The Dark Hour

by K. J. Young

  Mark can drink to that. Monica echoes the statement. “To tying up loose ends.” They all clink glasses and sip their cocktails. The drinks are stronger than usual, which suits Mark just fine. What the hell—he’s young and in terrific health. His body can take it. It’s Roy and Alma who should be more watchful, but as far as he can tell they eat and drink whatever they want. It’s not a bad way to live out the end of a life, and in this case, it’s better for him. Their demise will ultimately be his gain.

  “I can’t tell you how much it troubled me that we didn’t have a designated beneficiary,” Roy says. “I feel like I can die in my sleep tonight and not worry about a thing.” He raises his glass to Mark. “Thank you, my boy! You’ve given me a gift. The gift of knowing that I have a legacy that will continue after Roy Walgrave is long gone.”

  Mark says, “I’m the one who has gotten a gift, thanks to you.” He suddenly remembers to add Alma in his gratitude. “Both of you.” She can be such a blank slate that he sometimes forgets to include her. “Frankly, I’m overwhelmed, but very grateful. I will never forget either of you, and I promise to make good use of my inheritance.”

  Later, after Alma and Roy are tucked into bed and he and Monica are in his bedroom, Monica parrots these words back to him, saying dramatically, “I will never forget either of you, and I promise to make good use of my inheritance.”

  “What?” he says, feigning indignation. “That’s honestly how I feel.”

  She laughs. “As if you’d forget someone who gave you a fortune. When it comes time, you better split the money with me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you wouldn’t have it without me. I was the one who spoke up and got the ball rolling.”

  “Bullshit. I’d planned on broaching the subject myself. You just got to it first.” Flat on his back, he laces his fingers together behind his head. Both of them are still fully dressed, but he knows that will be changing any minute now.

  “Right.” She shifts in bed, so she’s now up on one elbow, looking down at him. “I doubt you. You were waiting for the right time, and I didn’t see it happening anytime soon. You would have waited forever.”

  Challenging him is her version of foreplay. “You can doubt me all you want,” he says, grinning, “but I was going to ask Roy about it after dinner tonight.” Combining money talk with cocktails had seemed like the right strategy to him. He’d planned on plying them with liquor and bringing up the subject once they were feeling no pain. “It wasn’t your place to bring it up. You could have messed up my opportunity.”

  “And yet it worked out just fine.”

  “Lucky for you,” he says begrudgingly.

  “You’re welcome.” She tilts her head so her hair falls over one eye. “And you still haven’t asked them what the deal is with the second floor.”

  “There’s always tomorrow.”

  “Hmm.” She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Show me now.” For a second he misinterprets her intentions and thinks she wants him to unzip his pants, but that notion is quickly dispelled when she sits up and gestures to the door. “Come on, big guy, let’s go upstairs. I want to see the weird photos and hear the chanting.”

  “Believe me, you really don’t.”

  “Mark Norman,” she says, her intonation teasing, “are you afraid?”

  He is, a little, not that he’ll admit it to her. He tries a different tactic. “You just got the job. Do you want to get in trouble and get fired?”

  She stands next to the bed and pulls on his arm. “They drank a boatload of manhattans and were snoring as soon as their heads hit their pillows. Believe me, no one’s getting in trouble. Come on. Don’t be such a baby.”

  When Monica gets like this, there’s no stopping her. He reaches over to get the flashlight out of the nightstand drawer, then follows her down the hall. Her movements are so light, she’s fairly dancing now, suppressing giggles as she goes. If Alma and Roy wake up, he’s not sure what he could say to explain this commotion. When they get to the stairs, she steps up and turns around. One hand on the top of the newel post, she leans over to meet his face. “What do you think, Mark? Feeling brave?”

  He shines the flashlight upward underneath her chin, and her face becomes beautifully ghoulish. “Don’t worry, miss, I’ll protect you.”

  With a laugh, she pulls him up the stairs. Monica plunges forward into the dark, led by the light coming from the flashlight behind her. She is fearless, which eases his own trepidation.

  Even when tipsy, Monica is a force of nature. She laughs when she nearly trips on the stairs, regaining her balance as easily as a tightrope artist.

  When they get to the second-floor landing, she pauses, and he takes the lead. She has one hand on his shoulder, as if they’re doing some odd dance routine. The heavy air is not as bad as he remembers, and the hallway is fragrant with the scent of wood polish. The musty smell is gone as well, reminding him of the day Nurse Darby vacuumed and cleaned the rooms on the second floor. For once he’s glad of the nurse’s obsession with cleanliness.

  As they move down the corridor, he and Monica slow to look at the paintings hanging on either side of the hallway. Most of them are pastoral scenes, but four are portraits from what looks like Victorian times. Four men and four women, each of them no older than Mark and Monica. Each subject poses formally, dressed in clothing that looks terribly uncomfortable—stiffly starched high collars buttoned close to their throats. Their facial expressions are bland. One man wears a bowler-type hat; the women have hair parted in the middle and pinned up. They don’t look happy, but Mark supposes that holding a smile while an artist is painting your portrait would be nearly impossible. “What do you think?” Monica asks, looking at one of the women. “Is she prettier than me?”

  “No,” Mark says, because that’s what she wants to hear. “Not even close.”

  They continue on. When they reach the double doors to the ballroom, he says, “You still want to do this?”

  He can’t see the expression on her face, but he hears the confidence in her voice as she says, “Of course I do. That’s why we’re here.” He opens the door, and she quickly steps inside, as if she’s been here before.

  Once their eyes adjust, there’s enough light from the windows to at least make out the way the space is laid out. Mark leads her to the photographs and explains that they are arranged sequentially.

  “The Redevine Society,” she says, reading the caption and pronouncing the words carefully. “They sure do love their champagne.” She looks to him. “I could get on board with that.”

  “Maybe they’re accepting new members.”

  “Sign me up.”

  When they get to the posters touting Walgrave’s Astounding Wonders, Monica says, “Cool!” She reads aloud: “The amazing Roy manipulates time right before your very eyes. Watch as flesh decays right off his bones!” Taking the flashlight out of Mark’s hand, she pauses for a minute to take in every detail of the poster. “I’d love to see that in person.” Moving on, she stares at another poster, this one depicting Roy with Alma’s head under one arm, her tongue and eyes hanging out. Monica chuckles. “How creative is that? I wonder how they did it?”

  “Magic.”

  “All magic acts rely on illusion,” she says. “There’s some kind of crazy trickery going on there. What I wouldn’t give to know how it was done.”

  Monica is less interested in the rest of the photos, but she pauses politely in front of each one. When finished, she says, “Time for the Victrola!” Her cheeriness is a relief. When they get to the podium and Mark reluctantly opens the cabinet door, she leans down to get a closer look. “Wow! You weren’t kidding. A record player from the past.” The beam of light glints off the metal horn. “Well, what are you waiting for? Play it for me.”

  Mark picks it up and sets it down on the stage floor. Crouching down, he turns the crank. This time, though, he knows to move the latch to one side. Once the turntable starts to revolve, he l
ifts the arm and sets it down on the outer edge of the record. The familiar sound of static comes from the horn, followed by the muted sounds of conversation and a woman’s tormented whimpering. A man’s voice cuts through all of it. “Let us begin.”

  And then the chanting starts. It’s not quite as eerie as the first time. After all, he’s heard it before and expects it, but it’s still unnerving. Even Monica, who now is kneeling next to him, seems taken aback, saying nothing. She just listens with wide eyes. The rhythm of the chanting comes out in beats, almost drumlike. During the Catholic masses of his youth, his grandmother always recited the words Sursum corda in a joyful manner, but in this recording the voices spit them out in an angry fashion. The noise fills the empty ballroom, echoing off the ceiling and walls. Again, it feels as if the voices are all around them. A trick of the acoustics, screwing with his brain.

  Suddenly, Monica lifts the needle off the record. “I don’t like this,” she says. “I don’t like it at all.” She looks to Mark and with a shaking finger points. “Put it back.”

  Mark nods and turns off the turntable, then lifts the Victrola and takes it where it belongs, setting it down and shutting the cabinet door. She stays right next to him. After returning the record player to its rightful spot, he stands and brushes off the front of his pants leg. He’s about to suggest they go, but in the meantime something else has caught her eye. “What’s this?” she asks, pulling the book out from the upper shelf.

  “I don’t know. I saw it when I was here the last time, but I didn’t get a chance to take a look.”

  Monica sets the book on the top of the podium. Leather bound, it’s the size of a yearbook, but the uneven edges of the pages remind him of the tomes found in an antiquarian shop. The front cover has a symbol stamped on it, one Mark recognizes.

  “I know this.” He points. “The exact same design is laid out in the tile in the center of the room, under the table. I thought it looked like a Spirograph design. Or an elongated number eight spun in a circle.”

  “A flower?”

  “Maybe.”

  Monica opens the book to find that the inside cover is filled with handwriting, different styles and ink types. She says, “These are all names and dates, like how people write their family information in a Bible. You know, birth and death dates?”

  Mark studies the writing. The way the names and dates are listed share a similarity to a family Bible, but in this case all the names are different. There’s no indication that these people are related. The only names he recognizes are the most recent—Alma and Roy are listed at the bottom.

  She flips through the next few pages and comes across handwritten text in different handwriting, suggesting it was done by more than one individual. She shines the light on one page and glances at Mark. “What language is this?”

  “I don’t know.” It’s the English alphabet, but none of it resembles any language he’s encountered before.

  “Some kind of code?”

  He’s not certain. The letters are arranged in a strange way—some of the shorter words don’t even have any vowels, so it’s a good guess. “Maybe.”

  The first third of the book is more of the same. Pages and pages of undecipherable handwritten print. Words that mean nothing to either of them. When she flips a page and finds sketches done in black ink, bold lines over pencil, she stops to take a closer look, slowing her pace. The following pages are filled from top to bottom with various drawings: half-human, half-animal beings; people with smiles on their faces but skin dripping off their bones; beheaded individuals holding their grinning heads. Some of the images are of animals with human features, and the other way around, men with gills, women with wings. “Wow,” Monica says. “Bizarre.”

  A few of the sketches remind Mark of the Walgrave’s Wonders posters. “Could this be a guidebook for their magic act?”

  “Dark magic, I’d say.” Monica shudders. “Disturbing.” The next page causes her to stop and let out a gasp. “Oh my God. What the hell, Mark?” She tilts the book toward him so he can see a sketch of two naked people, one man and one woman. They lie side by side on a table with what looks like leather straps restraining their wrists. “Talk about kinky.”

  “Not my kind of kinky.”

  “What do you suppose it is?” Monica asks. “Human sacrifice?”

  Mark shakes his head. “In exchange for what? An exceptional crop season?”

  “I don’t know. It’s creepy.” Monica continues to turn pages until she reaches the end. The last page is one continuous column of text, like a poem or song lyrics. She shuts the book. “End of story.”

  “Wait a minute.” Mark takes it from her and flips to the end. “I recognize some of this from the chanting.” He runs his finger along the text, confirming that the words Sursum corda are repeated throughout. Reading it, he can hear the chanting in his head, the voices pounding out the words in unison.

  “Do you think this has something to do with their act?” Monica asks.

  “Either that or it’s some kind of satanic ritual.”

  “God, I hope not.”

  Mark gently closes the book, then puts it back on the shelf. “I’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”

  “Not just yet,” she says, taking his hand and stepping down off the stage. “I have an idea.”

  Her sultry tone tells him that sex is imminent, something he’s normally on board with, but when she continues across the room and hops up to sit on the table, her legs dangling over the edge, he gets a sinking feeling. “Not here,” he says.

  “Oh yes, right here.” She takes the flashlight out of his hand and turns it off before setting it an arm’s length away, then tugs at his pants.

  There are a hundred reasons not to do it here, especially when his bed is just a few minutes away, but she’s already started, which means he’s started as well. It’s wrong to do it here is the thought that crosses his mind, but he’s no longer in control of his own body and couldn’t stop if he wanted to. Instantly aroused, Mark is easily able to disregard the stifling, hot air and the dust all around them, concentrating solely on the heat between them. Her hands and lips find him in all the right places. Clothing gets cast aside; they come together in a white-hot intensity, both of them finishing at the same time, neither of them even trying to be quiet when they cry out at the end.

  When all is done, Mark is flat on his back with Monica on top of him, his feet hanging over the edge. Breathless, his heart pounding from the excitement, he wonders what it would be like to be strapped to this very table, with Monica strapped down right next to him. He can imagine the straps around his wrists, his body laid bare. What would it feel like? The sketch didn’t show anyone else in the room, but there had to be. Otherwise, who had buckled the straps? He imagines a group surrounding the table, men and women, all eyes on him, every inch of him on display. And then what would happen? Was strapping people down an act of forced humiliation? Some kind of cult initiation? Or was it purely sexual, the beginning of something else entirely?

  Under the right circumstances, it might be the right kind of kinky after all.

  “Well, Mark Norman, you certainly rise to the occasion.” Monica’s sexy voice right next to his ear interrupts his thoughts.

  He grins and tries to think of a witty comeback, but nothing comes to mind. Instead, he presses his lips against her neck. One last kiss. They’ll need to get dressed and clean up any evidence that they’ve been here, but since he feels like he’s melted between Monica and the table, it’s not going to happen for at least a few more minutes. She doesn’t show any signs of wanting to move just yet either. Her body is hot and sticky against him, but he doesn’t mind. Nothing that a quick shower can’t fix. Once again, he is reminded of the advantages of having Monica at Alden Manor. She does more than her share of work, for one thing, and her sunny mood is a gift, especially when compared to both Lisa and Nurse Darby. And having sex so readily available is a definite bonus.

  What the hell. He’s not comple
tely heartless. He may just give her a chunk of the inheritance after all.

  He’s completely relaxed, and then he feels something or someone grab his foot, digging in, squeezing hard. Immediately he knows it would be impossible for Monica to reach that far. Raw terror fills his chest cavity. His breath catches in his throat as he frantically kicks his foot, but whatever it is has tightly pinched his skin. Pushing Monica aside, he yells, “Something’s got me! I’m caught!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “What the hell, Mark?” Monica demands, catching herself.

  He hauls himself into a sitting position with the thing still clamped to his foot. Blood pounds in his ears. Through the inky blackness he can just make out a wraith at the end of the table, a smokelike vision, wispy white against the darkness. Dear God. It appeared out of nowhere and now has gotten hold of him. “Get it off, get it off of me!” With one last yank, he is able to pull free and scramble away.

  Monica snaps on the flashlight. The beam settles on Alma, who is at the end of the table, her hand reaching for his ankle, now just out of her grasp. He can see now that her wraithlike appearance in the dark was due to her white hair and cream-colored nightgown. With her sunken eyes and vacant, unfocused gaze, she appears unearthly. Not human. This sudden turn of events strikes Mark mute. How did Alma get up to the second floor? And how much did she see?

  Monica speaks in a low tone. “Alma, are you okay, honey?” Her voice is that of a mother speaking to a toddler who wandered out of bed half-asleep. “How are you feeling?”

  Alma gestures to Mark, who is now climbing off the table and gathering up his clothing. “Mine,” she says.

  “What’s yours?” Monica says patiently, as if this whole scenario—this postcoital interruption while they are naked in a place that’s off-limits—is completely normal.

  Alma turns to her and says, “I don’t want to be here.” The words come out as slurred and slow as syrup poured out of a bottle.