thick-rimmed glasses behind which dark eyes glittered, finally finding my own expression.
“What?” I squeaked out.
Mr. Breame knelt down next to where I lay, a smug smile decorating his otherwise sullen countenance. “If there’s anything I hate, it’s an interfering bitch,” he said.
“What have you done?” I whimpered. “What have I done to deserve this?”
“What do you think?” he continued. “Think I’m just some harmless fink? Oh, that’s just Mr. Breame, that poor nerdy loser with his beat-up Nissan and cockroach-infested apartment. He probably just lets everyone walk all over him. I saw what you did. I saw you snoop around inside my car. I took my thumb drive back, I’ll have you know. A jeans pocket is a bad hiding spot.”
“But Casper was mine. I created it. And you’re a college instructor; students trust you. Everyone in town trusts you.”
“This isn’t just any ol’ town here, Samantha. It’s Seaside, and if bad things happen anywhere, they happen here. Been that way for a hundred and fifty odd years. Seaside’s upper middle class community works hard to maintain the public’s trust, our schools are the best, everyone wants to buy their first home here, raise their kids here. Why wouldn’t they? The lawns are neat; the cars all bear a fresh coat of wax. They bring their money, and they bring their talent while unknowingly providing the town with more victims. And while Seaside projects its wholesome, hard-working image to the world around it, most of the locals could tell you stories that would raise the hair on your back.”
“So keep my silly program. There’s no reason to keep me.”
“I was getting to that, and if you must know, you’re here because greatness demands a sacrifice. We’ve offered up at least a couple dozen young girls. But he never shows, never takes them. So then we’ve no choice but to make ‘em disappear, to keep ‘em quiet.”
“My God. You’re the Seaside Strangler mom keeps reading about in the paper.”
“Yes, we do strangle them,” said Breame. “That we do.”
The small door opened, and a large man with an expensive suit entered the cabin.
“What’s all the noise?” he asked, his large hands brushing wrinkles out of his jacket.
“She woke up,” said Mr. Breame.
“Well, keep her calm. Don’t want such a racket on my boat. Ah, the girl doesn’t look so good. Couldn’t we clean her up a little? Blood all over her face. Go ahead ’n bring her in the kitchen. About time we called on him, anyway.”
“Come on, doll,” said Mr. Breame, standing up. “Let’s get you off that cupboard, there.” He worked at the twine on my wrists until it was unwrapped from the cabinet handle, then yanked the string upwards, and I was forced to stand, crying as my weight fell on my hurt ankle while I frantically struggled to keep my balance. Mr. Breame wrapped an arm around my waist as I lifted my foot to keep the weight off my ankle, falling helplessly into his tight grasp and wheezing as I tried my best to stay off the floor. I cried. Mr. Breame’s pupils widened into large, black spheres.
“You’re going to drop me,” I said.
“Stand up then.”
“I can’t. I think my ankle’s broken.” I sniffled as clear snot ran down my upper lip.
“Give her to me; I’ll take her,” said the large man.
I felt my weight shift as the bigger guy lifted me into his arms and carried me down a very narrow passageway and into a small, but pleasant boat kitchen where he set me down on a soft plastic lounge chair next to a Formica table. Mr. Breame followed behind him, stopping to flip the kitchen lights on while casting dark, angry glances at me as I crumpled onto the seat.
“Untie her, professor Whittington,” said Breame. “If she gets any ideas, shoot her straight through the heart. The girl deserves at least some dignity before her death. If I wasn’t saving her for him, I would have enjoyed her so. Have you ever seen a girl that lovely?”
“Well, she doesn’t look so good covered in blood and snot,” said Whittington, running a white kitchen towel under a stream of hot water in the sink.
He stepped towards where I lay and pulled me to a sitting position, then wiped my nose and all the rest of my face until he was satisfied by my appearance. Then he patiently worked the knots around my wrist loose. Before Whittington was finished, Mr. Breame had a small pistol trained on me casually as if it were nothing more harmful than a flashlight.
“I suppose I give her some cocoa; she still looks half dead,” said Whittington.
I unhappily rubbed the pink marks on my wrists, indents left over from the twine.
“Sit still, and we’ll explain just what we’re all about, Samantha,” said Breame. I cringed as he spoke my full name. “I’d like to fill you in on a little history about our fair town.” He sighed and sat himself down on the plastic countertop, tossing his gun a little from side to side while I watched him with dull interest. “It isn’t fair she doesn’t know what she’s in for so I suppose one of us will tell her.”
“Every small community has its local legends and myths,” began professor Whittington. “As I have a doctorate in cultural anthropology, I’ve done research in the most remote and superstitious regions of the world. Once I spent a week in a rural village in Argentina where the peasants worshipped a long dead gangster named Gil. If you ask them about Gil, they will tell you that he is real, and there are shrines everywhere in devotion to him. Our local legend is that of the Dark Lord of Seaside. Of course his real name is not Dark Lord; over the years the name was changed to sensationalize his story. But that doesn’t make his history any less real.”
“Here in town, there’s a old house on a small, sandy hill overlooking the sea. Maybe you’ve seen it. You probably have. This house is surrounded by a high iron fence with gilt spears and behind that fence are rows of planted fruit trees as well as a succession of terraces filled with strawberries and a variety of roses. A winding driveway leads to a porte-cochère, and beside that are a set of heavy French doors. Behind the residence, beyond the iron enclosure, is a meandering, wooden staircase that leads to the grassy dunes of a remote beach. This pleasant, brick mansion is where Lymon O’Toole once lived with his cherished wife.” Whittington smiled politely and took a breath.
“Lymon helped to make Seaside what it is today, the owner of both a large lumber mill as well as a now defunct but once profitable copper smelter. He built the manor home in 1882 for his wife, Claire. They lived there peacefully for eight years until tragedy struck. Behind those French doors there is a staircase with a wrought iron railing and in a nearby room rests a large fireplace with carved marble mantel. Late on
e night while Lymon as well as all the servants slept, Claire’s throat was slit and her naked body discarded on the floor by that large fireplace. An investigation was conducted to find the murderer but in spite of the rather large sum that was spent on the case, he was never found.”
“Lymon, distraught over his wife’s death and unable to bring the guilty party to justice, committed suicide with a revolver in his den. And that’s where the story becomes interesting because after his death, he was seen around Seaside by more than a few troubled gals. Legend has it that if an attractive woman calls on and offers herself to Lymon, she will be guaranteed a handsome reward as Lymon in death is as powerful as he was in life. He comes to these women, perhaps believing that he has found his lost wife and that she is unharmed. I haven’t seen him yet but I know that he is real; I’ve seen evidence of his generosity and godlike qualities firsthand.”
“As a young boy, I learned from my mother that Mrs. St. Croix from across the street had lost her husband in a car accident. Her life was in ruins; they’d carried no life insurance, and she herself had never worked. My mother often walked to her house to console her when all she could do was cry. And one day, she cried no more. Instead, she showed up at our house sporting a new Buick and wearing a dress and jewelry that must have cost more than most people here earn in a week. Her house was taken out of foreclosure, and she never seemed to want for anything; for a spell no one but her knew why.”
“My mother found out her secret during a lunch date at Mrs. St. Croix’s house. In her living room stood a shrine in devotion to Lymon O’Toole, and she admitted to my mother that she had called on him and that he had provided her with large amounts of money as well as jewels. But she was worried; she told my mother that Lymon meant to take her away. It was only a matter of time before she vanished forever just as she herself had predicted. Yes, the Dark Lord had spirited her away to his refuge. As years flew by, the legend of the Dark Lord was told and re-told, and many more caught glimpses of him...Mrs. Anderssen had seen him one once as well as Mrs. Florian, and Mrs. Lee said that she had once followed him to a remote mountain cave where he had placed a treasure there for her benefit alone. And there were disappearances as well: when several high school girls went missing one Halloween night, people gossiped that the Dark Lord had taken the unfortunate young ladies.”
“Many people speak of blessings and gifts from God, but how many of them have seen Him in the flesh?” Whittington sighed and gazed at me thoughtfully, rubbing his large palm on his knee. “The Dark Lord legend developed into a cult following which continues to this day. I intend to call on him and you, dear, are the offering. Andrew showed me the software you designed for his class, and I must admit that it is genius. We’ve never before had an effective means of communication with those who have passed on, and your discovery is monumental. It’ll play a pivotal role in my study and inquiry into the world of the dead as well as allow us to harness the powers of the Dark Lord for our own benefit.”
I heard raindrops begin to patter against the windows of the kitchen, and the boat tipped a little. Mr. Breame stared at me with angry, dark eyes, his gun still glinting dangerously in his grasp. Whittington hummed a merry tune as he took three coffee cups out of a high cabinet. He pulled a box of Lipton tea down onto the countertop as well as a packet of cocoa and placed a tea kettle on the gas stove. I looked pathetically first at Breame and then at Whittington, then put my head down on the table, my face mashed into my folded arms. What could I do?
“We do plan on letting the Dark Lord take you, but if we made you suffer, it wasn’t intentional,” said Whittington. “You’ll feel better after you drink something. A little late for afternoon tea, but better late than never I say.” He gave a little laugh.
I lifted my head sadly and studied the enormous man. “How many girls have you killed?” I asked. “Didn’t you think they had families and friends before you so cruelly took their lives?”
“Like I said, any cruelty we’ve inflicted was purely for our own benefit. Andrew derived no pleasure from it, I assure you.”
I wasn’t so certain of that. I remembered the gleeful look Mr. Breame had on his face in my dream and wondered if he killed me now would he look so happy. I heard the tea kettle whistle, and Whittington poured hot water in the three cups, placing tea bags in two of them and cocoa in one. The cocoa he placed in front of me, and I sipped at it with shaky hands. I’d felt close to death five minutes ago, but now I regained a small amount of strength. I wondered if I shouldn’t try to make some kind of escape. Breame turned a hateful glance on me as I stared at the closed door. I looked away for a moment and finished my cocoa, draining the last measure of liquid out of the cup.
❃CHAPTER 11❃
Using as much force as I could muster, I threw myself away from the table and lurched towards the door to the hallway. My ankle failing me, I limped two steps and grabbed the doorknob, turning it viciously. It jiggled back and forth, but the door wouldn’t budge. I looked behind me and Whittington, smiling, held up a small silver key.
“You’re going to need this if you plan on leaving us so soon,” he teased.
Breame wasn’t so pleasant. He grabbed me by my hair, and slammed my face into the wall, splitting my lip and causing blood to gush out of my nose. I screamed, and the wall pummeled me again.
“Quiet!” he barked.
I wasn’t aware of much then except my tears and that my body slumped to the floor.
“Tie her wrists again, this time behind her back,” said Breame. “I should have known that was coming.”
Breame knelt next to me and lifted my fallen head off of the floor; I whimpered as he smacked my cheek with as much force as he could muster.
“That was just for fun,” he said, laughing at his snide comment.
I rolled onto my hands and knees, my hair falling in front of my face as I crawled away from him. Breame grabbed my left calf and yanked my knees out from under me. Gasping, I rolled onto my back and kicked him in the stomach. His breath whooshed out and that stopped him for a minute as he bent over, wheezing. He staggered to the counter where his gun lay, snatching it up, then turned and smacked its butt against the back of my head. I slumped to the floor, stunned but not unconscious, my vision blurry as I sobbed. Whittington ran to where I lay and quickly hogtied my wrists to my ankles.
“Think that’s gonna hold her?” Whittington asked.
“I think we’d better hurry up and summon him,” said Breame. “Samantha is not a very willing participant.”
I sniffed and cried a little, and Breame kicked me in the ribs, knocking my breath out, leaving me stunned and unable to make noise.
“Don’t ever mess with us,” he threatened. “I don’t have patience for girls who get smart with me. The next time you pull anything, I’m going to bump you off and feed you to the fishes.”
Whittington just smiled as if he were on vacation and ran a hand through his brown hair, stopping to straighten his tie.
“I’ll get the program running,” he said. “It’s late, and soon I won’t be able to keep my eyes open.”
Tears ran down my face as I watched Whittington start his MacBook at the kitchen table. He attached grey speakers and turned the little knobs on them. He was opening my Casper software, the program I had designed to bring joy to the grieving clients of my future business.
“It’s set and ready to go,” said Whittington.
“Do you think he’ll really come this time?” asked Breame.
“He’d better. Eventually all these schemes of ours are going to catch up with us. I’d sure like to have something to show for it.”
“Same as last time?” asked Breame.
“Same as last time. But we get her to summon him. Only Sam shall call on the Dark Lord. And once he’s here....”
“He gives us whatever we ask for,” finished Breame, his black, beady eyes flicking back and forth between Whittington and I. “Repeat these words, Samantha. I summon you, Dark Lord, also
known as Lymon O’Toole.....”
I stared at him stupidly from the floor, fearing that if I obeyed, something worse than death would happen to me.
“Well come on, girl,” said Breame. “Or we can just dispatch you and throw your rotting flesh to the crabs.”
Crying, I repeated his words just as I had heard them.
I summon you, Dark Lord, also known as Lymon O’Toole...
“In return, I’ll give you my body and soul.....”
I heard a girl’s shaking voice repeat those words, and again I felt as if this nightmare was happening to someone else, to a girl who looked like me and sounded like me, but couldn’t possibly have been my real self. In return, I’ll give you my body and soul...
“And all of me for eternity,” said Breame.
Whittington quietly worked adjusting the controls on the computer.
“I can’t say that and possibly mean it,” I said.
That earned me a kick in my swollen ankle. I swore.
And all of me for eternity... I heard a scared girl mutter those words. Or perhaps it was again me.
“I’ll be indebted to you for all of my existence.”
I repeated Breame’s words. I’ll be indebted to you for all of my existence.
Breame stopped scowling at me and finally looked content. The lights in the kitchen flickered on and off for a minute. Two kitchen lightbulbs burst, sparks shooting out of their electrical connection, streaks of yellow fluttering to the ground. An overhead lamp still cast a soft glow, but left the small room engulfed in shadows. There were several flashes outside the boat as bursts of white light moved from porthole to porthole in an erratic, frightening fashion, and thick, white vapor began to seep in from underneath the locked door.
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