The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller (25 page)

The hallway continued to widen and soon was
wide enough for the group to walk side by side. They could now hear
a gentle clanging sound coming from just ahead, growing louder and
more distinct with each step forward. Moments later, the sound was
upon them, as the lamplight revealed a cluster of chains hanging
from the ceiling, swaying back and forth in unison, clanging
together in the cold air. Each chain was about nine or ten feet
long and were made of links much heavier and sturdier than your
conventional, general-purpose chain. The chains hung from long
metal hooks on the ceiling, equally spaced apart from one another.
A circular clamp about six inches in diameter was at the end of
each chain, with a nut and bolt at the bottom to tighten and loosen
the tension. Many of the clamps were stained with a dark brown
substance around the inner ring, leftovers from a time when
innocence bled suffering.

Isaac lightly pushed apart the chains
(careful to not smack Virginia behind him) and came to the end of
the hallway. He peered into the darkness before him, waiting for
Virginia and Simmons to wrestle free of the dangling chains.
Simmons stopped behind Isaac just beyond the last of the swinging
shackles, while Virginia stepped ahead, held the lantern out in
front of her, and shined light into the dark chamber.

The room was so cold Isaac could see his
breath in the air. It puffed out of his mouth like a cloud of smoke
and softly separated before floating beyond the glow of the light.
The putrid smell was now constant and had grown stronger. He found
the stench almost unbearable, far worse than the aroma of scalded
bodies, and he had not yet forgotten that first step inside the
Ackerman house, which seemed like ages ago. The sweet smell of ash
he could tolerate, given enough time maybe even come to enjoy, even
if the ash was human flesh and bone. But this scent made him gag
and shudder from the inside out. He tried to cough but nothing more
than a slippery wet grunt exited his throat. If his stomach weren’t
balled up with fear, and quite likely a smidgen of self-doubt, he
was certain he would vomit.

High up on the wall to the right was an oil
lamp. It was much bigger than the lantern they had found in the
entranceway, but this one held no flame. Such a pity to see the
lamp hanging from the wall, tall and empty, if there were ever a
room in need of more light, it was this one.

Not far from the end of the hallway, across
from the second oil lamp on the right, the group came upon the
first of the twelve cells.

The cell was ten by ten, with three walls
and a long set of iron bars at the front, each staff driven into
the ground and ceiling six inches apart from one another. The iron
was chipped in many spots and had rusted to a dozen different
shades of brown and orange. Built into the center of the bars,
halfway up, was a small locked metal box with an oversized
keyhole.

Of course, no one in the group noticed any
of these things, as they were not able to take their eyes off the
pale, transparent figure hugging the back wall. It had its back
turned to them. Its long fingers scratched at the stone, up and
down, up and down, like it was trying desperately to somehow dig
through the wall. After a few seconds, it would stop, gather
itself, and then start the process all over again.

The group watched the horrifying display
from the other side of the bars, half amazed and half frightened at
what they were witnessing. Until, the figure stopped scratching and
lowered its arms, bowed its head.

Had it given up?

Or had it felt their dazed stares from
behind?

“What is it?” Isaac asked, his eyes not
shifting from the strange being. It remained still, hugging the
back wall, hissing softly.

“A prisoner,” Virginia whispered.

Suddenly, the figure swung around and leapt
to the other end of the cell. Its pale, lanky body brutally
collided with the top of the iron bars, rattling them in their deep
holes. The force of the collision knocked the group to the cold
stone floor. The lantern flew out of Virginia’s hand, scuttled
across the floor on its side, and came to a halt ten yards further
up the cellblock. Luckily, the glass didn’t break and the flame
didn’t die.

The group looked up from the ground and
watched the prisoner wrap its gangly hands and feet around the
rusted iron. Then it shook the bars violently back and forth, back
and forth. Its black, vacant sockets stared down upon them, and its
toothless mouth gaped wide open, shrieking. It continued back and
forth, back and forth, rattling the bars,
again and again and
again.
The violent symphony resonated through the chamber, as
did the piercing screams.

Virginia clutched Isaac’s hand so tight he
feared she might tear his fingers right off, her nails dug and
pinched into his palm. Soon after the figure ceased the ruthless
display, Virginia loosened her grip and slowly released her
trembling hand from Isaac’s.

Meanwhile, the prisoner clamped its mouth
around one of the rusted bars and tried to gnaw through the iron
with its gums while sliding down to the floor. When it reached the
bottom, it sat on its knees and continued to stare at them, no
longer shrieking, banging, or gnawing on the bars. The ghost had
calmed instantly, and there was now sadness behind those black,
deserted eyes.

This thing that had said
hello
by
viciously knocking them to the floor, nearly causing them to piss
their pants, wasn’t something to be afraid of, but something to
feel sorry for.

Virginia stood up, hoping to not startle the
ghost, and walked over to pick up the lantern in front of cell
number two. Isaac and Simmons followed in much the same manner,
glancing back only to see the ghost’s sad eyes still upon them. As
she picked up the lamp, Virginia noticed a sheet of dark tinted
glass running across the right wall about waist high, continuing
down to where the cellblock twisted to the right.

Behind the glass is the study, she thought,
and through the tinted window, he would watch over the prisoners.
He would watch them suffer
.

Another pale figure was in the second cell
to the left of them. Aside from its larger head and longer torso,
it looked very similar to the prisoner in the first cell. This one
was definitely a man, Virginia thought, or
was
a man. It was
hunched over on all fours and crawled in a circle in the middle of
the cell as though it were an animal chasing a piece of raw meat
dangling in front of its face. In circles it went, crawling fast,
its mouth open,
begging,
never letting up.

The figure in the third cell was leaning
over in the far right corner. It had its legs stretched in front of
it, knees slightly bent. Its head was down, its arms out to its
side, while its entire upper body jolted forward like it intended
to vomit all over its chest, stomach, and groin.

In the fourth and final cell before the
chamber turned to the right, a figure sat Indian style in the
center. It had its right hand clamped around its left wrist,
holding its left arm up to its mouth. Its jaw
bit down,
opened,
bit down,
opened, gradually chewing off the arm. It
stopped and glanced up at the passing group, holding part of the
white, transparent flesh out as an offering. Then
bit down,
opened,
bit down,
opened.

The group turned the corner and came to a
wooden door on the right. The black spying window stopped at the
door and continued on the other side. Isaac hurried over to open
the door, but right as his hand touched the tip of the knob,
Virginia tugged on his coat from behind.

“Isaac.” She pointed across the hall at the
fifth and sixth cells. “Look.”

Two of the figures had found a way to
connect with each other across the cells. One stood on the top
right of the fifth, the other on the top left of the sixth. They
each had an arm hanging between the last set of bars, six inches
apart, reaching out toward the other one. They held hands outside
of the bars, in the stone space between the two cells, crying and
whispering to one another. In life these two could have been young
lovers, or perhaps, long time husband and wife. Their last moments
were spent here, dying underground in this prison, unable to see
each other, but by chance (or perhaps not) were locked in
neighboring cells, and were still able to touch.

Virginia held her hand up to her face and
brushed a few tears away from her eyes. The warm tears felt good in
the bitter chamber, although she wished them gone. She had to keep
herself under control, not let her emotions get the best of her,
for Isaac’s sake and the sake of his daughter, Amy, who was still
missing. But the constant struggle grew harder, especially now,
seeing the spirits long for each other, holding hands.

Isaac walked further down the chamber,
leaving Virginia and Simmons in front of the door to the study. He
drifted beyond the glow of the lamplight, but it didn’t matter
anymore. There was nothing to be afraid of down here, nothing that
wished hurt upon him. He stopped in front of the eighth cell, the
last of the middle row, and tiptoed closer to the iron bars. The
ghost inside noticed Isaac coming toward the cell and turned its
head away like it was scared to look at him, fearing he would
punish it. So it sat, hunched over in the back of the cell. Quiet.
Motionless.

Isaac stopped six inches away from the bars,
clutched the iron above his head, and leaned in closer. “Come
here.”

The ghost looked back for a moment allowing
Isaac to see the eyes again, those sad eyes. It was the same look
the prisoner from the first cell gave after it had calmed, while
their backs laid against the cold stone floor. But this time Isaac
truly saw the agony behind the eyes. He felt the soul of the
spirit. “I won’t hurt you.”

The ghost looked over a few more times,
still turning its head back to the wall, then at last held the
stare longer and began crawling toward the bars. When it arrived at
the barred door, it picked its hands off the floor and wrapped them
around the bars a couple of feet below Isaac’s. Again it hunched
over, its legs folded at the knees beneath it, quivering as it
peered up at Isaac.

The sadness now poured out of the black
sockets like ice melting upon him. Isaac wanted to smile, wanted to
do something to try and ease the spirits fear, but smiling would
probably make it more afraid, and that’s not what either of them
wanted.

“Please,” said Isaac, still looking into the
sad, fear filled eyes. He couldn’t believe what he was doing. He
couldn’t believe he was actually talking to a ghost. The words
rolled from his mouth slow and gentle. “Tell me what to do?”

The ghost remained motionless at Isaac’s
feet, still peering up at him, afraid.
Is this what the
illusionist enjoyed seeing?
Isaac wondered.
Is that the look
he craved?
The ghost picked its legs up from beneath it and
began to stand up. Even when it stood, its back remained arched,
and its eyes remained on Isaac. The ghost’s pale hands slid up the
bars and came to a stop into Isaac’s hands, flowing seamlessly,
caressing.
The hands were icy cold to the touch, yet,
somewhere inside Isaac could feel a fever beneath the surface
wanting to pierce through.

The ghost opened its mouth, its wide, black
mouth, leaned in closer, until their faces were almost touching,
and finally answered. Its voice sounded like it had been carried
through a long tunnel.

It only spoke two words, but they were
enough. It was all Isaac needed to hear.

“Help me!”
It had cried.

9

The lamp lit up the small study
effortlessly, flickering light off the walls in every direction.
The first thing they noticed upon entering the room was how full
and packed the study was, which, for once, made perfect sense, as
the dark chamber was one of the few places the investigators of old
never found, or had the guts to explore. About two times as much
stuff filled the room than it could comfortably hold, much of it
clustered against a back wall piled with large wooden crates lying
under a shroud of thick, gray dust.

A long, mahogany desk rested on each of the
front corners of the room, both identical in size and shape,
partially filling the front and side walls. Under each desk was a
matching chair with faded black cushions on the seats. These desks
would have made for an ideal viewing area of all twelve cells in
the chamber, with the dark tinted glass perfectly at eye level when
sitting. The desks contained no shelves or drawers, but lying on
top were a few scattered sheets of paper, diagrams, pens,
inkbottles, and dozens of melted candles.

The center of the room was the only area fit
for moving about, not more than eight feet in diameter. In this
circle, the group stood, each of their eyes focusing on something
different.

Simmons turned to the wooden crates at the
back of the room. There were twelve crates (like the cells) all
together, stacked like a pyramid. He tried to see what, if
anything, was inside the crates. He wanted to pick one up and move
it to the floor but feared he might accidentally drop it. The last
thing he wanted was for a family of severed heads to break free of
the wooden planks and tumble across the study.

Virginia set the lamp down on the desk at
the corner of the right wall, sat down, and found a bookshelf less
than a foot high and no more than two feet long nestled far
underneath, well out of sight. She would not have even seen the
shelf had she not sat down in the padded black cushioned chair. She
got up, walked past the door to the matching desk on the other
side, and looked beneath. Another bookshelf lay under the second
desk, and like the first, it was well hidden.