The Manor (26 page)

Paul giggled. "The martyr. Nails in your palms and a spear in your side. Poor boy. You've given me an idea for my next video.
The Noble Suffering of Adam Andrews.
Filmed in whine-a-vision." Asshole.
Asshole.

Adam clenched a fist, the anger merging with the fear, creating a hot mix that burned his gut. But losing control would be leting Paul have the final victory. Adam always lost with grace. And he'd had lots of practice. He forced his voice to remain calm and quiet. "Look, since I'm stuck here for five more weeks, we may as wel be civil to each other. That way, maybe we can look back at this one day and pretend it wasn't all bad." The rocker squeaked as Paul stood up, and the ember of the joint stub arced into the damp grass beside the porch. Paul walked over to Adam, leaned for-ward until his face was so close that Adam could smel the marijuana and liquor on his breath.

"Now you're talking," Paul said. "Since we're stuck with each other, we might as wel enjoy it." Adam tried to slide away from the contact, but Paul hugged him, his breath hot on Adam's neck.

"Paul, I don't think—"

"Shh. You get all hot and bothered over Ephram Korban, talking about him in your sleep, but I'm prob-ably a little more available."

"I can't, knowing you don't care about me. Now stop it, Miss Mamie might see us." Paul stepped back, looked into Adam's eyes. Smiled. His damned hair was tousled, boyish, he was dead cute and knew it.

Suddenly his face changed, contorted, and Ephram Korban, that twisted, cruel face from Adam's night-mare, leered at him like a Halloween mask.

And the dream came back in all its brilliance and re-alism, Korban leaning him over the railing of the widow's walk, only kissing him this time, breath hot and foul, tongue like an insistent snake, mouth stealing the breath from his lungs. Then, drained and empty, Korban sucking him into the long tunnel toward the thing that Adam knew was waiting around the bend. The thing he feared most. For Adam, there would be nothing. In Adam's part of the tunnel, after he passed through the row of ghosts, he would step into the pitch of his childhood nightmare. The one of suffocation, no sight, no sound, no touch besides the texture of the darkness pressing down around him. No taste besides the bland airless nothing.

No feeling besides the fear that came with isolation. And the dread of knowing that the bubble was com-plete, intact, unchanging. Eternal loneliness.

Was that why he was so desperate to adopt? To make someone need him? To make it so the child couldn't leave, at least for many years? Years that the awful col-orless texture would be kept away. He blinked and it was Paul who stood before him, not Ephram Korban. The piano notes were like needles of ice driven by the wind.

Only a flashback,
he thought.
How old were you when you first had that dream of suffocation?

Three? Two? Even before you knew about words?

And this house has brought it back, the dream comes sniffing around your heels like a strange
black dog that follows you home. That neither comes close enough to be petted nor gets left far
enough behind to be forgot-ten.

Adam didn't know what the dream meant, and he wasn't interested in a shrink's opinion, either. He only knew that he didn't want to be alone. Even if it meant surrendering, losing, grabbing and hanging on in des-peration. He wrapped his arms around Paul, clung to him as if sinking in quicksand. The death dream. Ephram Korban. The ghosts. Al part of it. The house would take him in its jaws and then swalow him into its black stomach. Swalow him alone, unless he took someone with him into that air-less silence.

"I care about you," Paul whispered in his ear. "Can't you tell?" Paul cared about the flesh, the meat. But that was okay. That's al they were, anyway. They had no spirit. Two souls could never mingle as one, not even in dreams.

Adam let out a sharp breath. He hated the feelings that flooded his body, the passion that betrayed him. But love and hate were basicaly the same thing, and both were better than feeling nothing. Anything was better than the suffocation of solitude that waited in his tunnel of the soul. He puled Paul closer.

"I have an idea," Paul said. "Let's go up on the roof. Up the litle stairs. Fool around up there where you had your dream. And I promise not to push you off."

"That's what they al say," Adam said. "And the next thing you know, you're looking down at your own ghost."

"Trust me." Paul took his hand, led him inside.

As they entered the house, Adam realized that peo-ple never gave away their hearts, however wiling or desperate or lonely they were. Hearts always had to be taken. By force or trickery. Love was murder, the in-fliction of death by cardiac theft, and the alternative was even worse.

Korban's painted eyes looked down at them, glim-mering with cold empathy, wise to the futility of human dreams.

* * *

Anna held the lantern higher. The air in the base-ment smeled of wood and decay, the shadows creeping from the corners like solid things. Mason's statue skulked in the flicker of flame, the raw features sug-gesting an obscene strength. The bust of Korban was even more unsettling, because the face had grown

•comfortable in the polished grain. It had been fash-ioned with all the love God might have summoned in crafting Adam and Eve.

"What does it mean?" Mason asked.

"I think it means you're obsessed."

"I'm talking about the painting."

"You did all of this since
yesterday? "

"Hey, the critics wil love me, Mama wil be proud, I'm the Mountain Michelangelo, the unsung hero of sculpture, blah, blah, blah. But look at this damned painting."

Anna looked. There, on the widow's walk, a host of figures stood in white relief against the dark background. Foremost was the woman Anna had seen in her dreams, the woman in the long flowing gown, the bou-quet in her hands. The woman's mouth was open, caught in a scream or a whisper, the eyes imploring, pleading for deliverance from the grasping shapes be-hind her.

"That's you," Mason said.

"No. I thought it was, at first."

"You've seen this painting before?"

"In my dreams. For the past year, ever since I found out—since I decided to come to Korban Manor."

"If it's not you, then who is it?"

"You won't believe this."

Mason waved his arm to indicate his work. "I've turned into a genius practicaly overnight, every time I close my eyes Korban is right there telling me to get back to work, you and Ransom and half the guests are convinced that this house is haunted, and this picture has painted itself while nobody was watching. Now tel me what else I wouldn't believe."

"Okay, then. Promise not to laugh."

"I've not been in a laughing mood since I got here. I'm a serious artist, didn't you know that?"

"Oh yes. You've got 'suffering' writen al over your face. It's your shield against the world. That's your ex-cuse for keeping people away. You're as wooden as your goddamned statue."

Mason's eyes flashed anger, and for a moment Anna saw Stephen, his mask of barely suppressed rage at Anna's acceptance of approaching death, his calcula-tion of what her loss would mean, his scorn when he'd learned she was going off to a "haunted" house that had never registered anomalous empirical data. Mason grabbed her arm, squeezed hard enough to hurt. "Listen to me. When I was six years old, my mother bought be a package of modeling clay. It was like magic, digging my fingers in that stuff, twisting it and shaping it however I liked. For the first time in my life, I could control something.

"I made my mother a dinosaur, copying it from a picture in a book. I even put a row of litle bony plates up its spine and spikes on its tail, two long horns and eyes that looked like they could stare down a T. Rex. Mama loved it. For the first time ever, I'd done some-thing that really made her proud." Mason squeezed harder, and Anna feared that he'd lost his mind, was going to snap her arm as if it were one of his whittling sticks. He talked faster, face red, eyes dark and faraway. "And my dad came in, saw the dinosaur, knocked it on the floor, and stomped it flat. Called me a goddamned useless daydreamer, a lazy-bones sack of crap. I can still see that imprint on the floor, the tread of his boot in the clay. Made me feel real special, all right.

"And
you're
special because you see things that don't exist. Wel, let me tel you something, Litle Miss Strange. This isn't one of your campfire tales. This is happening, this is real." He pulled her closer to the painting.

"You can
see
it."

She twisted away, retreated with the lantern. The motion of the light made the shadows shift, gave the il-lusion that the statue had altered its position among the boards and wires that supported it. She gazed into the smal flame of the lantern, where the orange gave way to blue and then to yelow. Maybe if she burned out her retinas, she'd never have to see another ghost in the short time she had left to live. Blinded to Second Sight or any sight.

"That's not me," she said, commanding her tears to evaporate. "It's my mother."

"Your mother?"

"She's here. She's dead. She's one of them now. And they can have her, for all I care."

"One of who? Wait a minute. You're losing me."

"Join the club. I've lost everybody else along the way."

She slammed the lantern onto Mason's worktable hard enough to rattle the glass. The shadows jumped as the flame bobbed, then the darkness began its slow crawl toward Anna. "Here. You're going to need this, because it gets awfuly dark when your head's up your ass."

She headed for the stairs, welcoming the cool air that drifted over her skin like fingers of fog. The pain came again, in gentle prods, reminders of the sand that poured through the narrow hourglass gap between pre-sent and past. Soon the sand would run out and dark-ness would claim her. Soon but not nearly soon enough. On each wooden step, she stomped out her ritual countdown.

Ten, round and thin.

Nine, loop and droop.

Eight, a double gate.

"Anna. Wait."

Seven, sharp and even.

Six, an arc and trick.

"I'm sorry."

She was sorry, too.

Five, a broken wing.

Four, a north fork.

"I'm scared."

Join the club.

Three, a skeleton key.

Two, an empty hook.

One, a dividing line.

"Help me."

Zero.

Nothing.

She opened the door and went down the hall, into the arteries of the house, aware of its patient and held breath, its warm and welcoming heart. Acceptance brought peace. This was the first and last place she had ever belonged. Sylva Hartley was right. She had come home.

She had come home. Sylva ground the dried blood-root, pulse working her veins like a snowmelt busting through rocks at the tail end of winter. Only a handful of hours until sundown, and then the rising of the blue moon. Sylva had prayed for this night for nigh on a hundred years, and the ashes of a prayer were stronger than the hottest fires of hell.

The spirits shifted in the dirt, turned in their tunnels, restless, disturbed by Ephram Korban's rising power. She knew Ephram better than anybody, better than even Margaret did, or "Miss Mamie," as she'd taken to being called. Many was the night Ephram's voice haunted the wind of Beechy Gap, whispering to Sylva, sending her scuttling for the charms. And he was fetching up a storm now, had already called over George Lawson and one of them new guests, with more soon to follow. By the next sunrise, Korban would have them all. Even Anna. Especially Anna.

Sylva clutched the clay jar of catbone, sprinkled some on the hearth. Her hand ached from gripping the stone, but the powders had to be fine as grave dust. She crushed the mixture again, worked the dry herbs, trem-bling. The fire spat, which she took as a good omen.

Would her faith be enough? She had the spells down, all her life had been dress rehearsal for this one magic night. Mighty long had she walked these hills, collecting roots and legends, crossing over to com-mune with the dead, even when the dead just wanted to be left alone. The spell hung on her cracked lips like a fevered drool.

When the time was right, she'd say it. Frost and fire. Ephram Korban was frost and fire. Dead and alive. Both exactly the same, when you got right to the heart of it all.

She pulled a small cedar box from a chink in the log wall. The scrap of cloth was gray with age, stained with the soul juice of the one who had worn it. Sylva brought it to her lips, whispered, "Go out frost," kissed it, and placed it amid the pile of powder.

She ground the stone against the cloth, the threads fraying, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, frost to fire.

Roth licked his lips. This was the good part. The bird had falen for his line of poppycock. Swallowed it as if it were a worm. Which gave him an idea about what he would get Lilith to do when they got to her room. She had led him through a smal door in the pantry, a door he hadn't noticed before, a place of drafts and shadows that seemed spot-on for the common class. Come to think of it, the servants were ever-present, as if they never needed to sleep. He'd seen one of the maids tending the fire in the siting room at three in the morning, and the hired hands were in at all hours with their loads of firewood. Roth followed Lilith down a narrow set of stairs. This was a separate section of the basement, waled off from the part where Mason worked and where Roth had developed his negatives. When the door swung shut above them, they were in pitch-darkness. Neither had a lantern, and the inability to see excited Roth, made his skin tingle in anticipation. Or maybe it was the chilly dead air, the sense of enclosure, that caused his heart to pump faster.