Cursed in the Act

by Raymond Buckland

  I studied my surroundings. I saw a pile of canoe paddles and a pair of oars. Rope lines were piled in a corner and there was the seat from a rowboat. I surmised that I was in an old boathouse. No wonder it was cold . . . It must be on the riverbank. At this time of year I knew that the river was frozen solid, so I was, in effect, sitting on top of a huge block of ice. I shivered again.

  I didn’t know how long I might be left there, so I needed to free myself just as soon as possible, so that I didn’t freeze to death. Perhaps that was the plan? I shivered for a different reason.

  The bench to which I was tied was an old rustic affair, probably once set out on the lawn beside the boathouse, overlooking the river. I tried rocking it and after a few tries was pleased to find that if I really put energy into it, the seat was ancient enough to sway slightly. If I could rock it long enough and vigorously enough, I thought, it would surely fall apart. But then I might find myself worse off, sitting in a pile of wood and tree limbs, perhaps in an extremely uncomfortable position. I quickly decided it was worth the risk . . . What choice did I have? I just might be able to break free of the bench even if I could not rid myself of the ropes binding me. I set to, rocking first one way and then the other. The bench creaked and groaned but refused to die.

  I had to rest from time to time but I persisted. Slowly the old bench moved farther and farther to each side as I threw my weight back and forth. Suddenly, with a loud cracking, it slid off to one side, collapsing on its legs and dropping me unceremoniously to the ground. I was still tied to the seat part of the bench, but I found that the ropes securing me were now considerably looser.

  I took time to recover my breath. As I sat there on the floor, in the shambles of the rustic bench, I reassessed the situation. If I should be able to free myself from my bonds, I would then have to break out of the boathouse itself. I remembered hearing the sliding closure of a bolt, when my abductors left, but studying the decaying nature of the structure, I didn’t think that would be a major problem. I just hoped that I could effect my complete escape before the kidnappers returned.

  I rolled onto my knees and attempted to stand up. The length and thickness of the bench seat prevented me from doing so. I saw that the ropes around me had been secured to the various intertwined limbs making up the decorative nature of the bench. I started working at sliding individual tree limbs out from the ropes. It took a long time, but one by one I managed to wriggle and push—sometimes grasping limbs between my knees—and extricate enough branches to allow me to pull free of the structure. With the ropes now loose about my body, I was able to then concentrate on loosing the knots tying my wrists and ankles. Since my hands had not been tied together but had been lashed to the original chair arms, I was able to get to the separate knots and finally stood up, free and clear of the jumble that had once been the rustic bench.

  I breathed deeply to slow my racing heart and then moved to the largest of the holes in the wall and squinted through it. As I had guessed, the structure was on the bank of a river, stretching out over the solid ice. I couldn’t see enough, nor was I familiar enough with all parts of the river, to be able to locate exactly where I was. I moved away from the chink of daylight and went to the door. It was solid, despite the decaying nature of much of the boathouse. It did not budge at all when I applied my shoulder to it. I moved over to where the largest of the broken planking had dropped on the inside of the wall. Raising my foot, I gave a hard kick to the wood. Again, no sign of weakness.

  I looked about me and then took up a short oar. I wedged the blade into the crack between two of the wall planks and grasped the handle of the oar. Hoping it would work like a lever, I tugged on the handle. There was a loud cracking followed by a snapping sound. I staggered back, still clutching the oar while the broken blade remained wedged into the wall.

  I was not to be beaten. I jammed the thicker broken end of the blade into the crack, alongside the thinner section wedged there. I grabbed up a piece of the broken bench and pounded the oar firmly into the crack. Then I again took hold of the handle and started pulling on it. I was at last rewarded with the creaking and cracking of the plank. A larger band of daylight began to grow as the wood was pried apart. I was just about to give a final heave when the door behind me opened and two of the kidnappers appeared.

  * * *

  The men were understandably surprised to see me standing there, and both of them uttered curses. The larger of the two—they were both of them taller than me, of course—moved forward and swung his fist at me. I may be small, but I can move quickly when there is good reason to. That swinging fist was the incentive. I ducked under it and tried to run for the door. The second man, though larger than me, was also quick. He threw out a leg and tripped me.

  “Damn your eyes!” cried the big man. He grabbed up a stout branch from the garden seat debris and swung that at me. It caught my shoulder as I was struggling to my feet, and I went down again.

  “’Old ’im, yer bloody fool!” snarled the second man. “’E’s a quick ’un, an’ no mistake.”

  There ensued what might have been viewed as a comedy routine were it performed on the pantomime stage. I dodged mighty blows thrown by hands and by makeshift weapons: boat parts and bits of the broken seat. I ran around one man to be cornered by the second. This odd dance was repeated several times. At one point I did manage to grasp a length of sturdy wood. A cursory glance suggested it to be the broken half of a punt pole. I had no time to study it; a slap on the side of the head with a canoe paddle got my attention.

  What saved me was the fact that the two men were so intent on either grabbing me or hitting me that they forgot all about the door through which they had entered. It hung, sagging on its rusty hinges, half open. I ducked under a pair of outstretched hands and was quickly through the door and running from the boat shed. They wasted no time and, with loud yells, pounded after me.

  I darted to my left, which I immediately realized was not the best choice. That way led to the river. However, all was not lost. After a long and typical English winter, the river was frozen so solid that a wagon and horses could drive across it. My boots gripped well enough that I had no trouble keeping my feet as I ran from the frozen grass of the riverbank and aimed over the ice toward the far-off Surrey shore.

  My pursuers came after me. The larger of the two men swung slightly to one side, probably hoping to cut me off, while the second man came more directly. I thought I could outrun them. I was lighter and possibly fitter.

  “Aagh! Bert! ’Elp me!”

  I wondered what was wrong. It was the larger man who had cried out. The other one slowed but did not stop. He and I briefly glanced back as we ran. It seemed that to one side of where the boathouse protruded onto the river, someone had been cutting blocks of ice. I glimpsed an icehouse toward the rear of the boathouse. It was common practice for householders to have ice cut from the frozen river. The cutting must have taken place only a few days ago since the surface water had frozen over again, yet not to any great thickness, it seemed. The larger man had broken the surface and crashed through the hole. He was now frantically beating at the icy water around him. I realized that, in all probability, the man could not swim.

  “Bert! Christ, Bert! ’Elp me!”

  But Bert dithered. Whoever had paid these men to capture me obviously had a strong hold on them. Bert would let his companion drown so long as he was able to recapture me.

  I could not be so callous. At the back of my mind I had some sort of crazy notion that I could help save the man and then still make off, but I knew there were no guarantees.

  “Come on, Bert, or whatever your name is,” I cried, swinging around and making back to the floundering man. “We’ve got to get your friend out of there before he either drowns or freezes to death. Come on!”

  With very poor grace, it seemed to me, Bert joined me in retracing our footsteps to the hole in the ice. Since the ice blocks had be
en cut from the surface, the edges were strong and sound, with no fear of them breaking off when we stood at the very edge. I managed to persuade Bert to get some of the rope from inside the shed while I held on to his companion to keep him afloat. We got a loop of it under the drowning man’s arms and together started hauling him from his icy snare. Eventually we had him out and lying, gasping and shivering, on the solid surface.

  I thought it time to leave. But Bert was ahead of the game. As I straightened up from the whalelike figure before me, I caught just the briefest glimpse of what must have been a solid chunk of wood brought from the shed by Bert, along with the rope. Everything went black.

  * * *

  When I came to my senses, all was dark. Not just dark, but pitch-black. My head ached and pounded. I lay on my back trying to piece together the events that had so recently taken place. I recalled that I had finally succeeded in breaking out of that odious boathouse. Or had I? I remembered at some point grabbing up a canoe paddle and lashing out as the two toughs came at me. They were seasoned fighters. Whoever had hired them to abduct me had chosen well. Bits and pieces of the skirmish came back to me like broken images of a dream. One of the men had wrenched the paddle out of my hands as though taking a stick from a two-year-old. The other had punched me full in the face. Ridiculous as it now seemed, I remember wondering if Jenny would mind if I had a broken nose. But then things got blurred. Had I somehow got out of the boathouse and made off across the frozen river? Then there was something about beaching a whale . . . or a drowning man? I shook my head but immediately stopped as stars filled my vision. I could not recall everything—or anything—at all clearly.

  I was lying on something hard. I did find that I was not bound up, which seemed a blessing. I tentatively reached out my hand, but it encountered something solid. A wall? I moved my arm about and also raised the other hand. There were rough, and what felt like wooden, walls close on either side of me. I was in the narrow gap between the two. I felt above me. It was there as well! Heavens! I was in some sort of box, closed on all sides. No wonder the complete darkness.

  Suddenly a paralyzing thought struck me . . . I was in a coffin! I panicked and tried to sit upright but hit my head on the low surface above and reactivated the stars. Calm yourself, I said. I tried to breathe slowly and deeply. How much air was in this space? I changed to shallow breaths. Trying hard not to panic, I slowly and deliberately moved my hands, as well as I was able, to discern the limits of my containment. It did not bring me any satisfaction. With my feet, I was able to verify the end of the structure. Everything seemed to point to my being confined in a coffin. My thoughts flew to Bram Stoker’s stories. Was I about to be turned into a zombie?

  Chapter Twenty

  It is strange what thoughts pass through one’s mind when under stress. As I lay in the coffin I thought of a recent book I had seen, dealing with premature burial. It was a subject that had been frequently broached in the newspapers for many years. It dealt with a fear that a lot of people seemed to have. This particular book, as I recall, had a number of illustrations showing various devices designed to rescue anyone unfortunate enough to be interred in error. A small lever inside the coffin would raise a flag on the surface of the grave. A bell could be rung. A breathing tube was patented to ensure there would be no suffocation of a living “corpse.” The newspapers had recently reported that all possible devices had been combined and patented by a Russian chamberlain to the czar. Any detected movement in a coffin would cause an air supply to open, a flag to be raised, and a bell to be rung. I realized it was fruitless to contemplate such inventions since none of them was available to me. Yet I could not simply lie there inert.

  I wondered if the coffin had yet been lowered into a grave and covered with earth. Escaping from the confines of the casket was one thing, but to have to dig one’s way out of the ground was quite another. I once again felt all about me, running my hands over the surfaces of the walls and lid. There was no lining, I noticed. That seemed strange, until I thought about the origins of zombies, as detailed by Stoker. In Haiti, or wherever in the Caribbean Islands they were created, there would be no such finery. Bodies, he had said, were placed in wooden boxes and dropped into graves just as soon after apparent death as possible.

  But we were not in Haiti. We were—I presumed—still in London, in England. However, if this operation was being directed by Ralph Bateman’s Caribbean friend, the Haitian customs would probably prevail.

  I had to do something! I couldn’t just lie there and wait either to die or to be removed by an evil boko. I put up my hands and pressed up on the lid above me. It seemed to be tightly fastened. But with screws or with nails, I wondered? It struck me that if the lid was screwed down, then I was doomed. Yet if, in fact, this Boko was to have his minions remove the lid so that he might command me to rise, then it would almost certainly be a temporary fastening, such as light nailing that could be easily pried open. I prayed that I was right.

  I managed to bring my knees up to my chest. I prayed that I would not cramp in that confined position. I pressed my knees against the lid, pushing and straining as I have never strained before. I had my hands up also, pushing along with them. I turned my head and sniffed at the surface. Pine. Good, I thought. Pine is a soft wood and does not grip nails anywhere nearly as tightly as does oak or other hard woods. I pushed harder, my heart thumping in my chest. After what seemed like many long minutes, I heard a creaking and cracking sound . . . the sound of nails being forced out of wood.

  I had to rest for a while. I struggled and again got my legs down and straight before any signs of cramping came upon me. I breathed deeply—heedless now of the air capacity in that confined space—before a second attempt. Then I again struggled to ease my legs up till my knees were once more on my chest. I started pushing upward again, knees and hands forcing against the unpliant wood. I would press, hold it as long as I could, and then relax for a moment before more straining. Each time I applied the pressure, I heard more screeching, as the fasteners were drawn out.

  I quickly became aware of dim light seeping in through the tiny opening I had created about the top of the coffin. At least, I thought, I can now get air. I pressed, pushed, and strained. Suddenly the top came free. One end of it popped off and the balance swung away, bending the nails fastening it. I sat up and pushed the lid out of the way. It came fully free and clattered to the floor. I hoped no one was about to hear it.

  The first thing I noticed was that it was not a coffin per se in which I sat. It was a large packing crate. There were two others nearby, one partly filled with straw, so I may have simply been stuffed into it just because it was available. No real coffin; no graveyard burial; ergo, no Haitian Boko. Or so it seemed. I was relieved and hoped that I was right.

  I climbed out of the crate and looked about me. The light was very dim and I guessed that I was perhaps in a basement. Yet on inspection I saw that the floor was made up of rough wooden planks. I revised my thinking to the top of a building. It could be that I was in an attic. I looked upward. In the dim light I made out rafters and crossbeams. Yes, it must be an attic.

  I felt for my watch chain but it wasn’t there. My watch had either been torn off at some point or one of the miscreants had removed it. I wondered what the time might be. How long had I been there? Was it still Saturday or had I been unconscious for far longer than I thought? Was this, perhaps, Sunday morning light that I saw filtering through? I felt a pang at the thought of abandoning Jenny, but I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least I would by now have been missed. Mr. Stoker would surely be on the trail to find me.

  I felt hunger pangs. I had not eaten since breakfast, though whether today or yesterday I didn’t know. Perhaps more than one day had passed. But hunger was the least of my worries. The first thing was to remove myself from my immediate surroundings before the kidnappers once again came back and caught me. There was a door at the far end of the long attic room. I
moved swiftly to it, trying not to tread too heavily on the floorboards. I didn’t know where the abductors might be and didn’t want to alert them if they were immediately below me. I tried the door and found that it was not locked. They must have felt confident that the packing crate would hold me.

  With a last glance around, I eased open the door. I found myself at the top of a flight of wooden stairs leading down into what I presumed was the main part of the house. There was little spare space where I stood, and I saw two other doors besides the attic one I was exiting. Probably servants’ quarters, I thought. I had no choice but to go down. Halfway down, one of the stairs creaked. It sounded very loud to me and I froze in place, holding my breath. After a long time there came no sounds from below, so I cautiously continued downward to the bottom of the stairs.

  I found myself on a small landing with a back staircase and a front one, the back one presumably leading farther down, eventually, to the kitchen. There was a short corridor with doors on either side, which I surmised to be bedrooms. I went to the closest of these and tried the door. It opened easily and I peered in on a small room that seemed not to be currently in use. There was a narrow, iron-framed bed bearing a thin, faded mattress. It was not made up with any bed linen. The second door was to another bedroom but much more interesting. The first thing I noticed was a clock on the mantelpiece. It showed a time of six thirty, which accounted for the dim light that still filtered in through the window, though whether this was six thirty in the evening or the morning, I still had no idea. However, that was good in that it meant that no one was likely to come up to the bedrooms for a while if the house was inhabited, something I did not know for certain. Presumably, however, the three abductors were somewhere in the building.

  The room was obviously that of a male, and a fastidious male at that. The wardrobe doors were partially open, and three suits, along with some nondescript trousers and coats, were in evidence hanging therein. On the shelves I found neatly folded shirts and underwear. The bottom drawer contained an assortment of socks, all carefully paired. Well-polished shoes and boots were set in the base of the wardrobe.