Nightblood

by T. Chris Martindale

  The relentlessly thick crabgrass gave way a bit nearer to the porch where the cobblestone drive circled back in front of them and around the side of the house. There were beer cans to be found amid the weeds and a few on the front steps, some old ones bleached almost white by the sun, others of the lite variety that could have been dropped bare minutes before they arrived. Bart stooped near the porch and picked one up and held it before him like a crystal ball, stroking it to detect sweat or a lingering chill. He retrieved his lockback hunting knife and used it to pierce the thin aluminum skin and peel it aside. “It’s not wet,” he said, dropping the can. “These’ve been here for a while. C’mon.” He climbed the steps while Del lagged behind, craning his neck to look at the upper floor windows. Like the lower ones, some were patched with plywood while others held only slivers of glass like solitary teeth in dark yawning mouths. No ghosts danced there. No phantom lights. No old men. Just windows. Just a house after all.

  Still, he fought off a sudden chill before hurrying up the steps.

  Bart was jimmying the lock with his knife when the right-hand door simply swung open on nagging hinges. The boys exchanged looks out of an Abbott and Costello movie. “It’s not what you think, Cap,” the older cautioned. He kneeled to inspect the locking mechanism along the door edge and found it not only antiquated but heavily scarred from prying. “Look at this. The bolt’s worn down. No wonder it came open so easy. Just jiggle the damn thing and that bolt’ll slip out every time.”

  “Yeah,” Del doubted out loud. “Except when we try to get out. Then the damn thing will work just fine.”

  Bart scowled. “You’re a lot of fun, you know that?” He went back to the steps for a beer can and crushed it underfoot, then wedged the lump of aluminum into the door’s hinge space. He then tried to move it but it wouldn’t budge. “Satisfied?”

  Del nodded. It did make him feel a lot better having an open escape route. And he suspected that Bart hadn’t done it entirely for him.

  The doors opened onto a foyer and that in turn onto an entry hall that, to Del, looked like a hotel lobby. It was a big, airy place with an open, vaulted ceiling that looked bare without a chandelier. A magnificent wooden staircase started to their right and wound lazily around the room to the second floor landing like a great banistered millipede. Most of the rails were missing, the carpet on the stairs was old and torn, and the tile floor was strewn with leaves. But despite a dilapidated condition, it was still an impressive place, summoning images to mind of . . .

  “Collinwood,” Bart sighed.

  “Huh?”

  “Collinwood. From Dark Shadows. You know, that old soap?”

  The boy shook his head. “A little before my time.”

  “Mine too, but I saw the movie version on channel thirteen a while back.” He looked about the open chamber. A set of sliding mahogany doors were ajar on the right, their beauty marred only by the “Smoke a joint” slogan smeared across one panel. To their left an ornate arch led into what appeared to have been a sitting room back when there was something to sit on, and straight ahead a narrow service hall led deeper into the house. “Well? Where do we camp out?”

  “Over here.” Del was pointing to an alcove just off the foyer. “It’s a great big closet. This way we’re close to the door, but out of sight if any of those beerheads come along. Neat, huh?”

  They stepped into the closet and flashed the Mag-Lite about. No furnishing. Just cobwebs and coatpegs and a shelf for hats. “Home sweet home,” Bart sighed.

  It took nearly half an hour to square away the cloakroom to their satisfaction. Bart tore the cobwebs away as Del swept aside the dust in one corner so they could lay down their bags. Once they were settled in, they broke out the thermos of hot chocolate and a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, mashed flat but still edible.

  “I want to check this place out before we turn in,” Bart said between mouthfuls. Del stopped chewing and gaped at him as if he’d eaten a bug.

  “What the hell for?”

  “Well.” He thought a moment. “How would you like it if there was some old hobos and sterno-drinkers camped out in the back of the house, and while we were sleeping they snuck into this closet and cut your throat?”

  The boy swallowed. “I don’t think I’d like that at all.”

  “Okay then. Besides . . . I’m curious.” He downed a capful of hot chocolate before climbing to his feet and returning the nunchaku to his belt. “I’m taking the flashlight,” he said casually, “so you can either sit here in the dark or come along. What’s it gonna—”

  The youngest Miller had poked his mouth full and was already heading out the door.

  They started in the parlor, turning their collars up to the breeze that whistled through the broken windows. There was little to see in the big empty room, just a few pieces of furniture too decrepit to be stolen. The same was true for the study, with its sliding doors and empty bookshelves floor to ceiling, and likewise every other room on the first floor. The only thing to set them apart was the varying degree of ruination each was in, from warped baseboards and rain damage to vandalized gouges in the walls themselves that revealed skeletal frame boards and the house’s outer skin of brick.

  Just off the dining room they found a set of French doors that still retained many of the original glass panes. Through it was a small limestone courtyard that jutted just beyond the protective overhang of a balcony above, with steps leading down into a once-elaborate garden. Though overgrown as was all the Danner property, they could still make out cobbled walkways snaking through the grass, leading out to where the familiar, less vegetated drive met them and formed a circular turnaround. Beyond that was the dark mass of forest that surrounded the property.

  Bart pointed up toward the balcony above the porch. “Master bedroom?” he wondered. “That must be where the heinous crime took place, nyah ah ah.” He hunched his shoulders and dragged one foot. “Shall we look for bloodthtains, mathta?”

  “Cut it out, dork.”

  “You ain’t still scared, are you?”

  “No.”

  Bart laughed. “Yes you are. Wuss. C’mon.”

  They went back to the entry hall and checked their gear before starting up the dilapidated staircase, with each step making the requisite groan and quickening their ascent. They found the landing less windblown than below and the carpet in somewhat better shape. They checked each room as they went but found nothing, just drawerless bureaus and fallen shelves and bedframes too massive to be looted. Soon they were at the closed door of the master bedroom.

  “You sure you’re ready for this?” Bart teased as he gave the door a gentle shove. It swung open, revealing a flurry of dark commotion inside. Del sucked wind and was halfway down the hall before Bart’s yells brought him to a stop. “It’s okay, Cap. It’s just birds! Get back here!”

  Del returned sheepishly, eyes still bulging, and peeked inside. Most of the birds had vacated by that time, vanishing through the glassless balcony doors, but a few starlings and swallows were still on the floor or roosting on the mantle. Bart walked into the center of the room, forcing a few irate blackbirds from his path, and held out his arms. “See? No ghosts. Just birdies.”

  “I wasn’t scared.”

  “I know.”

  “I wasn’t, Bart. I was just . . . surprised, that’s all.”

  “Whatever you say, Cap.” He looked about the room. There was the obligatory bedframe, this one even larger than the others and discolored by bird droppings. There was no other furniture, just an empty fireplace and lots of nests and excrement. “No bloodstains,” he observed. “You’d think there would be if old Danner had chopped up his wife and brother in here. There’d be lakes of it, if you ask me.”

  “Would you shut up?”

  “What is there to be scared of, Cap? There were no murders. We came, we saw, we discovered the truth. End of story.
I proclaim this house ghost-free.” He blinked his eyes which were by now reddened from fatigue and too much dust. “I think we can turn in now.”

  “To sleep?”

  The tall redhead nudged him back into the hallway with the flashlight. “I doubt it. But what else are we going to do, watch TV? You can take first watch.”

  On the way back down the creaking old stairs, Del paused. He took the Mag-Lite from his brother’s hand and shined it back under the stairway. “There’s someplace we haven’t checked,” he said, sending a beam of light into the darkened service corridor where the shadows overcame it.

  Bart shrugged. “Nobody’s back there.”

  “I want to be sure.”

  Another shrug. “Go for it then. I’m going to bed.”

  Del started to give in but thought better of it and decided to call his bluff. “Fine. But I’m taking the flashlight.” He descended the stairs and crept toward the narrow hallway, and was almost through the arch before his brother fell in behind him. “Make it quick,” Bart warned.

  The hall was not very long. It led to three rooms, side by side, each not much bigger than the cloakroom they were calling home, and a slim passage across from the rooms led to the kitchen, which they hadn’t noticed earlier. The rooms must have been servants’ quarters, Bart guessed from the size of the cots, and the lack of windows.

  There was one other door, at the end of the hallway. It was heavy and old and sported a closed bolt latch instead of a true knob. It was not locked; Bart gave it a solid yank and swung it open, hinges creaking just as every other part of Danner House creaked. They found themselves staring into complete darkness, and Del felt his heart skip a beat. The smell was dank and old, like a grave, and before his mind had time to conjure any more colorful analogies he swung up the Mag and sprayed light into the cellar. Steep wooden stairs, irregularly cut and not so sturdy looking, led down into the inky blackness of the cellar where the beam couldn’t reach.

  Del swallowed. “I’m not too hot on going down there.”

  Bart gulped as well. “Well, if you don’t want to go, Cap, we won’t do it. We can—” He furrowed his brow, shielded his eyes against the glare of the Mag-Lite, and peered deeper into the cellar. “Shut that off,” he whispered.

  “What? Are you—”

  “Shut the light off!” he hissed, grabbing it and flicking the switch himself. The darkness, like peat-stained water, flooded back immediately, and for a moment Del feared he would drown. He clung to Bart’s jacket sleeve like a dying man and kept telling himself. There’s nothing wrong, nothing wrong, your eyes will adjust . . .

  “There!” his brother whispered. “Do you see it? Dammit, Del, look!” He put his hands on the boy’s head and forced him to look into the cellar.

  As his pupils dilated he realized that it was not pitch black as he had believed. There was a soft glow in the cellar, splashed across the wall at the foot of the stairs before them. It was dim, like the light of a television left playing.

  Del clamped a hand over his own mouth but couldn’t contain the childlike whimper that sounded deep in his throat. “Someone’s down there!”

  “Looks like it,” Bart replied. Holding the flashlight but leaving it off, he put his foot down on the first step and waited for it to creak, and when it didn’t, he tested another. Del grabbed his arm.

  “Are you crazy?” he squeaked nervously. “Let’s go!”

  “I want to see who it is,” the older boy said calmly.

  “What?!”

  “Look, by now he knows we’re here. It’s only fair we know who he is. I won’t be long, I just want a look. You stay up here—”

  “Bullshit,” Del snapped, starting down the steps after him. “I’m sticking to you like glue. And keep those damned chucks ready.”

  They eased quietly down the steps, Bart in the lead with the unlit torch, testing each step with a tennis shoe before committing his weight. Halfway down, one slat of wood changed its mind and let out an arthritic groan that made both of them wince. But no one came running. After a very long half-minute they continued their descent.

  It had been cold upstairs, with the midnight breeze drifting unhampered through the shattered windows, but in the cellar it was damn near freezing. It was dank and musty and had that clammy feel of an underground room. The drip-drip of seeping ground­water could be heard, and water sloshed underfoot when they stepped off the staircase, soaking their tennis shoes clear through.

  “Look back there,” Del whispered.

  The soft glow was coming from the far end of the cellar, almost the length of the house. Its source was obscured by boxes and refuse heaped there decades ago.

  “Did you see anyone?”

  Del shook his head. “Just the light. Now let’s get out of here, okay?”

  “Sshh. C’mon.”

  Straddling the puddle, they found to their surprise a floor not of packed earth, but hewn stone. Still, this was no contemporary basement, not like any Del had ever seen. There were no windows. There was no paneling, no washing machine or ping pong table or cardboard boxes marked Toys or Junk or X-Mas Tree Decorations. In fact, in the pale glow of whatever lay ahead, it didn’t look so much like a cellar as a cavern.

  Something small brushed past Del’s leg and skittered away. He wished he were carrying the flashlight. Don’t panic, he tried to rationalize. It was just a stray cat. Yeah. Sure it was.

  As they grew closer to the light they could pick out small details of the cellar around them. The walls segued from uneven stone to large, squared brick where additions had been built onto the original house. There were racks along one wall with a few small kegs still in place and a row of shelves along the other that might have held canned goods or homemade preserves long ago. They could also see that the cobwebs were thick and hung all around them like mosquito netting, undisturbed except along the path they were following.

  They reached the ridge of garbage and, with much trepidation, peeked past it.

  There was no one there. The weakening light was from a Coleman lantern in the farthest corner of the cellar, on the floor amid a collection of mallets and chisels and other tools, as well as a pile of chipped rock and powdered mortar. The wall that it best illuminated had been partially disassembled. Old-style bricks measuring nearly six inches wide had been pried from their places and discarded on the cellar floor, leaving a foot-wide gap in the wall there.

  Bart ambled out into the light and began to survey the equipment and the damage. Del followed close behind. “Whose stuff is this, do you think?” whispered the younger boy.

  Bart picked up the lantern and turned it around in his hands, then did the same with each tool. “No engraved names. But I think I know what they’re up to.” He motioned toward the wall.

  “Vandals?”

  “Treasure hunters,” he nodded. “There’s always been stories about mad old Sebastian’s ghost, guarding a pile of hidden dough. It looks like someone’s been taking them seriously.”

  Del looked around at the chisels and crowbar and powdered stone at his feet, and his mouth dropped open with sudden recognition. The old man in the woods . . . his ax . . .

  A pick ax?

  “Hold on,” Bart was peering into the hole in the wall. He stuck his hand in and felt about. “You know, there’s two walls here, two entirely different walls.” His knuckles knocked against something solid. “Strike that. Three walls. The third hasn’t been broken yet.”

  “So what? Let’s get outta here before whoever it is comes back.”

  “Hang on a minute, Delbert. Don’t you know what this means? Our treasure hunter might be onto something. What would you wall up, three times, unless it was valuable?” Delbert muttered something about a dead boy or two, but Bart ignored him. “Wouldn’t it be something if there was money behind there? I’ll tell you, I’d—” He looked around warily. “Did you hea
r something?”

  Del’s breath caught. “Oh, goddamn it, don’t do that,” he complained, clutching his heart. “What did it sound like?”

  “Scratching.”

  The boy breathed a sigh of relief. “Is that all? It’s just rats. I think one brushed my leg back there somewhere.” He motioned into the darkness. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

  “Okay, okay,” Bart sighed, still peering into the hole. “Jeez, I wish I knew what was back there.” He reached in and rapped that third wall once again. Only this time the stone wasn’t in place. His fist encountered empty air and kept going, and his arm sank through the opening up to the elbow. He lost his balance and fell against the wall and said, “Shit.”

  He said it even louder when something grabbed his wrist.

  It was clammy and cold, nearly freezing. His crotch shrank at the mere touch. And it was strong. It jerked his arm further into the hole, shoulder deep, banging his face against the wall and shaking the flashlight from his grasp. His neck was bent at an angle against the brick till he could barely breath or cry out, and still the pressure grew. All he could manage was a gasp.

  Then the last of the Coleman’s fuel burned up and the lamp winked out.

  Chapter Four

  Del couldn’t be sure how long he stood there. Nor could he tell which direction the stairs were in or the walls or even Bart for that matter. He was lost in the blackness. It disoriented him, tilted the floor and turned the world on its side and made him fight to stay on his feet. “C’mon, Bart, this ain’t funny, Where are you? Bart?”

  There was an uncharacteristic whimper in reply. “Oh, shit, something’s got me, oh shit, oh shit. . . .”

  “Hang on, Bart. Just hang on. Dammit, where’s the flashlight?!” He flailed his fists helplessly at the claustrophobic darkness as if it were a tangible thing. There was a whimper rising in his own throat but he forced it down. Not now. You can’t be scared now. He dropped onto his hands and knees and crawled along the rough stone floor, fighting his tears back. “Where’s the flashlight!” His knees were bruised from the rubble, and something ragged cut his palm and made him cry out in pain. But he wouldn’t stop. Don’t stop! Keep looking! He was starting to cry when his hand finally closed around something long and thin and smooth. But the rat connected to it hissed not a foot from his face and he slung it away with a shriek. “I can’t find it,” he sobbed. “Bart, I can’t find it!”