The Sorrows, page 15
But these marks are exactly the same, and he is certain now that the twin grooves wending a diagonal path up the sheer concrete façade all the way to the squat rectangular blocks—he rummages through his memory for the term, and in moments he has it—the merlons that guard the crenellated castle roof have been made by a hoofed creature.
Ben pauses, engages in another feverish scan of memory, this one from earlier that evening. He pauses only a moment on his kiss with Claire—wonderful but in no way related to the issue at hand—and searches for the image he needs. Finding it, he leaves his bedroom without bothering with the window or his shoes or anything to cover his bare chest and legs, and jogs down the hall in his boxer shorts. Soon he is in the sixth-floor studio, where the tiny red power light on the stereo still glows like an infernal eye along the far wall. To Ben’s immediate right is the recessed door, the one that can only lead to a closet or the roof. He opens the door and is both excited and chilled by the sight of the staircase leading up. Swallowing, Ben moves into the cavelike gloom of the landing and climbs the stairs. It is too dim to see well, but he can see that the steps abruptly terminate in a few more feet. He reaches up and out as he climbs and is rewarded with a smooth steel surface. Fumbling now—Ben is suddenly terrified of being half-naked and alone in the dark—he gropes for the knob, finds it and twists. The door swings out onto the square turret and its tiled roof, and for one fleeting moment Ben marvels at the attention to detail, the amount of time and money it must have taken to construct this rooftop, a feature few would ever see. Then his admiration gives way to bemusement, for twenty feet away, at a spot approximately above his bedroom, there is a tiny figure swaying on the crenellated roof border. In a flash he recognizes the skinny shoulders, the tousled, greasy hair, and he is running for his son, determined to prevent the fall this time, the one in his nightmare. As he runs, his bare feet slipping on the slick wet tiles, he recalls the image from a few hours before, Ryan’s face looming great and terrifying over Joshua as the boy wept. Remembering it now, Ben really could kill himself for letting his son slip away, for letting him live with a monster.
Is that any different, a vicious voice in his head whispers, from what happened with your mother?
“Yes,” Ben mutters. He needs to keep his head clear, his thoughts focused on Joshua.
It isn’t, the voice insists. You could’ve saved your mom from years of emotional abuse if you’d have done something about your father, rather than letting him—
“I was a kid, dammit, I couldn’t—“
(Afraid then and afraid now and your son is dying because of it)
No! he wants to scream, but he is closing in on Joshua; he can’t worry—
(left him there to be hurt, just like your mom)
“No.”
(hiding under your covers as your dad yelled at her)
“Stop.”
(beat her)
Ben opens his mouth but the words coagulate, the thought of—
(Joshua just like your mother, Ryan just like your father)
his mom’s tear-streaked face becoming Joshua’s
(but you’re the same old Ben, aren’t you)
“Enough,” he shouts.
He is not far from the boy, the little body leaning and yawing as though aboard a storm-tossed ship, and as he reaches out, actually calls his name, Joshua falls. Ben screams, knowing he is too late, but the mist beckons him on with ghostly fingers, assuring him there is still time. His legs continue dashing toward the edge of the roof. His mind looks on like an impassive spectator, yet his body seems to yearn for the six-story drop, almost welcoming the release his fall would bring.
With a strangled cry Ben tries to stop, but his body continues forward, the low crenellated border nearly underfoot. He dips his right shoulder, hoping to crash into the rectangular merlon, but he’s too late and his upper arm skids agonizingly over the gritty surface. His hip cracks the hard border, one leg swinging unimpeded through a gap. His body continues over the edge, his bare chest scraping raw on the porous concrete, then his legs dangle out over nothing and he is hugging the edge of the roof for dear life. Jesus Christ, he thinks dimly. How did I end up like this? And despite the deadly plunge that now seems preordained, a gauzy veil of unreality still hangs over all like the impairing caul of mist. Despite the moisture his grip is good but it won’t be forever, and there’s no use casting a downward glance. He knows how high he is, just as he knows his grip is weakening.
Let go, a voice wheedles. It is a woman’s voice, yet in the deepest recesses of his mind he knows the feminine lilt is manufactured, that the speaker is masculine, if not entirely human.
Let go! the voice repeats, and Ben is horrified to feel his bear hug on the concrete merlon loosening. He is too weak, too old, too useless, too defeated. Giving up will be cathartic. He does look down now and is not shocked to find that his impending fall will be unimpeded. A nice, clean drop followed by a split second of pain. Then his son will grow up not having to endure a custody battle, the awkward visits punctuated with silent recrimination.
That’s right, the voice murmurs as his arms continue their release, it will be better for everyone now, better for everyone…
Buried under the smoky membrane of confusion another voice strains to break through. It doesn’t matter though because his fingers have lost their hold on the wet concrete, his biceps and forearms raking sandpapery trails down the unforgiving surface, his legs leaden, his wind gone. No, this new voice says. No, please—
Over, the lilting voice declares, it’s over so you can leave your boy to a better—
NO! his reason explodes.
It galvanizes him. With a spasmodic movement Ben thrusts out his hands and is just able to hook his fingertips over the edge of the border.
You’re not giving up, the voice urges, you are not consigning your son to a life of danger or dysfunction.
He winces at the pain in his arms and fingers. Still, he is able to lift himself enough to bring his face even with the bottom of the border. He knows this momentary burst of strength will soon disappear, so without further debate he pulls. For one delirious moment nothing happens and he is certain he won’t make it; the next, he is straining forward, dragging his aching body over the concrete toward safety. His head passes over the edge of the border, then his neck. His shoulders come next, then his raw chest is again scraping over the rough surface. Somehow he manages to tumble forward, where he lies panting and bleeding, the obscuring mist cool on his aching body.
Lured me, Ben thinks, chest heaving. The horrible thing lured me up here, thought it could trick me into killing myself.
The thought that an alien presence could invade his mind and control his thoughts—hell, control his actions—is appalling. But he knows this is what happened. Arms extended as though he’s crossing a tightrope, Ben makes his halting way through the thickening mist back to the open door. In less than a minute he is in his bedroom. He thinks again—he can’t help it—of the scars on the castle façade. He imagines the sort of creature that could leave such marks and then wishes he hadn’t. It is huge, bestial, but the worst is its face. It is Ryan’s face, the man who wants Joshua dead.
With the thought comes a ghastly certainty—whatever intelligence almost tricked him into suicide is still peering at him through the mist. Ben cranks shut the window, leans on the sash lock till it’s tight. Then, cinching the curtains shut, he looks down at his belly and sees the crisscrossing scrapes and cuts. He needs to wash up and dress his wounds.
But first he double-checks his window to make sure it’s locked.
Chapter Ten
Dawn. Eddie sensed the breaking day on his shut lids, but he was too frightened to open them. He hadn’t even flirted with sleep after dragging the spare blanket from the closet and wrapping up in it on the floor. After discovering Lily’s imprint on the bed, the cold dampness, he couldn’t bring himself to sleep there. The others would be awakening soon. He knew what he had seen, yet he could never admit to having seen it. Thinking of their reactions, their derision, he got up and slid on his shorts. Not bothering with a shirt, he stepped into his sandals and went outside.
The breeze felt good on his chest. He regretted not wearing his running shoes. No matter, he could ditch the sandals and run on the beach. He headed for the path, grateful for something to take his mind off Lily.
God, he wished he’d never met her. If only she hadn’t been so obsessed with him, so persistent.
You didn’t have to kill her.
“Stop.”
You didn’t have to burn her alive.
“Please please stop oh God.”
Her face staring out as the car went over
Eddie got moving to outrun the image, but rather than vanishing, another image, even more disturbing, took its place.
Lily at the window last night.
“No.”
Lily in the ocean, reaching for you
He sprinted down the trail.
Soon, he reached the coast. He took off his sandals, dropped them by the edge of the woods. His cargo shorts weren’t really made for exercise, but he desperately needed motion. Eddie began to jog, the lethargy of insomnia burning off as his footfalls came more rapidly. His calves ached and his stomach was a knot, but he was alive, dammit, and that was more than he could say for Lily.
Shaking off the thought of her, the name that repeated like an idiot refrain, he picked up his knees, stretching as he ran. His arms were responding to the movement, his legs finally waking a little. The moist sand felt nice on his toes. Up ahead he spotted the cave from which Ben had emerged with a masterpiece.
Movement at its entrance arrested his attention.
Eddie slowed to a walk, hot breath singeing his throat, and strained to see through the bluish morning air. He discerned a child’s bare skin, a large pair of eyes, but it was the music that made his breath catch in his throat. Soft and melancholy. Heartbreaking.
He took an excited step in the child’s direction, but the eyes widened and the boy disappeared into the darkness of the cave.
Eddie stood indecisively, about thirty feet from where the child had been sitting and blowing on something that resembled driftwood.
What the hell?
Eddie glanced back the way he’d come and debated what to do. If the boy was another ghost, he was preferable to Lily.
Eddie paused, listening. The music had resumed, softer now, but still audible. Rather than entering the cave, Eddie took a couple of tentative steps forward and listened to the little boy’s song.
It played on, an elegiac melody. Lovely and haunting. When it ended, Eddie held his breath, hoping it would start again.
It did.
He stood there a long time, listening.
Eddie listened to it three times through before setting off the way he’d come, an exultant joy gripping him. He would play the song in the great hall, rouse them all from their slumber. See what I came up with, guys? How’s this for the opening shot? Can’t you picture it? Zooming in on the huge gravestone…the elegy converging perfectly with the image?
And watch them stare in disbelief.
Chapter Eleven
When Claire awoke, she thought she was dreaming.
Eva stood over her bed, watching her. The woman wore the same black bathing suit of the afternoon before, and like before, seemed supremely confident.
Claire sat up. “What’s going on?”
“Sleep well?”
Claire became aware of her exposed breasts, her utter nakedness beneath the sheet. She’d been restless last night, her attraction to Ben demanding some outlet.
She cinched the sheet tighter.
“It’s okay,” Eva said and held out her hand. “I have to show you something.”
Claire leaned on an elbow, careful to keep the sheet over her chest. “Can it wait?”
Eva rolled her eyes. “Wrap yourself up if you want, but come on.”
Claire watched her uncertainly.
“I have something to show you,” Eva said. “Believe me, it’ll be worth it.”
“Can’t I get dressed first?”
“Only if you want to miss something wonderful.”
A hot fluttering in her stomach, Claire drew the sheet around her torso and wiggled off the bed. For a moment, her nude lower half was exposed. She saw Eva’s eyes flit there and quickly covered herself. Eva crossed to the door.
Claire said, “I can’t go out there.”
Eva opened the door, stepped into the hall. “It’s okay, no one’s here.”
The fluttery feeling grew as they approached Eva’s door.
“What’s in—”
Eva put a finger to her lips, shushing her. Claire followed the woman into the bedroom, but Eva surprised her by tiptoeing to a wall sconce and grasping its translucent rim. Before Claire could ask what she was doing, the sconce tipped down and the bookcase next to it turned sideways. The blackness within didn’t register at first, but when Claire glanced at Eva comprehension dawned.
Eva said, “What castle would be complete without a secret passageway?”
Claire laughed, put the hand that wasn’t holding up the sheet to her mouth in amazement.
“How did you—”
“Gabriel.”
“Who’s that?”
“My visitor.”
Claire frowned, “What are you—”
“I saw it in my dream.” Eva took her hand. “I have a surprise for you. You’ll thank me for it.”
Claire followed her into the darkness and immediately detected the smells of wet metal and old dust.
“I found it late last night,” Eva said, “and I’ve been walking the walls ever since.”
The disorientation, the closeness of the walls, brought on a chill.
“We need a flashlight,” Claire said.
“I had one, but the batteries went dead.”
“Let’s go down—”
“There’s no time.”
Feeling a little sick, Claire allowed the woman to lead her through the darkness. Eva slowed, and Claire could hear the woman’s hands slithering along the walls, groping for something.
“It should be right…about…”
Claire spotted a rectangle of light about four inches high and a foot long. “What room is this?” she asked, peering into the light.
“Ben’s.”
“Wait,” she said, but the woman stilled her with a hand on her shoulder.
“Listen.”
Claire did and heard a muffled roar.
The shower.
“Come on,” Eva said and dragged Claire down the narrow walkway. The roar grew louder as they neared the bathroom, here and there the pipes narrowing the passage further. The slightly metallic scent of hot water reached her nostrils.
Another rectangle appeared and Claire’s mouth dropped open. They were staring at Ben’s naked body.
Eva stood beside her. “You know why there are mirrors all over the place?”
“I do now,” Claire said, her throat dry as sandpaper.
The woman’s mouth was very close to her ear as she said, “Don’t worry, he can’t see us.”
“This is wrong,” Claire said, but she was looking anyway, staring at Ben’s broad chest, his hard stomach with just a trace of hair around the navel. Below that…
“There are two-way mirrors in every room,” Eva said. “I guess Robert Blackwood liked to watch.”
“We can’t just watch him.”
“Here,” Eva said, taking a step backward. She put a hand on Claire’s hip and guided her to the center of the looking glass. The fingers pressing her skin through the sheet were firm, insistent. Claire’s eyes were an inch from the glass, and though the steam rendered the image gauzy, she could see enough of Ben’s nude body to bring back the feeling of earlier that night, in bed, her fingers caressing…
As if reading her thoughts, Eva said, “I watched you last night, you know.”
The hand on her hip hadn’t moved.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Claire said, feeling faint. The hot steam seeped into the tunnel, misting her lips, her chin. Her bare shoulders.
Eva spoke, her sleek, warm body pressing against hers, “I was so glad when you took your clothes off…”
Oh no, Claire thought.
“…so I could see your body…”
The hand on Claire’s hip slid up and down, slowly.
“…but I was so disappointed when you got under the covers…”
Claire whispered, “Please don’t.”
“Okay,” Eva whispered, her lips touching the base of Claire’s neck. A sense of weightlessness passed through her as the lips kissed, the tongue tracing a wet path along a shoulder. Both hands were snaking around her now, clenching the sheet, parting the white fabric. The drowsy mist coated Claire’s skin, her body naked from the stomach down.
“Don’t,” she whispered again, softer this time, and the hands massaged her belly, lower, the fingertips warm.
The showerhead shut off and Claire reached down and gathered the sheet around her. She heard Eva behind her, laughing softly.
“Stop it,” she hissed, but the laughter swelled, and Claire was suddenly sure that Ben would hear and discover them, and without thinking she cinched the sheet around her and plunged down the passageway with Eva’s laughter trailing after her.
Chapter Twelve
From the Journal of Calvin Shepherd
April 16th, 1925
May God pardon my tortured soul and save me from eternal damnation. I have committed a sin so grievous that it has taken me three sleepless nights to work up the courage to put pen to paper. It is true that I hated him with a passion that surpassed every other emotion in this dusty, old body, but not in a million years did I believe I would do to him what I did three nights ago.
I will briefly summarize the events that preceded my treachery, though this summarization will in no way explain or account for my complicity in the blasphemous deed.
Robert returned from the mainland a week ago, and his saturnine countenance made clear that things had not gone well with the head of the symphony. My master had journeyed to San Francisco to obtain an extension for his, or rather Gabriel’s, latest work, and not only was his request denied, he was flatly informed that if he did not have the entire piece completed by the predetermined date, he would be sued for breach of contract.
