by Ron Ripley
Louis sighed and dropped the envelope back on the desk top, starting a new pile.
The second letter was from Martin Leclerq, an acquaintance in Canada, and Louis chuckled. The man had died the year before. Martin had stepped, literally, into a bear trap and starved to death. He had been traveling across Canada on foot for some ungodly reason and leaving letters to be posted with people along the way.
Louis added it to the new pile.
The next four letters ran along the same lines as the first two. Either a suspected request for assistance or a letter from an associate or acquaintance.
Louis finished his coffee and gave the bell-cord by his desk a gentle tug. In less than a minute the door to the office opened, Mary stepped in and poured him a fresh cup of coffee.
When the door closed behind her, Louis took up the next envelope, the paper thick and sensual beneath his fingers. The sensation caused his eyes to widen, and he lifted the letter up higher for a more intense examination.
No return address occupied the upper left-hand corner, and the right was noticeably barren of any stamp.
Louis’s name, including his middle name of ‘Bartholomew,’ was written out in perfect script. The same for his address.
Intrigued, Louis placed his cup down on the desk, turned the letter around, and found it was sealed with a large piece of melted, purple wax. An intricate letter ‘B’ had been pressed into the wax, and Louis thought he could see shapes within the letter itself.
He leaned forward, took a magnifying glass from its drawer, and angled the letter into the sunlight that came through the office’s window. With the glass held over the wax, Louis gasped in pleasant surprise.
In the imprint of the letter ‘B’ someone had carved human bodies. They were bare and twisted, their faces contorted into screams and sheer terror.
A thrill of excitement rushed through Louis as he put the magnifying glass down and took up his letter opener. The steel separated the wax from the paper, and when Louis opened the envelope, he found the letter itself was written on the interior of the envelope.
The letter was short, but each word was spelled out perfectly and in the same hand that had addressed the envelope. Louis felt his lips twitch in a smile as he began to read.
My Dear Louis Johnson,
I trust, sir, that this letter has arrived, delivered into the hands of your maid by my own footman. I have been in contact with your employer, and he has assured me that you would be home soon. Some business in Nashua, I have been told.
I have heard, from a great many people, about your singular skills, your abilities, and your tastes. I am a man of curious tastes as well, sir, and I must confess my curiosity is piqued. The Watchers have ever been parsimonious with their praise, yet they heap it upon you like a Caesar returning for his triumph.
To say that I am impressed would be an understatement.
I have decided that I would like nothing more than to meet you, and I trust that you will do me the favor of granting this request. I am certain that your employer will require that you spy upon me, and I accept this willingly. If I have made a mistake in seeking my curiosity satisfied, well none will be the worse for the wear.
Should the Watchers decide that my favor is to be won and that you should seek an audience with me, then send a note of your intent, and I shall make haste and have a room prepared for you.
I will close this letter here.
Emmanuel Borgin
Borgin Keep, Vermont
Louis read the letter twice more as he finished his coffee, and after the third time, he made the decision to travel to visit Mr. Borgin.
Humming a little Bach to himself, Louis took out a sheet of paper and began to write his reply to Mr. Borgin, wondering what the man had meant by ‘Keep.’
Bonus Scene Chapter 2: Borgin Keep
May had not treated the state of Vermont well, and what few roads were accessible to automobiles were rendered impassable due to heavy rains.
Thus, Louis had found it expedient to retain the service of a trap from the train station. The horse, a great roan, had stepped off sprightly, disdainful of the mud. His driver was an elderly man who had glanced at him with narrow eyes when the destination had been given. Yet, like any true Yankee, the man had taken Louis’s money and set off down the road.
Regardless of how much the driver might dislike the address, he liked Louis’s silver better.
The springs on the trap were surprisingly good, and the old man knew his way. More than one wagon was buried up to its axles in mud along the side of the road, yet the roan had no trouble.
They had been on the road for nearly an hour when the sharp report of a gunshot rang out. Neither horse nor driver shied at the sound, and a few minutes later, when the trap rounded a wooded section, Louis saw why the shot had been fired.
A pair of young men stood on the side of the road, one of them holding the bridle of a solid looking workhorse. The second man had a revolver on his hip while he knelt down in the mud, cutting the harness off a second horse. Louis could see by the way the forelegs were twisted that the creature had broken them both in a fall.
The wagon that the horses had been pulling was on its side, its cargo spilled out onto the road along the edge.
Rough-hewn, pine coffins.
Most remained closed. A few had broken open, their occupants half spilled out into the mud.
Louis’s driver never slowed, nor did the young men look towards him.
Louis counted fourteen coffins.
He felt uncomfortable for a moment, wondering, for the first time, if there was some sickness in the area and he said so to the driver.
Without a glance back, the man said, “Ayuh, there’s sickness here.”
Louis raised an eyebrow. “Influenza?”
The elderly man gave a short shake of his head. “Borgin Keep.”
“How so?” Louis asked, wondering if he should reconsider his visit.
“Those boys worked on it,” the driver said. “The building kills them almost as fast as Borgin can hire them.”
With that said, the old man lapsed back into silence.
Few people were out and about, and each one walked alone. The pedestrians kept their distance from the trap and kept their eyes averted.
As the last light of the day made itself known at the edge of the horizon, Louis saw Borgin Keep.
The structure was in a state of either repair or further construction, and Louis did not trust himself to ask the driver which particular scenario might be the correct one. Louis felt strange when he let his gaze fall on the massive structure.
It took him a few minutes to realize the sensation he was experiencing was fear. Part of him was thrilled at the idea of being afraid, another, deeper part was concerned rather than elated.
His own crimes and sins were many and varied. The fact that he was susceptible to something as banal as the fear of a structure cheapened him.
The roan pulled to the right when the driver tried to guide the horse up the long driveway. Louis listened to the old man as he leaned forward and whispered an indecipherable word to the horse.
The animal's ears twitched, it snorted, and then with a show of bravado, it turned up the driveway.
Unlike the road, the drive was paved with cobblestones, the sharp ring of the horse's shoed-hooves filled the air. Whenever the horse hesitated, the driver repeated the indecipherable word in a calm voice, and the beast continued on. The old man's control over the animal was impressive, and Louis had made the decision to tip the man extra when they reached the end of the drive.
As the trap came to a halt, the Keep’s massive door, a thing of wide boards and iron bindings, swung wide. A short, squat man in a butler’s uniform stepped out and went to assist Louis from the trap.
When his feet were firmly upon the cobblestones, Louis turned to face the driver.
“I have had few trips as pleasant as this,” Louis began, taking his billfold out of his jacket.
&n
bsp; The old man looked at him, and Louis went silent, taken aback by the sadness in the driver's watery gray eyes.
“Keep your money, sir,” the old man said, his voice cracking. “Call for me if you would need a ride back to the station.”
Louis recovered himself, cleared his throat and said, “I never learned your name, driver.”
“I’ve but the one,” the old man replied. “Samson. All about know me.”
“If your services are required,” the short, fat butler said in a falsetto, “then we will indeed send for you, Samson.”
The driver nodded, gave a gentle snap of the reins and the roan trotted off at a brisk pace, anxious to leave the premises.
And for some unknown reason, Louis discovered he wished to do the same.
Bonus Scene Chapter 3: Within the Walls of Borgin Keep
The delicious, hitherto unknown sensation of fear vanished when Louis entered the Keep. One maid took his valise from him, while a second collected his hat and traveling coat. The butler stood by, stiffly at attention with his hands at his sides. On the walls in the long, massive hall hung paintings. They were clad in massive gilt frames, obscenely oversized, but perfectly matched with the ribald images on the canvases.
From where he stood, Louis could see a variety of vices portrayed in oils and watercolors, and none of what he saw was new. Or even appealing.
Louis had satisfied all of his urges at a younger age, and what he saw on the walls was nothing more than a representation of mediocrity in regards to carnal pleasures.
“If you would follow me, please, sir,” the butler said once the maids had left. The fat man gestured towards the left and led the way. Louis followed, his eyes darting from painting to painting.
As they progressed down the hall, that felt longer than it should have been, Louis was impressed to see the paintings changed. The acts depicted grew more depraved. Violence increased exponentially. Each pleasure more debased, fouling the air.
The butler strode along, unaffected by the change in the atmosphere, but Louis had a sensitive nose, and it wrinkled at the bitter scent. It was a mixture of too much perfume and rotting meat.
The butler stopped at a tall door, the woodwork in the shape of an inverted cross. Louis rolled his eyes at it. He had experienced the black mass first hand, down in the depths of the Louisiana bayou.
Even with its human sacrifice, the ceremony had left him less than impressed.
The butler reached out, grasped the doorknob and said, “Mr. Borgin is expecting you, sir.”
Louis gave a nod, and the butler allowed him to enter the room.
As the door clicked closed behind him, Louis was surprised to see the room was light and airy, a far cry from the dark and somber hallway he had traveled down. In a large chair, barren of cushions and carved from a dark mahogany, sat a man Louis assumed was Mr. Emmanuel Borgin.
The man’s features were exquisite, a fine combination of royalty and pride with a set of cheekbones that seemed to cut the air. A smile played at the corners of the man’s full lips, and piercing blue eyes watched Louis with a devilish mix of mischief and madness. Mr. Borgin’s hair was pitch black and swept back from his brow. His dark blue suit was of an exceptionally fine cut, and Louis sensed the man in the chair was far more than a simple madman.
Louis gave a short bow and introduced himself.
Mr. Borgin nodded and made a small gesture towards a comfortable, dark gray Queen Anne chair across from him.
“Thank you,” Louis said, and he sat down.
“You’re much older than you look, aren’t you,” Mr. Borgin mused.
“A tad,” Louis said, suppressing a grin. “Few know how old I am.”
Mr. Borgin leaned forward and whispered, “What’s your secret, Louis?”
“A carefree life,” Louis responded. “And not merely saying so, but living it.”
“Hm,” Mr. Borgin murmured, sitting back. “I think you may be correct. I speak about a life free from worry, but I do not, in all actuality, live it. Concerns about the future plague me. But not you?”
Louis shook his head. “Why should they? My death will come when it is ready. I can do nothing about it.”
“A fatalist then?” Mr. Borgin inquired.
“Realist,” Louis replied.
“Excellent,” Mr. Borgin said, chuckling. Beside him hung a single braided cord and he took hold of the end, giving it a gentle pull. A few moments later, a door in the corner opened, and one of the maids who had met Louis at the door entered the room. She carried a silver tray and brought it to a tall sideboard.
Louis watched as she prepared two glasses of absinthe and then brought one first to him, and then the second to Mr. Borgin.
She left the tray and exited the room in the same silent way in which she had entered it.
“You have had absinthe before?” Louis’s host asked politely.
“Of course,” Louis answered.
“This is a mixture of my own device,” Mr. Borgin said. “I would be pleased if you would give me your opinion as to the flavor.”
“I would be happy to,” Louis said.
“Fair warning though,” Mr. Borgin said, “it is a rather unorthodox concoction.”
Louis nodded, lifted the glass to his lips, and took a cautious sip. The drink was powerful, and he licked his lips as he lowered the rim.
“Quite good,” Louis said.
“And if I told you,” Mr. Borgin said, watching him, “that I added blood to it?”
“I would still say it was quite good,” Louis replied.
“And if it was a man’s?” Mr. Borgin inquired.
Louis lifted the glass to his lips, drained it, smiled, and said, “Then I would have to ask if I might have another glass.”
Mr. Borgin let out a pleased laugh, and Louis grinned, enjoying the heady, powerful mixture of absinthe and cannibalism.
Bonus Scene Chapter 4: Nothing So Base
After several days at Borgin Keep, Louis knew several important facts about his host.
The first was that Emmanuel was far more intelligent than anyone Louis had ever known. Second, the man’s tastes were truly, and insanely, eclectic. And finally, there were two types of people who visited the Keep; there were those who were true aficionados, like Louis. And then, of course, there were pretenders.
Pretenders such as August Wyant and his wife, Camille.
Emmanuel, Louis, and the Wyants sat in chairs on the patio off the left of the house. Several glasses of lemonade and a pitcher of the same stood upon a table in the center of the four chairs. Louis and Emmanuel, along with the Wyants, snacked upon capers and delicate, broiled strips Emmanuel had referred to as barbecued long-pork.
Camille, a pasty skinned, yellow-eyed woman of forty-six had spoken for seven and a half minutes straight on the long-pork. She had asked for the recipe, and Louis sat, watching Emmanuel, wondering if the man would tell her exactly what, or whom she had eaten.
Emmanuel winked at Louis, but he did not mention the origin of the meat in question.
“Yes, Mrs. Wyant,” Emmanuel said, “I will speak with my chef and see that you get the recipe.”
August, who was in every way the same as his wife in both appearance and annoyance, leaned forward, and said, “Emmanuel.”
The look of disdain with which Emmanuel fixed upon August caused the man to sit back and clear his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Borgin, I was wondering if we might talk some business.”
"Of course," Emmanuel replied, his smile as inviting as a corpse's.
“Perhaps in a more, well, private place,” August said, glancing at Louis.
Emmanuel’s feigned smile dropped away. “Louis is my guest.”
“Yes, of course,” August stammered. “But the nature of my business–”
“Quiet,” Emmanuel said in a low, harsh voice, silencing the man. “If you wish to speak business with me, then you will speak it in front of Louis. Do you understand, Mr. Wyant?”
August’s
Adams-apple bobbed up and down, as did his head.
“Yes,” August whispered.
Louis smiled. The Wyants stank of fear, and it was beautiful to experience.
“I came to speak with you about the property you were interested in,” August said. “The one located at the back of the graveyard.”
Emmanuel nodded. “Have you decided on a price?”
At the question, Louis saw Mrs. Wyant look away, and her husband blushed.
Emmanuel saw it as well, and he said, "I'm a wealthy man, Mr. Wyant. I want you to remember that. Whatever price you are considering can be met. I am extremely interested in purchasing the property in question.”
“Ah, well, there’s the rub, sir,” August said, sweat breaking out across his brow. “You see, I thought you had lost interest in the property, and someone else purchased it.”
Emmanuel said nothing, merely stared at August.
“They offered a considerable amount of money,” August began.
Emmanuel cut him off, saying, “You’ve lied to me.”
“What?” August asked, horrified. “When?”
“A moment ago,” Emmanuel replied. “When you said someone else purchased it. You spoke as though you had nothing to do with the transaction which, as we both know, is a falsehood. They would not have been able to come into ownership of the said property if you, in turn, had not sold it to them. Therefore, you lied.”
“I misspoke,” August said, the words rushing out of his mouth.
Emmanuel shook his head and wagged a finger at him. “Not true, sir. Not true at all. You lied, and the deed is done. I took you for a stupid man, August Wyant, with an equally stupid wife. I didn’t know that you were imbecilic, however. If I had known that I would have gone about obtaining the property in an entirely different manner.”