“Now, Lucas,” he hissed. “Now I gut you like a fish.” He shifted the blade position to cutting edge up, for a gut-cut.
From the outside, a wolf began howling. He was joined by several more, their voices sending eerie calls throughout the mansion. Ira looked wildly around him as a strong wind began blowing, sending the drapes and curtains in the room billowing out like loose sails in a raging sea storm. The sky darkened, and lightning licked and slashed and flickered, followed by waves of seemingly endless thunder. The chorus of wolves grew more menacing as a loud voice was added to the din of confusion. It seemed to be a young voice, but a very powerful one; so loud it rattled the chandeliers.
Ira dropped the knife and put his hands over his ears as the sound became unbearable. His eyes were filled with an insane light. Then, lowering his hands, he grabbed up the knife, and charged Lucas, screaming as he came.
“I’ll kill you, you bastard! I won’t wait for the Brotherhood to do it. I’ll kill you myself.”
An explosion filled the room. The strange sounds ceased abruptly. Ira was flung forward, a hole in his chest. He slammed to the floor, quivered once, and then died, blood spilling out of his body, staining the area around him.
The house became utterly, totally deathlike in silence. Lucas lifted his eyes from his dead brother to the man standing in the open doorway, a pistol in his right hand.
The man smiled and opened his western-style sports coat, revealing a gold star pinned to his shirt. “It’s OK, folks. I heard and saw enough to know the shooting will be justified. Oh—I’m Bill Pugh, Sheriff of Edmund County. I was stoppin’ by to introduce myself. Right sudden little storm we had, wasn’t it? They do come up like that sometimes in the summer. Might have been my imagination, but did y’all hear a pack of dogs howlin’?”
* * *
“It’s so odd,” Lucas said as they lay in bed, the cool breeze from the outside gently fanning their bodies.
“What’s odd?” Tracy asked.
“I watched my own brother die today, and I felt nothing. Nothing. I still feel nothing. I don’t think that’s normal.”
“You didn’t know your brother; didn’t even have a mental picture of him. He was a stranger. Besides, isn’t normal relative to the situation? I think I read that somewhere.”
“My own brother hated me so much he wanted to kill me. How he must have hated me. He must have fed off his own hate for me.”
“He was crazy,” she said flatly. “When I think of what he might have done . . . ” She was silent for a few seconds. “I’m just glad it wasn’t you who killed him. Sheriff Pugh seems like a nice man.”
“Yes, he did. Well,” he sighed, “maybe things will start to settle down. I threw that damned rocking horse—or what remained of it—on the trash pile out back. I’ll burn it first thing in the morning.”
“Good. It still frightens me. I just don’t understand what caused it to . . . buck and jump and make those noises that it did. And that red liquid that poured from it.”
“Ira rigged that liquid. As to its jumping around. . . I don’t know. It sure did. And, Tracy, I could swear the damned thing tried to bite me. Damn!” he said, his voice full of disgust. “That’s impossible. Hell, maybe Ira filled the damn thing full of Mexican jumping beans.”
Tracy laughed softly. “Oh, Lucas—really! It was. . . I guess, all the tension we had built up in us. But that strange storm, those wolves howling, that loud voice. I know these things were real. But I don’t understand them. All those things Ira said.”
“Ira was just trying to frighten us. But what the kids said . . . I’ve been thinking about that. Trace, Thera means untamed.”
“The storm?”
“Maybe. If we want to believe in all that. Yes. Randolph is supposedly advised by wolves.”
“The howling?”
“Yes. Harod is known as the loud terror.”
“The loud voice.” This time it was not posed as a question.
“Yes. Aldis means from the oldest house, and Hall means from the master’s house. I can’t recall the rest of them; they’ll come to me in time, I imagine.”
Before going to bed, Lucas had shown her the gold rocking-horse pin. She had commented on the workmanship and how lovely it was. Until she looked more closely at the tiny face of the horse. Then she had seen the evil there, and had said as much. Lucas had put the pin on his dresser.
She took his hand in hers. “Lucas, are you saying there might be some truth in the kids’ stories?”
“Yes,” he replied, his voice containing a dead flatness. “I guess I am. I don’t know any other way to explain it.”
“Then what Ira said about the house might also be true? ”
He elected not to reply to that.
She looked at him through the darkness, then sat up in bed and hugged her knees. She stared at her husband. “I want to go home, Lucas. Back to our real home.”
“I think that’s a good idea, Trace,” he said, surprising her.
“You mean it, Lucas?”
“Yes. Why don’t you, Tracy? Take the kids and head on back. I’ll join you all later. I want to stay here a while longer.”
“No. Why?”
“No, why, what?”
“No, I won’t go back without you. And why would you want to stay here?”
“A lot of reasons, Trace. The Brotherhood. That rang a long-forgotten bell in my head. I know something about the Brotherhood; I just can’t dredge it up to the surface. But I will. There is more than just a mystery here, Trace. Much more. And I’m going to find out what it’s all about. That is not a player piano in the ballroom. I checked. What does the little rocking-horse pin mean? Why did Ira come back here? Who are those people in the Gibson house? Those ghost-hunters that Kyle told me about, and he says no one else will talk about—were their deaths accidental, or planned? I lean toward the latter. Why did my grandfather warn me never to come to Edmund County? Why did Grandmother Bowers never leave the mansion? Where is she buried? Why was it held in secrecy? The strange deaths of the Garretts. Everything points toward . . . something, Trace. Something . . . planned. Something . . . evil. It intrigues me. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”
“Yes, Mr. Columbo,” she said with a sigh. “Whither thou goest, and all that.” She snuggled up close to him. “Goodnight, Inspector.”
* * *
“The Brotherhood never forgets, Lucas,” his grandfather’s voice rang in his sleeping head. “And one never leaves the Brotherhood.”
“What is the Brotherhood, Granddad?” the young Lucas asked.
“It’s why your father refuses to ever go back to Edmund County, boy. It’s . . .”
The dream faded into emptiness. Lucas was left looking down a long tunnel. A spot of darkness was visible far at the other end. He began walking toward the darkness.
Lucas stirred in his restless, troubled dreaming.
“. . . evil, boy. The Brotherhood is a secret group of men. Women can join, but they’re excluded from the meetings. Your uncle is part of the Brotherhood. That’s the uncle you’ve never met. Your dad won’t allow him to come near.”
“My uncle?”
“Your father’s brother. He lives down in Edmund County. I haven’t seen him in thirty years. Name is Joe Bowers. I told your grandmother if I ever saw him again, I’d shoot him.”
“I never knew I had an uncle,” Lucas said.
* * *
Something was interfering with the dream. A noise Lucas could not immediately identify. The noise was shattering the continuity of the dream. Then the noise became clearer. It was a tapping sound.
And the tapping had a voice.
“Here,” the voice said. “Now. Back. Let me in.”
Lucas woke up, drenched in sweat, even though the night was pleasantly cool, with a light breeze. Lucas sat up in bed. Had he been dreaming the tapping, the voice? Surely he had. Then he heard it once more. He listened. Slipping from the bed, Lucas dressed quietly and quickly an
d opened his nightstand drawer, taking out his pistol. He eased down the dark hall.
The tapping grew louder as he got closer to the kitchen. The voice came to him, but it was muffled, and he could not make out the words. They seemed to be coming from far away. He jacked a round into the chamber of the .45 as the tapping and the muffled voice became more intense, somehow demanding, suddenly insistent. Lucas paused, shifting the pistol and wiping his sweaty right palm. He once more gripped the butt of the .45 in his right hand.
He stepped into the dark kitchen. It was the door. The tapping and the muffled voice were coming from outside, on the veranda, behind the kitchen door leading to the outside. The smell of fresh earth came to Lucas, assailing his nostrils. Earth? And something else . . . some medicine-like smell. Through the curtains, Lucas could make out a form. It looked like a man.
“Back,” the voice said, much more clearly now. “Here. Wrong.”
Wrong? Lucas thought. What is here? Back? What does that mean?
“Who is it?” Lucas whispered hoarsely.
“Back. Here. Wrong.”
Then the tapping picked up in rhythmic intensity.
“What do you want?” Lucas called softly.
“You.”
The tapping stopped. The form stood patiently behind the door.
The smell of fresh earth was much stronger.
Lucas cocked the pistol. Putting his left hand on the door knob, he slowly turned it.
He jerked open the door.
He fought back a scream of protest.
Ira stood on the veranda. He was dressed in a cheap dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark tie. He was naked from the waist down, his feet bare. He was covered with dirt and bits of grass, and a yellowish fluid dripped from his nose and mouth. Ira opened his mouth and grinned at Lucas through bloodless lips. He opened his eyelids.
His eyes were gone.
Ira held out his arms and opened his hands, the fingers wriggling. A foul odor sprang from the dead man’s mouth.
Lucas screamed and raised the pistol, emptying the. 45 in Ira’s chest.
14
“It was a dream, Lucas,” Tracy said, holding his head against her breast. “It was a dream. Nothing more.”
“It was no dream, Trace,” he said. “Look on the veranda floor.”
Tracy looked and felt sick to her stomach. Bare muddy footprints were visible on the painted wood of the veranda floor. A yellowish stain led off the veranda, the steps staggering ones, disappearing in the yard.
“What . . . what is that stuff?” she asked, pointing to the stains.
“Fluid from his body, I suppose,” Lucas replied, a weary tone to his voice. “Now do you believe me?”
She could not deny that something had certainly been on the veranda. But what? “Yes,” she said quietly. “I believe you. I don’t want to, but I do. Lucas, give it up. Let’s go home.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I won’t be driven out of here. But I want you and the kids out of here. If you won’t go back, then we’ll send the kids to stay with friends. How about that?”
“We can’t go,” Jackie spoke from the door leading into the kitchen.
Lucas and Tracy looked at her. Johnny stood by her side. Both of them wore very serious expressions. They were scared, badly scared by the events of this night, but they stood firm.
Johnny said, “Kendra said that if we go they will win, and the only change will be for the worse.”
“They?” Tracy asked.
“The bad guys,” Johnny said, and Lucas fought back a hysterical laugh at his terminology. “Anna told me that the only way she and her friends could ever leave this place, the woods, was if those belonging to the Brotherhood were defeated.”
“What are you talking about?” Tracy blurted, looking from brother to sister.
“Why didn’t either of you tell me all this when I was questioning you earlier?” Lucas asked. “What else are you holding back?”
“We didn’t tell you because we didn’t remember it,” Jackie said. “And I don’t know what we’re holding back. Randolph said it would be like this. That we would recall only what is important and necessary at the time.”
“I don’t believe any of this,” Tracy said. “I just don’t.”
She was ignored.
“We can’t go, Dad,” Johnny said. “I think what we’re doing is more important than our personal safety.”
“That is very adult thinking, Johnny,” the father said.
“I think maybe some of the Woods’ Children said that, and I’m just repeating it.”
Lucas looked at his wife. He could tell she was on the ragged edge of tears. He felt like crying himself. Maybe he would. Then he shook his head. He looked at the loaded .45 pistol on the table in front of him, and suddenly felt ten years older. At least. Lifting his eyes to his children, he asked, “What do either of you know about something called the Brotherhood?”
“Nothing,” they both said.
Jackie said, “At least not at this moment. Maybe they told us something about it, but it just isn’t time for us to tell you.”
Lucas felt totally helpless. Tracy put her face in her hands and began weeping softly. “Goddamn it,” she said through her tears. “Are we going to start taking orders from our kids, Lucas? I swear to God, if this continues I’ll be in the nut ward someplace.”
Jackie came to her mother’s side and put her arms around her. Mother and daughter hugged each other. Jackie said, “We can’t go, Mom. We just can’t. We know you don’t understand, ’cause we don’t really understand. But please trust us—OK?”
“I trust you, baby,” Tracy said. She lifted her eyes to her son. “Both of you. But you’re right. I don’t understand any of this.”
I don’t either, Lucas thought. And God help me and my family, but I’m staying. I refuse to be driven out. Then he had to force back a sarcastic laugh as an old song from out of the ’60s came into his mind. Who sang that? Yeah—Jumpin’ Gene Simmons. “Haunted House!”
* * *
“Sorry about your brother, Lucas,” Kyle said, shaking hands with Lucas on the front porch. “I’m really sorry it had to go down this way.”
“Thank you, Kyle. I know you mean that. But, in a way, I’m glad it’s over.” He cut his eyes and looked at the woman standing just to Kyle’s left and slightly behind him, as if for protection. “And this is? . . .”
“This is my wife, Louisa.”
Lovely, Lucas thought. Just perfectly lovely. As he nodded and smiled and took her hand, Lucas thought that if ever there was a model for a gypsy, it was Mrs. Cartier. A very petite lady, no taller than Jackie, maybe even a half-inch shorter. Dark eyes, dark hair, and a beautiful olive complexion.
“Now I can see why Kyle’s been hiding you from us, Louisa,” Lucas said. “You are a very beautiful woman.”
Louisa blushed gracefully and Kyle said, “Now you’ve done it, ol’ buddy. You’ve spoiled her for sure.”
She cocked an eye at her husband, and then socked him on the shoulder with a very respectable blow from a balled right fist. It actually staggered the big ex-SEAL.
“You are looking at an abused husband, Lucas,” Kyle said, as he rubbed his shoulder. He grinned at his wife.
Tracy and the kids stepped out on the veranda and were introduced. Louisa said, “Before we go into the house, please let us sit out here on the porch for a moment. If that would be all right,” she quickly added.
“Certainly,” Tracy said. Like her husband, she thought the small woman very beautiful. “Jackie, you and Johnny bring out the iced tea and the glasses. We’ll get something a bit harder later on.”
Lucas looked at her and waggled his eyebrows. “Oh?”
That got him a sock on the arm.
“Oww! Right on the tattoo. Don’t you have any respect for art?”
Only Louisa did not laugh. She smiled a bit, faintly, but the humor did not touch her dark eyes. She said. “May I see that tattoo on your arm, Mr. B
owers?”
“Lucas, please. Surely.” He rolled up his short sleeve.
She inspected the tattoo and nodded her head. “Thank you very much,” she said formally.
“Have you ever seen one like that, honey?” Kyle asked her.
“Yes. It is very rich in detail, is it not? I have an old book on witchcraft and demonology at home. The likeness is in the book. The rocking horse is supposed to have the powers to turn one’s worst fears into reality.” Her eyes touched both Lucas and Tracy, and she knew they had experienced that, but had no memory of it. Yet, she thought. “You have a gold pin, too, don’t you, Lucas?” Her eyes said she knew perfectly well he did.
Lucas knew then the woman’s powers went far beyond psychic abilities. It would be practically impossible to lie to her. Not that he had any intention of doing that. “Yes. I’ll get it.” He was back in a moment and handed her the gold pin.
She inspected the pin closely, as Lucas had done when he first found it, then she closed her fingers tightly around the gold rocking horse. When she opened her eyes, they had changed expression—had darkened. But they were still unreadable.
“You may as well keep the pin,” she said, returning the rocking horse to him. “For you will never be able to rid yourself of it, no matter how hard you try.”
As Lucas gazed into her dark eyes, he felt as if he were being swallowed into their depths. He shook his head to clear it and said, “Oh, I can always throw it away.”
“It would only return,” she told him. Her eyes were once more normal size and coloration. And still unreadable.
“I can’t believe that,” Lucas said. “No offense intended. I just think that would be impossible.”
Her smile seemed to gently and silently mock his words. “You shot to bits and pieces a wooden rocking horse here the other day, did you not?”
Lucas had been around psychics many times before; some legal offices even kept a psychic on retainer—although few would ever admit it—and their powers never ceased to amaze him. “Yes, I did. I tossed what remained of it on the garbage heap and set it afire this morning.”
“It did not burn, and what you placed in the garbage is no longer there,” she bluntly stated.
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