by Don Sloan
“I’d say Moira and her friends did a little blood-letting in their time down here,” Nathan said, “with maybe a burnt sacrifice thrown in now and then for good measure.”
“At least now we know how oxygen gets down here. I wonder how far below the house we are?” asked Sarah.
Nathan set the flashlight on the stone altar. “I’d say we’re at least sixty feet underground. What surprises me is that nobody ever had questions about this space in the building of the house. It’s not like they would have wanted an atomic bomb shelter in the 1880s.” Nathan paused and wrinkled his brow. “Unless it was done after the house was completed, in which case there would need to be another way in and out to remove the dirt. Let’s look around a little more—”
Nathan was interrupted by a stifled scream. Sarah was clutching his arm and pointing.
“Is that what I think it is?” she managed to say, her voice hoarse with fear.
Nathan picked up the flashlight and shone it directly on the source of her attention. They were unquestionably bones—human bones, separated by body part and piled neatly in one corner of the room. Tibia, fibula, femur, scapula—they weren’t labeled as such, but there they were, all laid out tidily in rows, with at least 10 skulls at the far right. It was amazing how many bones made up the human body.
“I guess Moira’s reputation for being a packrat was well-deserved. Have you ever seen anything like this?” Nathan said, moving closer and picking up one of the skulls.
“Jeez, Nathan, that gives me the creeps. How can you touch those things?”
“Wonder what his name was, and if some of these folks wound up missing in the area. We didn’t really look for unexplained disappearances in the papers. I hate to say this, but I’m beginning to feel a little creeped-out myself,” Nathan said. “It’s time we looked around for another way out.”
“Suits me,” Sarah said. “I’ve had enough of this place. Where should we look?”
“I don’t know. It wouldn’t have to be a secret door down here. The only people who came down here were people who knew about the place. Just look for something out of the ordinary.”
“Ah, ha,” Sarah nodded. “So, overlook the satanic symbols and evil carvings, and look for something unusual.”
“Exactly. Wait a minute. I think we can save ourselves some time. Look over there.” He pointed to one of the tapestries on the wall, to the far left of the ladder. It was moving slightly, all by itself. “That looks like a breeze, if I ever saw one. Come on.”
They moved together toward the tapestry, shining the light on its hideous surface. This one was particularly violent, with demons and humans apparently engaged in battle. Blood and severed body parts were everywhere in the picture, along with hundreds of grinning demonic faces. The effect was made even more unnerving by the ripple that periodically moved across the fabric, as though the scene was in motion. The figures seemed to be grappling with each other for dear life as Nathan pulled up a corner of the tapestry and found the opening he was looking for.
“Bingo,” he said. The opening was seven feet tall and about four feet across. It ran straight back into the earthen wall and disappeared beyond the beam of Nathan’s flashlight. “What direction is that? Let’s see. Pardon my graphic nature, but if I was seated on your toilet, my face would be toward the ocean, and that hinged cabinet would be right behind me. That would put the ladder facing the ocean, too. So, where’s the ladder in relation to this opening?” He shone the light back toward the ladder, now more than 20 feet away and to his left. “This opening looks like it heads off toward the house on your left as you’re facing your house. That’s the one one on the cornr of Beach Avenue and Howard. I wonder who lives there?”
“Beats me. It looks deserted. But, then, most of these big houses look deserted this time of year. Nathan, I want to get out of here. But I’m not so sure now that I want to go into that tunnel. What’s at the other end? Another room like this?”
“Well, we won’t know until we go into it, will we? Come on, Sarah. We’re making progress.”
“If you say so,” she answered with a wry smile, and plunged into the tunnel after him.
Chapter 7
December, 1944
America’s years at war have taken their toll on everyone. In Cape May, however, people have gotten used to the notion of gas rationing, war bonds, and doing without even the most simple things. But one tradition in Cape May society has withstood even these deprivations: the annual gala at the Tipton estate on the corner of Howard Street and Beach Avenue is being readied, much as it has at every holiday season for years beyond count—the first was actually back in 1891, when Thomas Tipton, a newcomer to the area, had this house built to his own elaborate specifications and then decided to open its grand interior to all of Cape May’s elite once a year—during the Christmas season, when fresh-cut trees, aromatic greenery and Fraser fir wreaths imported from North Carolina make the house a holiday showplace. A stiff admission fee, $50 per couple, is extracted from the hundred-plus guests and the money is donated to benefit the area’s poor. Tipton takes all the expenses upon himself to throw the party and so is uniformly held in high esteem on account of that and his other philanthropic ventures in the community.
“Gregson, would ye see that the food is ready for our first guests?” says Tipton, a man with a British accent and a high, aristocratic forehead. He asks the question of a liveried footman, who gives a curt bow and hurries off. Tipton’s fortune is said to have been made in gold and silver speculation before immigrating to America. He certainly dresses the part, attired in a Savile Row tweed suit and starched collar for the party—he feels that good taste during the war does not permit formal attire and everyone understands that it will be a simple but elegant party. Tipton is as determined as ever to make it the most notable event of the season.
Gregson reappears with encouraging news. “Sir, the cook reports that all is in readiness. Your first guests are arriving in the covered portico. Shall I make ready to greet them or would you prefer to do that?”
“No, thank ye. I believe I will have Bentley take care of it. I’ll be going back upstairs for a bit. Then I’ll meet my guests in the library.”
“Very good, sir,” Gregson says. He turns to leave, but, on hearing his master’s voice again, he hesitates.
“Please send Bentley in,” Tipton says.
“Yes, sir.”
Bentley appears in the doorway, awaiting orders.
“Tonight I’ll want to speak with Mrs. Alfred Forrest. Can you bring her about 8 p.m. into my private sitting room?”
“Very good, sir. It will be as you say,” says Bentley.
Tipton strolls around the parlor, sliding a well-manicured hand along the ebony finish of the baby grand piano and admiring the photo portraits of himself with many of the dignitaries and celebrities who have come through Cape May from time to time. There is a photo of Tipton with President Wilson, and another with Prime Minister Churchill, taken before the war. He lifts his tumbler of Balvenie Doublewood Scottish single malt whiskey to the photographs and toasts his unparalleled success in the Colonies—for such he still calls them. These are, after all, a fairly backward people with only the slightest hint of what true aristocratic behavior requires. He himself is from British aristocracy, but was, he reminds himself again, originally driven into the Queen’s navy as a consequence of questionable and scandalous actions on his part as a teen. His family, from the Lakes district of England, has disowned him, a fact that now gives him amusement, since he is now worth several times what they had been worth before the war—either war, for he has now seen both World War I and the current world conflict come and go without any appreciable detriment to his lifestyle here in the States.
“Let them fight,” he says, draining the whiskey. “I’ve other business to take care of.”
The cars are beginning to queue up in Tipton’s circular drive, and even though many of his neighbors and guests can easily walk to the house on the co
rner across from the oceanfront, it is usually not done. The exceptions on this night, however, are a bewhiskered older gentleman and his wife, who have decided against driving their 1940 Studebaker to the event. The elder gentleman, Alfred Forrest, is complaining of this to his wife.
“I’ll catch my death of cold, walking in this chilly damp night air,” he says.
His wife of 40 years, Cecilia Forrest, pats his arm and speaks soothing words. “Come now, dear. You know that you must walk more. Doctor says so.”
They have decided to cross the boulevard and walk on the sidewalk overlooking the ocean. On this early December evening, the clouds are well out on the horizon and just catching the last rays of sunlight, and a cold breeze is stirring the feather in her hat. It is actually a fine night, she thinks, both for a walk and a party. She has been looking forward to the event for weeks.
“Was that a letter we got today from Jonathan?” asks the old man.
“Yes, dear. He says things are going well down in the South Pacific theater, but of course, he didn’t say where he was or what he had been doing.”
Alfred grumps. “This damned war has gone on far too long. We’ll all be lucky not to be eating sauerkraut for dinner or having fortune cookies for dessert if this keeps up much longer.”
“Dear, I think fortune cookies only come with Chinese food, and not Japanese. The Chinese are our allies, and good thing, too. There are as many of them as there are Japanese, I think. We’re stretched so thin, fighting on two fronts. You’re right. Something has to give and soon.”
The Forrests are now across from Tipton’s home on the corner, but they hesitate going in for some reason. Perhaps they are only enjoying the pleasant twilight on the rolling waves. They stand near the seawall high above the tide and look out at the broad Atlantic Ocean.
“Strange, isn’t it?” Alfred says.
“What is, dear?”
“That all three of our boys should be so far away at a time when they should be with us, enjoying this beautiful winter evening.”
Cecilia’s eyes tear up at the thought of her brave boys—all the boys, in fact—fighting so far away from home. Jonathan in the Pacific and her other two sons on Navy destroyers somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. She wonders if they are not really just offshore now. She wipes the tears from her eyes with a pocket handkerchief and stands on tiptoes, as if that could make her catch a glimpse of them.
“You can’t see them, Celia,” Alfred says softly.
“I know, but a mother can try,” she says.
They stand a moment longer on the edge of the seawall, gazing far, far out to sea, before reluctantly turning toward the house on the corner.
The party is just gathering momentum as they hand their coats to the footman. Alfred and Cecilia know just about everyone in the room and speak or nod to them in turn. On their right, as they enter the parlor, are the Johannsons—new to Cape May, but very nice people, Cecilia thinks. They are standing, drinks in hand, with their backs to the sleek, black piano, talking animatedly with the Newtons, who own the house two doors down from the Forrests. Cecilia does not much care for Abigail Newton, although she never would have said so to anyone. The Newtons own a car dealership in Philadelphia and only come to the shore on special occasions like this to see, and to be seen. They rarely participate in or give money to the local charities or other organizations—something Cecilia Forrest does regularly. In fact, her volunteer work is legendary among the community and the saying is widely held that “If you want to get something done, give it to the busiest woman in town: Cecilia Forrest.” Of course, this is not the reason Cecilia gives so much of herself. She has always done so, and, with the war going on, there is even more to be done. Cape May is a tightly knit community and everyone’s welfare is considered to be the concern of the many, and not the few.
“Hello, Abigail,” she says pleasantly to the large, diamond-bedecked woman. “That’s a beautiful pendant you’re wearing tonight.” She also thinks how vulgar it is to be wearing something like that this evening, but does not say so. Abigail Newton smiles and says thank you, then turns back to her conversation with the Johannsons. Cecilia Forrest takes her husband’s arm and pulls him off to another corner of the small room. The parlor is filled with couples and singles, dressed in Sunday wear. Crystal glasses filled with sparkling French champagne pass by them on a tray, carried by Bentley, dressed like the other men in a tasteful tweed suit with starched white shirt and solid blue tie of the most amazing iridescent shade. He nods to Mrs. Forrest and continues on his way to the side table by the sofa, where he sets the tray down. Returning to the Forrests, he waits politely for them to pause in their conversation with the Raymonds, a couple that also has long ties to the shore.
“Hello, Bentley,” says Alfred. “A Merry Christmas to you.”
Bentley smiles and nods his thanks. “And a Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Forrest. I trust you’re well. Is there anything I can get for you—any of you?” He addresses the small group and smiles again. Bentley is a handsome man in his early fifties, completely bald, but still in very good shape. Each morning he runs five miles along the shore. It is said he had run competitively at Oxford, from which he graduated back in 1910.
Forrest turns to the others and raises his eyebrows in support of Bentley’s question. The others murmur their thanks, but no one needs anything. “I guess we’re all right for now, Bentley. Where is that Tipton? I want to pick his brain about the stock market.”
“He will be along shortly, sir. He is currently occupied with matters that needed his attention at the last moment.” He turns to Cecilia Forrest. “He did mention that he would like to speak especially with you, Mrs. Forrest.”
“With me? How extraordinary! Does he need gardening advice or perhaps some help with household matters? But I’m sure between the two of you things are well in hand on those two fronts.”
“If we need help in those areas, I’m sure you or Mrs. Raymond would be among the first we would call,” Bentley answers smoothly. “He didn’t say what it concerned. Are you free to see him now?”
Cecilia looks questioningly at Alfred, who nods his assent. “Oh, go ahead, Celia. It’s the least we can do for our host. Probably something to do with a need for volunteers somewhere. He knows your weakness there.”
The others laugh, and Cecilia takes leave of the small group and follows Bentley from the room and up the stairs to a small, well-furnished sitting room on the second floor, at the front of the house. The windows are richly draped and shelves of leather-bound books line the walls. A single electric floor lamp with a beautiful Tiffany shade provides illumination. It sits next to a pair of mission-style leather and wood chairs.
“Mr. Tipton will be with you momentarily,” Bentley says with a short bow, and leaves Cecilia in the middle of the room.
In all her annual visits to Tipton’s house, Cecilia has never once spent time alone with him, and the occasion now makes her vaguely uneasy, although she cannot say why. She walks over to an elaborately carved wardrobe with a mirror on the front of it in the corner and, glancing at her appearance, primps her hair and adjusts the lines of her light blue suit. She has also worn her only pair of stockings (they have been almost impossible to find during these past few years) and some sensible, low-heeled blue pumps. She looks piercingly at her face, still beautiful but lined now with the years’ cares—both hers and others’. She still does not need glasses, and her blue eyes sparkle with energy, and her silver hair is pulled back into a soft French bun. Her neck is slender as it disappears into the creamy silk blouse she wears under her blue jacket.
In all, she is still a very attractive woman, though she never thinks of herself in that way. Instead, she only thinks now how tired she must look. The war years and the absence of her three sons have made her sad and she feels sometimes that she wears her cares too obviously, when other women have paid a far worse price. She straightens her posture, and squares her shoulders, “hanging them on a rack” as her mother
used to lecture her. This action requires that she lift her shoulder blades up and back, as though hanging them up and resulting in the kind of straight back that New York models exhibit. “I’ll not wear my worries like old sack cloth,” she says to the mirror. And, having said that, she sees over her shoulder that Tipton has appeared in the doorway to the room. She turns to greet him.
“Mrs. Forrest, how nice of ye to give me an audience,” Tipton says. He smiles engagingly and Cecilia notes that he, too, has lines on his face, which is square-jawed and lean, thin but not handsome.
“Well, Mr. Tipton, I really don’t know how in the world I can be of any help to you. I’m just a Cape May housewife.”
Tipton motions to the chairs and asks her to sit, which she does. He perches on the arm of the other chair.
“I’ve a bit of a business proposition to present to ye, as a lady of means yerself, and I wanted to get yer opinion before I spoke to anyone else about it.”
Cecilia’s curiosity is piqued, and her expressive eyes reflect it. Tipton goes on.
“I’ve come into a little gold lately and was wondering what to do with it.” At this point he picks up a black box that Cecilia had assumed was filled with cigars. Instead, when he opens it, she gasps involuntarily. Inside, set deep within a velvet-lined trench, is a single gold bar. Tipton lifts it out and hands it to her. She takes it and holds the heavy object carefully in both hands. The solid gold bar gives off a radiance of its own in the small room, and it is as though another light has been switched on.
“I have thirty-nine more just like it in my cellar. I was wondering if you or any of the other fine ladies here in Cape May might be interested in purchasing any of it, as a sort of, ye know, personal investment. Of course, yer assets with Alfred should be more than enough to see ye through if something should happen to him.” And here, Tipton leans just the slightest bit forward as Cecilia tips her gaze up from the gold bar. “But wouldn’t it be nice to know ye had a little insurance of yer own—something to make sure that no matter what, ye had something to pass along to yer children?”