The Blackham Mansion Haunting (The Downwinders Book 4) (6 page)

She walked quickly through the house, now anxious to finish
her time there, ignoring the improvements in the hallway. She stepped into the
fifth house, glancing for just a moment at the additional wallpaper in the
kitchen and the repaired faucets over the sink, and ran through until she
reached the front door once again. She opened it and crossed the threshold into
the sixth house.

This is the one I was in,
she thought.
Let’s go upstairs.

In the central hallway she turned, walking away from the
front door and down the passage until she reached the stairwell. Wainscoting
lined the left wall and the wooden banister rested on dark posts to her right. The
creaky steps of the structure narrowed as she progressed up, turning to emerge
onto the upper landing.

The air seemed stilted up here, heavier and hotter. Dust was
everywhere, lit by the sun streaking through a window at the end of the hall.
It
was almost dusk when I got here,
she thought.
The sun shouldn’t be up.

She knew she’d find the room with the mirror two doors down
on the left, so she walked down the hallway, feeling the boards creak under her
weight, unaccustomed to visitors. The house felt much spookier without someone accompanying
her, someone else to talk to. She had been paying attention to so much detail,
now every little detail of the place seemed to resonate, contributing to a
sensory overload. She reached the room, but instead of going inside, she walked
instead to the end of the hall, looking out the window. The sun was indeed up,
still an hour from setting in the west. Its orange glow lit the front yard, and
she looked down, seeing movement. Three kids, throwing rocks. For a moment she
worried they might be throwing them at her truck, but then she realized they
weren’t dressed like normal kids. Their clothes were old fashioned, like
something fifty or sixty years ago.

She looked up and saw that the cemetery was much smaller. It had
a different fence. A couple was walking through the grounds, stopping to look
at a headstone, their attention pulled away by the sound of the kids playing in
front of the mansion. The man in the cemetery yelled at the kids to get away
from the house, and they scrambled in response.

Get the mirror,
she thought, turning to walk to the bedroom, pushing the
door slowly open.

Whatever bed had been in the room was removed long ago, and
the window boarded over. Streaks of light came through the boards, giving her
enough illumination to maneuver. In the corner was a pile of wood, the remnants
of the bureau where the mirror had stood. She found pieces of its frame, but no
glass.

It wasn’t this one,
she thought.
It must have been one more house.

Then she heard a thump from downstairs.
That was too loud
to be kids throwing rocks,
she thought.
Maybe it was the front door.
Maybe the man from the cemetery came over.

She walked back down the hallway to the stairs landing and
slowly descended, craning her neck to see what might have produced the sound.
The hallway below looked empty. She thought of calling out “who’s there?” but
decided to keep her silence.

Once she reached the ground floor she saw the front entryway
down the hallway that led to the parlor and living room.
Was it the front
door? Or the hallway door at this point? I don’t remember how it went.

She went for the front, hearing another thump coming from her
left, back in the depths of the house.
Whoever it is, they’re in the
kitchen,
she thought.
I wonder if it’s the serial killer. I wonder if
it’s Willard Bingham.

As much as she wanted to know, she also knew she had no
backup. This was supposed to be just a quick in and out; find the mirror and leave.
Nothing more. Not a confrontation.

Now the thump was accompanied by another noise — a clicking
sound, and a scraping, as though something sharp and pointed was being dragged
across the wooden floor.

She ran to the front door and opened it, exposing the kitchen
of the seventh house. She looked inside, worried that if the thumping she’d
heard came from the kitchen, perhaps its source might be in this new instance
of the kitchen, too. It looked empty, so she stepped inside.

More wallpaper up. Less debris on the floor.
This is the
house,
she thought.
This is the house with the mirror. It’ll be
upstairs.

She ran through the downstairs rooms, wanting to reach the
upstairs as quickly as possible.
This was also the house where David
disappeared,
she thought.
Careful.

She slowed down as she reached the stairs, taking each one cautiously,
making sure they wouldn’t collapse. Then another thump reached her ears, this
one much closer than before. It was followed immediately by a scuttling sound. She
guessed it was in the living room or hallway below.

I don’t remember these sounds the last time I was here,
she thought as she climbed.
Maybe
they were here and I mistook them for the sound of David exploring.

She reached the top and walked down the upper hallway. This
time no light appeared through the window at the far end, and the hallway was very
dim. She moved down it carefully, feeling for the bedroom door, opening it,
hearing the familiar creak.

That’s right,
she thought.
It was dark when I found the mirror.
This
is where I was when Winn pulled me back. Where’s the mirror? Where’s the piece
of glass I found?

Her eyes continued to adjust to the darkness, slowly letting
more and more of her surroundings in. As she reached the middle of the room,
her shoe struck something on the floor, sending it spinning across the room.
That
was it!
she thought, using the sound of it to estimate where she should
search.
Don’t be a klutz; don’t break it! Don’t do something stupid like cut
yourself with it!

When she reached the spot where she felt it had landed, she
dropped to her knees and began to feel around on the floor. Her fingers bumped
into the sharp edge of the glass, and she pulled back for a moment, afraid she
might have sliced herself. She didn’t feel any pain, so she reached again,
carefully, gingerly wrapping her fingers around the object and pulling it to
her face.

As she held it, it began to emit a faint glow. She looked
into it, fascinated. It was about two inches square, with a sharp point on one
edge. The mirror backing was still there, not consistent across the entire back
of the glass, but enough that she could dimly see her reflection in it.

I have you!
she thought, wishing she could take it out with her. She
knew when she left the River, the glass would remain.

The thumping sound startled her again, this time coming from
the hallway. Whatever it was, it had followed her upstairs. Clicking and
scraping noises grew louder as it progressed toward her. It would be outside
the door within seconds.
I have to bail!
she thought.

She looked again at the glass, and her reflected image seemed
to fade, replaced by an eye staring back at her. It startled her and she pulled
the glass away. The image in the mirror pulled back too, exposing more of a
face. It was covered in large boils and sores that swelled up obscenely, nearly
obscuring the eyes.

A chill went down her spine, terrified at the figure in the
mirror fragment.
This was a bad idea,
she thought, terrified and frustrated
at the same time, preparing to drop from the River and return to her body in
the living room of the original house. She saw movement in her peripheral
vision, and knew something was coming into the room with her. Then the glass in
her hand flared, sending bright light into the room, hurting her eyes. She
dropped the glass and it fell to the floor next to her, still radiating. She
raised a hand to shield her vision, and stood.
Time to go,
she thought,
turning around.

Then the back of the room caught her attention, and she saw
the dark figure in the corner, hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly. It was
a corpse, thin and emaciated. It looked as though it had been hanging there for
a very long time. Multiple strands of a fibrous substance connected from its
head to the ceiling, suspending it a foot off the ground.

Deem stepped back startled, walking into the wall. Part of
her wanted to drop from the flow immediately, while another part wanted to
examine the hanging corpse.
You don’t have a choice,
she thought, seeing
the movement in the doorway, knowing whatever had made the scuttling noise was entering
the room. She saw a long, thin leg pass through the doorframe, and then another
— and she dropped out, leaving the River.

When she opened her eyes, she was back in the original house,
sitting in the living room. The book in her lap was still opened to the page of
the mirror drawing. She caught her breath, her mind wrapped up in the shock of
what she’d seen in the bedroom of the seventh house, trying to make sense of
it.

Hello?
she heard.

She shot to her feet.

“Who’s that?” she asked, knowing it was time to leave the
house. She gathered her backpack and was about to shut the book when the
drawing of the mirror caught her attention. It was faintly glowing, just like
the glass she’d handled moments before.

My name is Lorenzo Lyman,
she heard.
Who is there?

Deem had kept the book closed since she sped away from
Paragonah, but now she was nearing Leeds, and a decision needed to be made. She
knew Carma would disapprove of the book coming into the house with what she’d
just witnessed, but she desperately wanted to open the book and see if the
drawing of the mirror inside still glowed. And especially to see if it would
talk to her again.

She decided to pull off at Silver Reef and park her truck on
a quiet road near the collapsed buildings of the ghost town. With the dark rise
of the bluff behind her and the stars overhead, she scanned the streets for any
activity, wanting some privacy. There were no cars out, and things seemed
quiet. She turned off the truck’s engine and reached for the book, still sitting
on the passenger seat where she’d left it after leaving the Blackham mansion.

She turned the pages, knowing the approximate location of the
drawing. She had run out of the house pretty spooked, closing the book in a
hurry and bolting for her truck. Now she wanted to find out if whatever she’d
experienced in the house still remained in the book. She knew before she
reached it that it did; the edge of the leaf glowed already, faintly lighting
the pages around it.

I’m shaking
, she realized as she flipped through the book.
Calm down.

When the page she was after finally opened in front of her,
she studied the drawing. The paper itself was glowing, most intensely in the
center of the mirror. The glow fluctuated, ebbing and flowing with a pulse. She
decided to drop into the River, and once she entered the flow, she gasped.
Whereas the center of the mirror had always been blank before, now she could
see into a room, as though watching from a spy cam.

Oh my god,
she muttered.

It looked like a still image, and she examined every inch of
it, holding the book at an angle to see if she could look past the edges.

Hello?
she heard.
Is someone there?

She felt the hair rise up on her neck and arms, and she
resisted the urge to drop out of the River and slam the book closed. Instead,
she waited.

I’m here,
she replied.

A figure appeared in the back of the room, slowly sliding in
from the left, remaining shrouded in the shadows.
Who is there?
she
heard.
Speak to me.

I’m Deem,
she replied.
Who are you?

My name is Lorenzo,
she heard.

Lorenzo Lyman?
she asked.

You know me,
the voice said.
You have my journal.

I can’t see you very well,
Deem replied.
Come closer to the mirror.

The figure approached the mirror and Deem saw a man dressed
in fine clothes. A huge, distorted head emerged from the top of his shirt,
swelling with discolored boils. She put a hand to her mouth to stop a gasp of
horror.

What?
the man in the mirror asked.
Is something wrong?

Your head,
Deem replied.
It’s all swollen. What happened to you?

She watched as the figure in the mirror raised his hands to
his face, pressing on it.
Nothing,
he replied.
I don’t feel swollen.
What do you see?

Huge boils,
Deem replied,
covering your entire face. I don’t know how
you can see past them.

I don’t feel them,
Lorenzo replied, then dropped his hands and approached the
mirror even closer. Deem found herself pushing the book away from her a little.

Deem, you must come to the house,
Lorenzo pleaded.
I must talk with
you. I need your help. I need you to release me.

Release you?
Deem asked.
You are trapped?

I’ve been trapped in this house for a very long time,
he replied.

I have a friend named David,
Deem replied.
Something happened
to him in that house. I’m afraid he’s hurt. Can you help him?

There is great danger in this house,
Lorenzo replied.
Come to me and I
will…

The glow on the page began to dim, and the image of Lorenzo
and the room disappeared, leaving just the drawing.

Lorenzo?
she called.
Lorenzo!

The book was dark and silent. She dropped from the River.

“Arrrrrgh!” she yelled in irritation, slamming the book
closed and tossing it back to the passenger seat. She looked up at the
dashboard and the scene beyond; the stars brightly shining above, and the dim
glow of the moon faintly illuminating the broken bricks of the ghost town ruin
in front of her.

I guess I’ll go home,
she thought. She started up her truck and drove the short
distance to Leeds, parking in front of the house. Checking her watch, she saw
it was after midnight.

I’ve got no choice,
Deem thought, stopping at the front door and knocking
loudly.
I hope she’s up.

She saw a light pop on in a window, and Carma eventually appeared
at the door in a robe.

“You lost your key?” Carma asked.

“No, I just didn’t want to bring Lorenzo’s journal into the
house until you knew what’s happened.”

Carma’s face changed, her eyebrows slanting and little
furrows breaking out on her forehead. “What’s happened?”

“I went to the house in Paragonah tonight,” Deem replied.

“With Warren?” Carma asked.

“No, by myself, after our date. I walked through the houses
until I found a piece of the mirror that was big enough to look through. I saw
something in it. When I came out of the River, Lorenzo was able to talk to me.
Through the book. Through the drawing of the mirror in the book.”

“You talked to him?” Carma asked, surprised.

“For about a minute, yes,” Deem replied. “Then he faded, and
the book went back to normal. I didn’t want to bring the book into the house
unless you approved.”

Carma stood in the doorway, thinking. A hand darted into the
pocket of her robe and she had a cigarette lit within a second, exhaling the
smoke into the air above Deem’s head. “What did he say?” she asked.

“He wants me to come back to the house and release him. He
says he’s trapped.”

“He must have drawn the mirror in his journal in anticipation
of this,” she mused, her eyes darting left and right, “hoping he could
communicate through it.”

“But his journal was lost in Left Hand mine for the past
hundred years,” Deem said. “He’s had no one to communicate with. Can I come in?
And bring the journal?”

“Yes, yes,” Carma said, opening the door. “But until we know
more, I’d like you to keep it in a special box I have, will you?”

“Sure,” Deem replied, walking into the house. Carma left Deem
in the hallway, disappearing deeper into the house, and soon returned with a
large wooden box covered in carvings. She opened the top, and Deem could see a
rich silk lining inside. Deem placed the journal in the box and Carma closed
it. “I’ll keep this in the drawing room. Feel free to take it wherever you want
in the house, but not outside. Try to keep the book inside the box when you
read it.”

“Alright,” Deem agreed.

“So you talked with Lorenzo, did you?” Carma asked.

“Yes. I asked him about the house. I told him something was
wrong with David, and I wanted to know if he knew anything about that. He
started to answer me when it faded out.”

“If it’s what I think it is,” Carma said, “the connection
between Lorenzo’s mirror and the drawing in the book was reinforced when you
found the mirror fragment. After all these years it’s likely that it only has
enough energy to last for a few moments every day. The moon may recharge it. Try
again tomorrow night, and use economy with your words. It’ll probably only last
a few moments.”

“If I’m going to go see him in that house,” Deem mused aloud,
thinking, “we’ll need to arrange a meeting place. He’ll have to meet me at the
first duplicate, something like that. The copies go on and on; I could be
wandering for hours otherwise.”

“Winn and David will be back tomorrow,” Carma said. “Let’s
see what they find out before you go back there. And for heaven’s sake, please
don’t go alone again. Really.” Carma gave her a disapproving look, but Deem
could tell she was nevertheless excited by the news.

▪
▪
▪

Winston Talbot disappeared into another room, and David
turned to Winn, holding the bandage against his arm where Winston had just
drawn blood. “I’ve never seen so many records.”

“Me neither,” Winn replied, gazing up to the shelves that
lined the cavernous room they were in. Thousands and thousands of vinyl LPs
lined the shelves, covering each wall and running in freestanding racks that
sliced the room into smaller aisles. “He said wholesale, so he must supply them
to record stores.”

Winston reappeared. He was wearing cargo shorts and a t-shirt
that was too small for his large belly. “It’ll take a few moments for the blood
to process,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me what happened to you, while we
wait?”

David began the story. Winn browsed the shelves, occasionally
seeing an artist he knew. David finished by relaying the events of the night
before.

“We’ll wait on the blood,” Winston said, “but from what
you’re describing to me, it sounds like some kind of paralytic. They’re often
accompanied by memory loss. Further paralysis can occur when the memories
return, and they’re often accompanied by hallucinations, making it hard to know
if they’re really memories or not.”

“What could cause that?” David asked.

“Many different things,” Winston replied. “I could speculate,
but it would probably just freak you out. I’ll wait for the blood on this one.”

Winston turned to look at Winn, who had removed an album from
the shelves. He was inspecting a large black and white newspaper that he’d
pulled from the sleeve.

“Ah, I see you found
Thick as a Brick
,” Winston said.
“1972 US release, on Reprise, not Chrysalis.”

“The CD didn’t have all this in it,” Winn said, marveling at
the dozens of fake news stories on the full-size newsprint. “I’m feeling a
little ripped off. Are all LPs like this?”

“Not all, but many,” Winston said. “CD cases couldn’t
accommodate anything like that. Album artwork and packaging was a much bigger
deal back then. Of course, now with digital downloading, there’s practically no
artwork at all. It’s a shame.”

“Yeah, this is like a collector’s item,” Winn mused, folding
the newspaper back together so it could slide back into the album.

“You were raised on CDs, I take it?” Winston asked.

“My mother had some LPs, but we had no way to play them,” Winn
replied. “So, yeah, just CDs.”

A soft buzzing erupted from the other room. “That’ll be the
blood,” Winston said, turning to leave the room once again. “We’ll have some
answers here in a moment.”

David joined Winn, watching as he tried to fold up the newspaper
correctly. “What are CDs?” he asked.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Winn replied, suddenly feeling
old, trapped between the nostalgia all around him and David, who only knew
music played through an iPod.

“Yeah, I’m kidding,” David replied. “I know what CDs are. My
parents had a few.”

Winston returned from the other room, looking at a small
scrap of paper. “I was right, I’m afraid.”

Winn slid the album back onto the shelf and the two of them
walked to Winston.

“It’s a type of paralytic that delivers an initial burst of
paralysis and memory loss,” Winston said, “then responds to an outside force
and grows like a poison in the system. It’s reproducing in you right now,
becoming stronger. As your memories return, it’ll increase in strength until
you’re completely paralyzed and your heart stops.”

Winn saw David turn white at the news. He was afraid the kid
might throw up.

“What’s the cure?” Winn asked.

“Stop the outside force that’s causing the replication,”
Winston replied. “That might be something you can ingest, or something that can
shield you from whatever the force is. You say you remember being stabbed by
something?”

“Yes,” David replied. “Something pierced my chest.” He
illustrated by reaching up to his torso with his hand.

“Like a spider,” Winston said, “biting its prey, immobilizing
it so it can devour it. Something in that house bit you and injected this
substance into you, I expect.”

“Then why is he here, and not still in the house,
immobilized?” Winn asked.