In the Blood (17 page)

Palmer retreated to the bathroom. He needed to take a shower. He wanted the hot
water to turn his flesh the same boiled-lobster red as that of the pyrotic. Maybe if he
could scrub off a layer or two of skin he'd feel clean again.

He sat on the toilet, smoking a Sherman's with shaking hands, and watched the
steam turn the mirror opaque. It almost obscured the tobacco demon squatting on
his shoulder.

He closed his eyes, the roar of the water in his ears, and heard Chaz's ghost
whispering its warning again.

Yer in love with her already! You don't even know it yet, but I can see it in th' folds
of yer brain.

And the horrible thing was, it was true.

Ghost Trap

A savage place! As holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was
haunted.

-Samuel Coleridge,
Kubla Khan

10

She found him drinking espresso in a dark, smoky coffee bar across the street from
the hotel. The sun was going down and she had her shades on. He glanced up from
his drink, shrugged, and motioned for her to take a seat.

He expected her to say she was sorry or try to explain herself in some way. He'd
played the scene before, but from the other side. He'd expected hesitant, incoherent
emotional histrionics. Instead, she touched the top of his right hand with the index
finger of her left hand.

Palmer gasped as her mind flowed into his. It was as unlike the brutal intrusion of
the night before as a lover's caress from a molester's groping. There were no words,
only sensations. The intimacy was both thrilling and intimidating. The temptation
to let go, to lose himself in telepathic rapport, was strong. But so was his sense of

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self.

She recognized his fear of being subsumed and respected it, breaking the contact
voluntarily.

He couldn't tell if she was looking at him or not, so he coughed into his fist and
sipped his espresso before speaking. "No harm done."

She nodded and motioned to the paperback book at his elbow. "What's that?"

Palmer flipped the book over so that the cover was visible. "I found out what-and
where-Ghost Trap is."

Sonja picked up the book and read the title aloud.

"The Architect's Guide to Haunted Houses?"

"I found it at a B. Dalton's, of all places. Check out page 113."

Sonja opened the book and began to read:

Northern California has long demonstrated an allure for the eccentric, the artistic and

the wealthy. One of the strangest transplanted Californians to combine these elements

was the architect-millionaire Creighton Seward (1870- 1939). Seward, heir to an

industrialist fortune, has been lost among the shadows cast by Frank Lloyd Wright.

That all but a handful of his buildings have been destroyed in the sixty years since his

death has helped condemn him to obscurity. Yet none can deny that Seward's genius

was very real. As was the tragedy that consumed him.

After spending the better part of a decade designing competent but uninspired

skyscrapers and homes for America's upper class in the Great Lakes area, in 1907

Seward took a sabbatical to Europe, taking his family with him. What truly happened

on that tiny Mediterranean island will never be known. That Seward was found

roaming its shores, delirious and naked except for his wife's blood, is certain.

The official report was that a disgruntled servant had murdered the entire household,

including the children, while they slept. The only reason Seward survived was that he'd

been awakened by the killer hacking his wife apart and overpowered him, smashing

the fiend's skull open with the very ax used to dispatch his hapless family.

However, rumor persisted that the ax-murderer was none other than Seward himself,

although no one could provide motivation for such a heinous act on his part. That

Seward spent three years in a private asylum following his ordeal did not help the

gossip. In 1910, Seward resumed his career. Whatever he might have seen-or done-that

night in 1907 changed him forever, as is evident in his work.

Previously a mediocre architect, Seward's new designs foreshadowed the work of

Gaudi and Salvador Dali. Seward took only three commissions in the five years

between his return to public life and his subsequent self-imposed seclusion, but each is

a masterwork. Unfortunately, none of these structures remain standing, largely due to

the so-called "Seward Curse. "

While each of these buildings (two private homes in Minnesota and the old Zorn

Publications skyscraper in New York) were incredible works of art and widely praised

by the intelligentsia of the time, they proved to be uninhabitable. On the few occasions

Seward would speak of his later work, he insisted that he had discovered, through the

use of non-Euclidian geometry and quantum physics, a way of creating lines and

angles that would pierce the space-time continuum. Whether this was so, or simply the

ravings of a brilliant but sadly unhinged mind, can never be verified. However, it was

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soon discovered that those who intended to live or work within these edifices were often

stricken with vertigo and a nameless dread that led them to flee the buildings. (It is

believed that these incidents later provided the fantasy writer H.P. Lovecraft with the

inspiration for his short story "The Dreams in the Witch-House.") In 1916, shortly

before the Zorn Building- with its magnificent chromium gargoyles and eye-twisting

zeppelin mooring spire- was scheduled for demolition, Creighton Seward disappeared

from the public eye and would not resurface until his apparent suicide in 1930.

It was later discovered that Seward had "disappeared" into the hills of Northern

California's Sonoma Valley, where he set about creating a personal testament to guilt

and madness: the infamous Ghost Trap Manor. Using a previously existing three-story

mansion as its core, Seward had carpenters constantly
working on a twisting maze of

weirdly shaped and cunningly designed rooms and corridors that would, by the time of

the architect's death, cover acres of land and tower over six stories high. The mansion

was completed in I925 and the workmen departed, each paid handsomely to keep secret

the location
-
and nature
-
of Creighton Seward's final masterpiece.

It is uncertain whether Seward spent the last five years of his life in complete isolation,

or if he shared the house with servants. When his nephew and heir, Pierce Seward,

had the rambling house searched for signs of his uncle in 1930. it took the searchers

three days to locate the body.

The exact manner of Seward's demise is unknown, although he is believed to have

starved to death. Many of those who originally searched the house later complained of

experiencing attacks of vertigo and extreme nausea.

Notes found among Seward's personal effects hinted at the architect'
s
intended use for

his unconventional home. Seward apparently suffered from the delusion that the

ghosts of his slain family were haunting him. Consumed by guilt and fear, he devised

a house that would effectively "confuse" the pursuing spirits and keep them from

finding him, thus explaining Ghost Trap's bewildering number of blind staircases,

doorways that open onto brick walls and windows set into ceilings.

Apparently Seward himself lived in the original "normal" rooms that served as the

nucleus for the sprawling mansion. Why the architect would wander into the maze of

"ghost rooms " without provisions or a map is not certain. For lack of a better verdict,

the coroner listed his death as a suicide.

For over fifty years Ghost Trap remained shuttered and sealed against the elements as

part of the Seward estate. Then, in I982, it was sold to a San Francisco real-estate

agent and land developer acting for an unnamed third party. Ghost Trap remains

closed to the public, although whether anyone currently walks its halls is unknown.

On the page opposite the text was a partial schematic of the house's floor plan.

Sonja stared at it for a moment before realizing what she was looking at.

"I'll be damned!"

"I don't doubt it. What's up?"

She pointed at the diagram. "Can't you see? Look at that!"

Palmer frowned at the jumble of lines and curves. "So? It looks like a kid went crazy
with a Spirograph. Big deal."

"You're seeing it with human eyes. Look again. Look harder! "

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Palmer shrugged and looked at the drawing again, this time focusing his attention
on it. To his dismay the lines writhed, as if they had suddenly taken on three-dimensional life.

"Shit!"

"It's Pretender script! A form of-I don't know, call it a magic formula or glyph!"

"Are you saying this Seward guy was a werewolf or a vampire or something?"

"It's possible. Although I suspect he wasn't full-blooded, whatever he was. Probably
wasn't even aware of his heritage. There are plenty of half-bloods and changelings
out there, ignorant of their true nature and powers until something happens, later in
life, to trigger it. They can be as dangerous as a purebred Pretender, given the right
circumstances. Catherine Wheele, for example."

Palmer tried to keep his jaw from dropping. "I always wondered about her! Did you
have anything to do with the fire?"

Sonja's manner stiffened. "That's old business."

Palmer let it drop.

"Like I was saying, Seward didn't design a trap for unwanted ghosts-he created the
physical equivalent of a psychic jamming station!"

"Come again?"

"This entire house is a protective charm! No wonder Morgan is using it as his lair!

It's probably the only place on earth he can relax without fear of being attacked, at
least on a psychic level. No wonder the networks don't have any information on him.

He's practically invisible!"

"Is this a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Hard to say. Obviously it's worked to Morgan's advantage. From what little
information there is to go by, I'd say we're going to need a countercharm just to get
inside the door."

"So how do we go about getting one of these countercharms? Open a box of
breakfast cereal?"

"It won't be that easy, I'm afraid. Before we left New Orleans, I checked with
Malfeis to see if there was a reliable alchemist in the San Francisco area."

"You mean they're not listed in the Triple-A Guide?"

"Funny, Palmer. Remind me to laugh. You don't have to go if you don't want to."

"Did I say I wouldn't? Where do we have to go this time?"

"Chinatown."

He knew they were in for trouble the moment Sonja ducked into the alleyway. Since
he had no choice, he followed her into the narrow, foul-smelling back street. It was
dark and they had long left the Caucasian tourists on Grant Avenue behind them.

He realized his basic instincts had been correct when he heard the sound of boot
leather on concrete.

There were three of them blocking the way. Palmer was pained by how young they
were. The oldest of the group was barely nineteen. The Chinese youths wore their
hair short and choppy, and Palmer sensed the aggression rolling off them in
crackling waves.

The tallest of the trio, stainless steel
shuriken
decorating the front of his leather

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jacket, stepped forward. His eyes were fixed on Palmer. "This is Black Dragon
territory. No dogs or round-eyes allowed."

Sonja's fingers brushed against Palmer's bunched fist, touching his mind with her
own.
Let me handle this.

She moved to intercept the gang leader, speaking in Cantonese. "We're looking for
Li Lijing. We meant no disrespect."