The Manor

CHAPTER 23

Sylva opened the door just before Anna reached the cabin. "Been expecting you."

Anna moved past her without waiting for an invitation. Sylva looked at the folded cloth on the mantel, the one that held her spelling charm. Every trick in the book, and a few she'd only heard whispered around long-ago campfires, were ground up and sprinkled inside the cloth, and words had been said over the concoction that few lips would dare speak. But this wasn't a time for the scared or the faint of heart.

"Warm your bones," Sylva said, motioning to an old cane chair by the fire. "Tonight's one of them that lets you know winter's right around the corner."

"You didn't tell me everything," Anna said, going to the hearth but kneeling instead of sitting.

"They's such a thing as knowing too much. Bad enough you got the Sight. But if you don't mind your step, you're going to end up too soon on the wrong side of dead."

"But why does my mo-no, not my mother, I mean Rachel Hartley-think I'm some kind of savior for the haunted? Why did she summon me here? If Korban's already got them, what can I do about it? Just because I can see ghosts doesn't mean I have any special powers."

"Remember what I told you about power. It ain't what you believe that matters, it's how much." Sylva kept her eyes fixed on the leaping flames, wouldn't let her gaze slide over to the folded cloth, no matter how hard they itched for a look.

"I don't owe Rachel anything," Anna said. "You said blood runs thicker than water. But that's not all that makes people belong to each other."

"Child, I know how it hurts. I've hated myself for my weakness, my sin with Korban. I tried a hundred times to tell myself that he caused it, he spelled me and made it happen. But it's always easy to lie to yourself, ain't it? It's easy to just push it down into the dark where you hope nobody will see the truth of it, least of all yourself."

Oh yeah, woman, you know the truth of it, don't you? Ephram let you kill him under the blue moon so his spirit could go into the house. But you never knew that Ephram would take up collecting, would fetch over everybody who died on his grounds. And you surely to goodness never knew he'd keep Miss Mamie young, turn love into poison like that.

"Your sin was a long time ago," Anna said. "You ought to be able to forgive yourself after all these years."

"I was always afraid to let loose and love him," Sylva said. "You don't know the times I wanted that night to happen again, at the same time I was knotted up inside with the frights. Maybe it was all Ephram's doing, one of his tricks. But it's a scary and wondrous thing when your heart gets plumb stole away. And it's scary and wondrous to burn with hate over something, too."

"But Rachel-"

"I loved her, same as she loves you. I reckon as much as Ephram loved me."

"You said Miss Mamie was keeping him alive. That, and the spirits of those he's trapped at the manor. The ones he uses for fuel, some sort of soul siphon, feeding on their pain and dreams."

"What do you reckon Ephram burns for?" Sylva bent and took up the poker, stabbed at the back log until sparks spat up the chimney. "The dead is just like living. They want things they can't have. Ephram's got unfinished dreams, a big appetite. That's why you're here."

Sylva felt the trembling in her old limbs, the rough coursing of her blood through narrowed veins. She had been old far too long. She had too many regrets, had been played for the worst kind of fool. If only she could close her eyes and rest in peace. But Ephram Korban wouldn't allow it.

Sylva was bound here come hell or high water, and Rachel had found out way too late that what belonged to Ephram always came back. Rachel's dying here was Anna's only chance. Because Ephram would find out where Anna was, that gift of the Sight would shine like a ghost beacon in a night sky.

"And my father?" Anna said. "Do you have any pictures of him?"

"Folks don't keep pictures around here, especially of them that want to stay dead. You ever heard of poppet magic? Where they steal your face and then steal your soul? You're the only one that can free them from Ephram."

"What do I care?" Anna said. "The dead will still be dead, and I'll still have nothing. At least if I die at the manor, I'll have a warm place to haunt."

Sylva let the tears come. That was a mighty fine weapon to have around. Anna fell for it, came close, hugged her.

"Rachel gave up her life so you could get away," Sylva whispered into Anna's ear. "If Ephram takes Rachel now, you'll lose her forever. And them that's bound to the house, not all of them are touched by sin. Like that girl ghost, Becky, you saw on your first night here. Tree fell on her, right out of the blue. That child never hurt a fly. If anybody's spirit deserves to be set free, it's hers."

Anna clenched her fists. "What am I supposed to do? I'm just one person. I'm weak, I'm dying, my soul's not in such hot shape in the first place. How in the hell am I supposed to believe? "

"You gotta follow your heart, Anna." Sylva went to the window. "Sun's about to set. You know what that means."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. The blue moon."

Sylva crossed the room, stooped slowly, silently cursing Ephram for knotting up her bones and wrinkling her skin. She put a hand on Anna's shoulder, let a tear gather in her eye, then said, "You just follow your heart. That's what believing is all about."

Sylva gave her another hug, and this time Anna returned it, held on with a desperation that might have been born of a lifelong loneliness. Sylva finally let go and stepped back. "You'd best get back to the house, now. Miss Mamie's waiting."

Anna went out into the darkening forest. The wind was sharp, cold enough that the early dew was already turning hard. This was a night of frost, Sylva thought. A night for the dead.

She closed the cabin door and went to the mantel, caressed the folded cloth, and offered up ashes of prayers for its contents.

"You gentlemen are early," Miss Mamie said. "Just enjoying the view," Paul said, feet propped on the rail, a glass of the house wine in his hand.

"A lovely sunset," she said.

Adam looked out at the edge of the world, the ridges capped with molten gold, the slopes rippling with alternating folds of color and shadow. The wind carried the promise of change, the air ripe with the last bittersweet odors of autumn. Maybe that was why he'd been so morose the last couple of days. Winter always felt like death to him, a gray wasteland to be endured, much like the nightmare from his childhood. And he'd blamed Paul for it, that seasonal shift that brought unease deep inside him.

"Aren't you glad you stayed, Mr. Andrews?" Miss Mamie said to him.

Adam and Paul exchanged glances. "Yes," Adam said. "I tend to get a little melodramatic at times. Right, Paul?"

"Sure, my little poppet." He patted Adam's hand, what Miss Mamie might take as a sign of moral support instead of a romantic gesture. "We're having the time of our lives."

Paul turned to Miss Mamie. "Is it okay if I bring my video camera up? This scenery is to die for."

Miss Mamie smiled. "Why not? I think tonight will be quite memorable, and well worth preserving."

Lilith came by, refilled Paul's glass, offered wine to Adam, who held up his hand in polite refusal. "No, thanks. I'm driving."

Miss Mamie's laughter carried on the wind. "Oh, you're a funny one. No wonder Ephram is so fond of you."

"Speaking of whom, I'm surprised there are no portraits of him on the widow's walk," Paul said.

"This was one of his favorite haunts, back when he was alive. He loved nothing better than a good party, especially under the full moon."

The Abramovs were seated against the railing near the impromptu bar, tuning their instruments. The drop in temperature affected the wood, and they had to constantly adjust the tension of the strings. As they ran through several series of scales, the shifting pitch gave the music a discordant, atonal quality.

"The Abramovs have promised an original duet," Miss Mamie said. "Written just for the occasion. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have preparations to attend to."

After she left, Adam leaned forward in his chair and gripped the widow's walk, daring himself to look over the side to the small slanting roof above the portico, and to the hard arc of driveway sixty feet below. To the spot where he had died. He swallowed and closed his eyes, leaned back in the chair.

"What's the matter, Princess?" Paul asked. "You've gone pale."

"Shouldn't have had that second glass of wine."

"How am I ever going to turn you into a party girl if you can't hold your liquor better than that? The night is young."

"Yeah, but I feel a hundred years old."

Paul patted Adam's knee. "You stay here and rest your ancient bones, then. I'm going to get my camera."

"And probably sneak a few hits off a joint?"

Paul gave that irresistible, mischievous grin. "Makes me creative. And all the rest."

"Save some for me."

"You haven't changed a bit, no matter what they say." Paul looked around leaned forward and kissed Adam on the cheek. "Like the lady said it's going to be a night to remember."

Adam watched as Paul crossed the widow's walk and slipped through the trapdoor. Lilith and the dough-faced cook were setting up a buffet table. The Abramovs had returned their instruments to their cases and now stood near the railing, talking to the Mediterranean woman, Zainab. Smoke drifted from the four chimneys, rising above the trees that surrounded the manor.

Adam hunched into his chair, shivering. He wouldn't mind a fire right now. Fall was dying and winter was coming on. Cold and gray and suffocating. Too bad this night couldn't last forever.

Sweat poured from Mason like blood from a shotgun wound, his muscles screaming as he ran the fluter under the slope that would be one of Korban's cheeks. He rammed his gouge down across the wooden shoulders with his left hand. He had never carved with both hands at the same time before, but anything was possible now. The wood seemed to peel away as if shucking itself. They were in a hurry, both he and his statue.

The voice came from the bust again, the voice that had been urging him onward, driving Mason into a frenzy of chiseling and chopping and planing. It had scared him at first, but now the voice was just that of another instructor, albeit the most demanding one Mason had ever worked under.

This was the most demanding of critics.

The tunnel was waiting if he failed.

The dark crib and the rats and his mama with the squeaky voice and long gray tail.

"More off the shoulder, you fool," said the bust.

Mason looked at the bust, at Korban, his creation, his first masterpiece. The lantern on the table threw the left side of the bust into shadow.

The wooden lips moved again. "Hurry. They're waiting."

"Who?" Mason's syllable was a whisper. The air of the basement was charged with an eerie static. The hairs on the backs of his hands tingled. Flames roared up the central chimney on the other side of the stone wall.

"Get on with it, sculptor."

"I need to rest."

"You'll have plenty of time to rest later."

Mason laid his tools on the table, wiped his brow, sagged to the concrete floor in exhaustion. Then he saw Korban's painting of the manor, the one someone must have altered while Mason wasn't around. Because the figures were clearly visible, dabbed in thick strokes of oil. The woman with the bouquet had moved into the foreground, beyond the railing, and her position had changed, her arms spread, eyes wide. She was falling.

And Mason didn't care what Anna said, all that nonsense about the woman being Anna's mother, because that was Anna's face and those were Anna's eyes and the woman wore that mysterious half smile that no other woman in the world could pull off.

"Ah," the bust said. "So it's the woman you want, after all. Precious Anna."

"What about her?" Mason was far past the point of doubting his sanity. Some artists claimed their work spoke to them, so maybe hearing Korban's voice wasn't unusual. But the dividing line, the step from mere genius into certifiable tortured soul, occurred when you started talking back to the object in question.

"You can have her, once you finish me. I've already promised you fame. And I always keep my promises."

Mason's response was to take his bull point from the table. He lifted his mallet, bent his elbow to test its weight. He thought about spinning and driving the thick iron point between Korban's eyes. A blow from the mallet would split the bust in half. But how could you kill something that was already dead?

The statue quivered before him, the rough-hewn limbs flexing. Grain split along one forearm, and the block of head tilted, a small knothole parting in the place where Mason had planned to carve the mouth.

"Finish me," moaned the knothole.

Mason dropped his hammer and stepped back, sweat and sawdust and fear stinging his eyes. The wooden arms reached for him, flecks of curled oak falling from the blunt hands. Mason stumbled against the table, knocking over the bust. He looked down and saw the eyes looking up at him. It was the same cold glare as in Korban's portrait upstairs. Too perfectly the same.

"What about Anna?" Mason said.

"I promise you two will be together. We'll all be one big happy family."

That made sense, as much sense as Mama watching from the tunnel, and probably a drunken and mean-eyed version of Dad as well. Just like old times, with rats in the walls and darkness all around and Dad passed out on the floor. So if he could drag Anna in there with him, the darkness might be a little more bearable. Korban always kept his promises. How could you not trust those wise and wonderful eyes?

Mason picked up the hatchet. The critics had spoken. More off the left. Finish it. Make it perfect. Big dream image brought to life. Create.

Wood.

Flesh.

Heart.

Dream.