9

  In its misery it lay on its back, its great gelatinous belly and many small, hooked legs pointed at the ceiling. Above it hung a crystal chandelier of considerable value and beauty. In the dim light that crept through holes in the thick curtains, it stared at long strands of cobwebs that hung from the crystals. When it kicked its little legs, it could make the cobwebs move to and fro in the feeble breeze. This was the kind of amusement it had been reduced to. Once a fearsome creature that made strong men piss themselves, it now thought of itself as little more than the insects it consumed, and less beautiful than the cobwebs hanging overhead. It soon rolled back onto its belly, blowing a cloud of dust from the floor. Twenty years’ worth of the stuff, so that it looked like the room was caught in a light snowfall. There was something by one of its front feet. A small, colorful sphere. It kicked the thing and it bounced under a large piece of furniture used by the soft things for making pleasant tinkling sounds.

  It remembered when the floor had been clean and people had filled the house. There was a festive gathering many years earlier. There were lights everywhere, strung throughout the downstairs rooms. A massive tree in the living room decorated with more lights and brightly wrapped boxes beneath. A fire blazed in the fireplace all day and night. It never lacked for food in those days. Of course, it was younger then, and more timid, so it remained invisible most of the time.

  It was one night during the festivities, when the creature had been examining the tree, that it learned being visible could be quite fun. A man came down the stairs in the middle of the night and saw it, a string of fairy lights dangling from one of its small, hooked legs. The sound the man made—a scream, it learned later—was delightful. However, the incident was also so startling that it didn’t eat the man at all, but merely turned invisible and returned to the basement, where it spent almost all of its time.

  After that, it became visible more often, showing itself just before it ate one of the soft things, savoring the sounds they made. By then, it knew that the owners of the house were well aware of its presence. They laid traps for it with animals and food, but it wasn’t foolish enough to be taken that easily. One evening it emerged from the basement and found a soft thing bound and gagged at the bottom of the stairs. It knew that what lay before it was a sacrifice, laid out to lure it into a trap. But the soft thing smelled of soap and perfume and was so tempting. It recalled that the sacrifice was one of the smaller ones. The other soft things made a funny sound when they wanted its attention. They said, “May.”

  Understanding that the May thing was a trap, it didn’t appear to her until the last minute. The soft thing tried to scream through its gag and the creature grabbed her in its protruding mouth. That was when the other soft things sprang their trap. Tall things seemed to appear from the shadows. They carried tubes that made exploding sounds and heavy, burning balls of metal tore into its body, making it howl in agony. Again and again came the explosions, so many that it quickly retreated back to the basement. But it took its prize—May—with it. It ate the thing quickly, in enough pain that even the soft thing’s shrieks gave it no pleasure. Soon after that, the soft things abandoned the house for good.

  * * *

  A crashing sound from the back of the house shook the creature from its reverie. Glass breaking. Footsteps. They creeped around the kitchen, then up the back staircase to the second floor. It grew anxious at the sounds and paced through the living room and parlor, waiting for the noise to settle down. It walked over the white carpets, the white walls, and the white furniture. It sat at the bottom of the white-carpeted staircase until it heard a familiar sound from long ago—a bed spring squeaking. It squeaked for a few minutes and then stopped. The creature listened until it heard the sound of heavy, steady breathing. Then it pulled itself up the stairs, its stomach rumbling.

  It stopped in the doorway of the white master bedroom where one of the soft things was asleep on the enormous, canopied bed. The creature didn’t approach immediately. The soft thing smelled strange. A combination of dirt, sweat, feces, and something else—its own death. The soft thing wasn’t well. There was glass embedded in the soles of its ragged shoes, remnants of the window it had broken to enter the house. This annoyed the creature. The house belonged to it, and it didn’t like the idea of just anyone sneaking inside.

  It ate the soft thing quickly and without pleasure. First, it stripped off its skin and swallowed it in one slippery piece. Then it sucked out the soft thing’s bones and crunched them down. Finally, it feasted on the squishy internal parts that were its favorite. But the thing didn’t taste quite right and even its screams couldn’t improve the creature’s mood.

  Afterward, it sat in the bloody bedroom, not listening so much as feeling the air. Something had been coming. Something was coming. And it wasn’t the soft thing it had just eaten. What it had felt was larger, stronger, and more dangerous. But whatever it had been, it was gone now. Then it wondered if maybe it hadn’t ever been there at all. It contemplated the possibility that in its loneliness it had gone mad. It went back down the white stairs to the white living room and pushed a white curtain aside with one of its legs. Was there something out there? It hoped so, for if it knew nothing else, it knew that it was better to be hungry than to be insane.

  10

  Tilda turned the Rolls off the freeway and onto a two-lane side road that went into the woods. After perhaps thirty minutes, she turned them onto a paved one-lane road. It was in good condition, but weeds and other plants had grown up tall around the edges. It gave the road the feel of something long abandoned.

  Another ten minutes on, the unruly landscape fell away and they found themselves in country that looked like the grounds of a wealthy landowner. There was an apple orchard and a large lake off to the left. But beyond that area, the land took on an odd look again.

  They went through a thickly wooded area where the trees were decorated with voudon symbols. Beyond that dolls were nailed to tree branches, along with children’s shoes. There were god’s eyes, feng shui mirrors, and old traditional wards like the ones Ford had seen on a trip to England just before he started working with Neuland. There were crosses everywhere, large and small. Wooden, metal, and woven from what looked like corn husks.

  Beyond the trees, the fields on both sides of the road were filled with hundreds of scarecrows, like a ragged, sun-bleached army. They passed through another thicket where another brigade of scarecrows hung from the trees. That’s what it looked like, at first.

  After a moment, Ford said, “Do you see this?”

  “I do. Those aren’t dummies.”

  Neuland, who was up front with Tilda said, “Why does Mansfield have a forest of corpses on his land?”

  She replied, “He says it’s to fool what’s after him.”

  “Where did he get the bodies?”

  “He bought them. From rural cemeteries all over the state. Plus, there are some others.”

  “What does that mean?” said Ford, leaning forward between them.

  Tilda pointed to an enormous oak and said, “My dad and grandpa. They both committed suicide.”

  “Because of whoever we’re looking for?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Neuland.

  Tilda shook her head and looked straight ahead. “I still don’t understand it. I remember Dad being happy when I was a kid. Of course, things changed after Mom left.”

  “I’m sorry too,” said Ford. “Bad things happen. Sometimes even good people give up hope.”

  Tilda glanced at Neuland. “I wish my dad was like you. Dead, but still alive.”

  “So do I,” he said.

  “We’ll be at the house soon.”

  Then the road opened up. The trees fell away behind them and they finally saw the Mansfield mansion.

  “What the hell is that?” said Ford.

  The building was three stories tall and sprawled in all directions as if it had been dropped there from the sky. The men had expected something dark and Gothic, but what they found wasn’t that at all. It was a fifties idea of modern architecture, all poured gray concrete—hundreds of tons of it—and harsh angles.

  “That’s not a mansion. It’s a goddamn fort,” said Neuland.

  “It was all the rage back when it was first built. A glimpse of the neat, clean future.”

  Ford said, “It looks like where they fire from nukes from.”

  “Please don’t talk like that to Mr. Mansfield,” said Tilda. “He’s very proud of the place.”

  “We’ll be on our best behavior,” Neuland said.

  There were more charms and protections all over the enormous structure. The windows were all stained glass and they contained wards too. The only thing the men liked about the place was the row of expensive cars out front. Another Rolls- Royce. A Bugatti. A fifties T- Bird. A red sixties Cadillac convertible as big as a battleship. All the cars were covered in dust, indicating they hadn’t been driven in a long time.

  Tilda parked the Silver Cloud at the far end of the row and led them into the house. Ford and Neuland were relieved that the inside was a lot homier than the outside. Tilda took them into an elegant Victorian parlor full of antique furniture and family portraits on the walls. Both men stood where they were, taking in the interior that clashed so violently with the house’s exterior.

  “It’s not a fort,” whispered Ford. “It’s a museum.”

  Neuland shook his head. “No, it is a fort.” He looked at Tilda. “The concrete walls outside were built around an older house, weren’t they?”

  Tilda nodded and said, “You’re right. It was Mr. Mansfield’s idea.”

  “The question is, are the new walls to keep something in or something out?” said Ford.

  Tilda looked uncomfortable for a moment before saying, “You’ll have to ask Mr. Mansfield that.”

  “So, when do we meet the great man?”

  “Please. You said you’d be good,” said Tilda, sounding nervous.

  “Not another word,” said Ford.

  A moment later, an old man rolled into the parlor in a motorized wheelchair. His white hair lay thin and straw-like on the gray, unhealthy skin of his scalp. The sagging skin of his face and hands was the color of pale clay. He was dressed in a silk smoking jacket with a couple of shirts beneath it, like he was cold even in the pleasantly temperate room.

  Mansfield said, “I thought I heard voices. Hello, Tilda. What the hell are you doing here? I said I didn’t want to see your face for two more days.”

  Tilda bit her lip and said, “I know, Mr. Mansfield, but you see…”

  Neuland said, “It’s not her fault. We insisted.”

  “We were tired of sitting on our asses.”

  Mansfield stared at the men. “So, this is them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He looked down his nose. “Are you sure? They don’t look like killers. They look like a couple of cheap pimps.”

  Ford and Neuland laughed.

  “Please,” said Tilda. “You see, something happened on the way up from the city.”

  Ford said, “There was an incident. We had to kill a man who’d followed us.”

  “Poor Tilda was there to see it,” said Neuland. “But you should be proud of her. She was over it fast and got us to a hotel where we could order room service and watch cartoons.”

  Mansfield gave them a sour smile. “What an exciting tale. But I’m paying you good money to do what I say, and I said not to come until tomorrow.”

  “Tilda said you were worried about your someone knowing we’re here. You don’t have to be. We’re not new to this game. We know how to cloak ourselves.”

  “Yes? Show me.”

  Neuland, Ford, and Tilda unbuttoned their shirts and showed Mansfield their bone necklaces.

  He waved a dismissive hand. “Voodoo rubbish.”

  “We’re here now,” said Ford. “Do you want us or not? If not, we’ll take our money and go.”

  Mansfield pointed a bony finger at them. “Which one of you is the dead man?”

  “That would be me,” said Neuland.

  Looking him up and down, Mansfield said, “A real-life dirt-napper in my home. Goodness gracious. You disgust me, you know. But right now, I’d give anything to be one of you.”

  Neuland said, “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you even know about people like me? We don’t exactly advertise.”

  Mansfield made a scoffing sound. “Is your brain rotten too? Look around the house, you idiot. You think I dabble in magic like some Las Vegas pud-puller? I know what I know because I need to know it.”

  “And you have money to buy the information,” said Ford.

  “Money is a tool,” said Mansfield. “It’s a weapon, too. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “That’s not a very friendly thing to say,” said Neuland.

  “No,” said Ford. “Insults we’ll take, but not threats. Go be an asshole on your own time.”

  The men turned and headed back to the front door.

  “Come back here, you bastards,” shouted Mansfield.

  “Fuck you,” replied Ford.

  “Talk to them, Tilda,” said Mansfield.

  Neuland turned but kept walking. “Leave her out of this. Oh, and we’re taking one of your cars. We’ll leave it at the airport.”

  “Goddamn you all.”

  “Please, Mr. Mansfield…” said Tilda.

  “Goddamn every one of you.”

  “Sweet talker,” said Ford.

  Just as the men reached the door, Mansfield shouted, “A hundred thousand.”

  Ford opened the front door.

  “Two hundred thousand.”

  Ford turned and said, “Each.”

  Mansfield shook his head. “You’re worse than the Jew.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Neuland.

  Pointing at Tilda, Mansfield said, “The one who married this one’s mother.”

  “Do we have a deal?” said Ford.

  “Of course. But you don’t ever get to tell me how to talk again.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The old man turned to Tilda. “I’m taking these pricks to the chapel. You stay here and put on coffee or something. Make yourself useful for once.”

  Ford took a deep breath and Neuland balled his fists. Neither one cared for how Mansfield treated Tilda. It made them happy to soak the old man for every cent they could.

  Mansfield took a large silver crucifix from his pocket and put it around his neck. Then he led them out the back of the house and down a wheelchair ramp. Beyond that was a smooth concrete walkway from the back porch to a small chapel in a nearby grove of trees.

  “You always wear that cross when you leave the house?” said Ford.

  “It’s more useful than the filthy voodoo nonsense around your necks.”

  “How do you know?” Neuland said.

  “Because this belonged to Clement VI. Ever heard of him?”

  “The plague pope. He hid behind a wall of burning logs hoping it would keep the plague from taking him.”

  “And it worked.”

  “The flames kept the fleas away. It wasn’t magic.”

  “So you say. Besides, even if it wasn’t magic, he was the luckiest fucker ever to wear one of those ridiculous papal hats. Half of Europe died around him horribly, but he slipped away in his nice, soft bed at sixty-one. A pretty good run for someone back then, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You like him because he’s like you,” said Ford. “Hunkered down in his palace waiting for the boogieman to go away.”

  “It worked. He had a good long life.”

  Ford shrugged. “If that’s what you call a life.”

  Mansfield shot him a look, but didn’t say anything. “It’s just up ahead.”

  The chapel he led them to was nothing to look at. A simple white wooden building with a weathered wooden cross on top. All the shutters were closed, so the men couldn’t see inside. There was a wildly out of place keypad on the wall next to the chapel’s old doors. Mansfield made the men look away while he punched in the code to unlock the building. Then the old man rolled back so that Ford and Neuland had to open the doors and go inside first.

  It was dark in the chapel, and they still couldn’t see very much. Mansfield rolled in behind them and said, “Close the damn doors.” Neuland did, and the moment they were shut, automatic lights came on.

  Even the rows of scarecrows and hanged men in the trees didn’t prepare Ford and Neuland for what they saw. The walls of the chapel were painted rusty red with something that didn’t look like paint. Dried animal carcasses hung from the ceiling, along with crosses and hundreds of little air fresheners in the shape of pine trees. The altar at the far end of the chapel was made of bones. Wards, charms, crosses, and Milagros painted and nailed up all around it. Flayed human skins were stretched over the shuttered windows.

  “I see you admiring my curtains,” said Mansfield, laughing to himself. “Don’t worry. We didn’t kill any of them. They’re wretches from a sanitarium down the road. It closed many years ago. The sanitarium’s owners let us borrow some of the patients as workers around the estate. For their rehabilitation, you understand. Some weren’t in the best of health and died on the property. The sanitarium never asked about them, so my father would bring them into the chapel, where they could finally make something of their wasted lives.”

  The men didn’t say said anything. They looked over the obscure symbols stained into the carpeted floor where there would normally be pews. More symbols and sigils, near the altar, were set into the bare wood floor in silver.

  “What do you think, gentlemen?”

  “It’s a goddamn freak show,” said Ford. “You could sell tickets.”

  Neuland said, “Kids would love this at Halloween.”

  “I thought men such as yourselves would appreciate the kind of deep magic expressed here, but since you don’t, you’ll kindly keep your mouths shut about it. This is family business.”

  Neuland said, “Is this how you made your fortune? With a little help from the Otherworld?”

 

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