Behind the Walls (2 page)

Harper swung the door open, and Zina rushed in, watching over her shoulder, repeating, ‘Thank God. Thank God. Couldn’t you hear me? I thought you’d never answer.’

Harper was speechless. But what was Zina Salim doing there? She and Zina weren’t friends; they politely tolerated each other. Within the Archeology Department, they were staunch rivals, earning their PhDs under the same professors. Competing for assistantships, fellowships and teaching assignments, attention. And annoyingly, whatever Harper applied for, Zina Salim seemed to get. She was politically connected, the darling of the department – especially of Professor Wiggins, the graduate coordinator. There had been rumors, and more than once, Harper had wondered if a romance were involved.

‘Thank God, Harper,’ Zina breathed, rushing into the house. ‘Thank God you’re home.’

‘Come. In.’ Hank welcomed her, scanning the front yard before shutting the door.

Zina was trembling as Harper led her into the living room, where Vicki stood staring, sipping her wine. ‘Here, sit down. What happened, Zina? Are you OK?’

Panting, Zina sank on to the sofa, covered her face with her hands.

‘Zina?’ Harper watched her.

Zina hugged herself, silent and shivering. She seemed small, childlike. Harper pulled an afghan off the arm of the sofa, wrapped it around Zina’s shoulders and sat beside her. Zina stared warily at Vicki.

‘This is our friend, Vicki Manning,’ Harper reassured her. ‘Vicki, this is my colleague, Zina Salim.’

‘Warm get. Now.’ Hank threw some logs into the fireplace. Added some kindling. Zina watched him, transfixed, fingering an ornate bangle bracelet.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Vicki mouthed.

Harper shrugged, rolled her eyes. She thought Zina coy, manipulative. Affected, with her British accent and aristocratic attitudes. For everything she did, she seemed to have an ulterior motive. Harper didn’t trust her, doubted she’d reveal her actual purpose for coming over. But clearly, she was frightened.

Hank’s fire blazed, toasting the room. Zina watched the flames, became more collected. ‘Better now?’ he asked.

‘Thank you,’ Zina attempted a smile. She slipped her bracelet on and off, nervously. ‘This is so nice of you, opening your home to me.’ She spoke in a sweet, controlled tone. ‘I’m better now. Probably I was overreacting. I mean, obviously, I was. Just being silly. I hope I didn’t interrupt your—’

‘What happened, Zina?’ Harper cut in.

Zina looked away, stared at the fire. Harper, Hank and Vicki stared at Zina. Moments passed. Finally, Zina turned to Harper.

‘Harper,’ her eyes were doubtful. ‘Do you believe in the Nahual?’

‘The Nahual.’ Harper repeated.

Zina nodded, eyes shifting.

‘In what?’ Vicki asked.

‘Shape-shifters.’ Harper watched Zina, tried not to smirk.

‘No – I know it sounds crazy. That’s why I said I was overreacting. It was nothing—’ She attempted a laugh, failed. Started to stand.

‘Uh uh.’ Harper grabbed her arm, pulled her back to the sofa. ‘You’re not leaving until you explain what the hell you’re talking about.’

‘Tell us.’ Hank took a seat by the fire, waiting.

Vicki stepped closer. Zina’s face reflected the fire. She looked from one to the other and finally caved, sinking back against the cushions.

‘You’ll think I’m making it up.’

‘Just tell us.’

She drew a breath. Let it out. Drew another. And began. ‘It was  . . . I was at work. At Langston’s house.’

‘Cataloguing?’ Harper had applied for that assistantship, a plumb opportunity to document the late professor’s expansive Pre-Columbian collection. But Wiggins had selected Zina. Of course.

‘Yes. Cataloguing.’ Zina pushed hair off her face, still playing with her bracelet. ‘But when the sun went down, the air – all of a sudden, it shifted. It actually moved. I felt someone there. Behind – or maybe in front – of me. I heard owls hooting. Dogs barking. And I smelled something – like incense. Smoky and musky  . . . And then wings were flapping—’

‘Wings?’

‘I swear. Like the wings of a bat.’ Zina nodded, her face ghostlike, flickering orange. ‘And boards – the floor was creaking. Someone was there. I looked but couldn’t see anyone. And then, real low, I heard growling – soft and threatening, like a large cat about to pounce.’ She stopped, checking their faces as if afraid they’d laugh at her.

Three faces watched her in firelight, not laughing.

‘Then the lights flickered and suddenly – they went off. I stood, ready to run, but I smelled the thing in the dark. I couldn’t see it, so I turned, feeling for it, and then something brushed my face – something furry. It was right up next to me – it growled right into my ear, so close that I felt its breath on my neck. I
smelled
it, like raw meat. I don’t know what happened next. I ran – flew out of the room and down the steps, out of the house and into my car. Before I knew it, I was speeding back to town. On the way, I saw your lights were on  . . .’ She looked at Harper, then Hank, then Vicki. Back at Harper. ‘You all think I’m nuts, don’t you?’

Everyone shook their heads, no. Politely. Even sympathetically.

‘Of course we don’t.’ Harper knew all about panic, wasn’t about to label it ‘nuts’. She put a hand on Zina’s shoulder. ‘Whatever happened, real or imagined, you’re safe. It’s good you stopped here.’

‘I did not imagine it.’ She sat up straight, panting again.

‘Breathe,’ Harper ordered. ‘Take deep slow breaths.’

Zina gazed around the room. Met their eyes directly, one pair at a time. And she took deep breaths. ‘It was real,’ she insisted. ‘But they don’t know the significance, do they?’ She motioned at Vicki and Hank.

‘Significance of what?’ Vicki asked.

‘Of the animals that were there. The bat is a sign of death. The owl represents the underworld; it’s a messenger of the dead—’

‘Oh, come on, Zina,’ Harper interrupted. ‘That’s just mythology.’

‘And the large cat – the jaguar – is the most revered and powerful of all animals. A symbol of power.’

‘Since when? Sorry. That’s just—’ Vicki began.

‘It’s symbolism.’ Zina insisted. ‘Each of the animals has meaning. And I was surrounded by powerful symbols of death.’

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Finally, Hank stood. ‘Get drinks. All of. Us.’ He headed for the kitchen.

‘So? What do you think? It couldn’t really have been a Nahual. There is no such thing, right?’ Zina blinked at Harper.

‘No. Of course there isn’t,’ Harper tried to answer as if the question were rational. Obviously, Zina had been frightened. But was she seriously asking if she’d encountered a Nahual?

‘So how do you explain what happened? If not a Nahual, then what was it?’

‘Here’s what I think. You’ve been working alone in that spooky old mansion. The wind was howling, the boards were creaking, and the moon was full. You know about the house, what’s happened there, so your imagination was predisposed to think scary thoughts. In the dark, it took off—’

‘No, Harper. I swear to you. It was
not
my imagination.’

Harper tilted her head. ‘Zina. Are you seriously saying that a bat or an owl changed into a jaguar and growled at you?’

‘OK.’ Zina’s cheeks were ruddy from the warmth of the fire. ‘OK, no. I mean, I know better. Even so, what I told you was real. It happened.’

‘Zina.’ Harper’s voice was flat, definite. ‘Whatever happened, it wasn’t a Nahual. There is no such thing.’

Vicki lowered herself on to the cushioned chair beside Harper, leaned over. ‘Will you please explain what you guys are talking about?’

Harper turned toward Vicki. ‘Remember that research position I applied for – the one where the professor died, and they needed someone to document his collection of artifacts?’

Vicki nodded. ‘Of course I remember. You were pissed that they passed you over and gave it to the bitch you think is sleeping w—’ She stopped short, her mouth forming an ‘oh’.

Harper cleared her throat; Zina stared at the flames, handling her bracelet. She didn’t seem to have been listening. ‘Anyway, Zina got the position. She’s been working on the collection for a few weeks, all alone in the professor’s isolated old house.’

‘So the floors might creak by themselves,’ Vicki suggested. ‘And with nobody living there, animals might have moved in—’

‘How do you know there’s no such thing?’ Zina was still focused on Harper’s comment. ‘I mean, maybe there is. Because if it wasn’t a Nahual, then what was it? How else can you explain it? Wings flapping, a big cat growling, fur and claws – and that smell  . . .’

For a moment, Harper almost laughed; she thought Zina must be kidding. But no. Zina showed no signs of humor. ‘Zina. Shape-shifters are mythological creatures. They’re legends. Nothing more.’

Zina looked away, back into the fire.

‘Shape-shifters?’ Vicki asked. ‘What?’

‘They called them Nahuals. Pre-Columbians believed in shaman-like creatures that could take almost any form they wanted. They could change into men, large cats, dogs, deer, bats. Owls. Whatever shape they needed to protect their people or defend their territory—’

‘Or their possessions.’ Zina’s voice was low. ‘Their artifacts.’

‘Seriously, Zina,’ Harper began. ‘Try to be—’

‘Hot. Rum. Buttered.’ Hank carried a tray of mugs and spice cookies.

The fire crackled; the drinks were warm and boozy. And Zina, warmer and relaxed by the rum, repeated her story to Hank.

‘Ghost,’ he concluded. ‘Pro. Fessor. Haunting. House.’ His eyes twinkled playfully.

Vicki grinned. ‘Of course – he’s probably changed his mind about donating his precious relics and wants to scare Zina away.’

‘Cut it out.’ Harper didn’t see humor in Zina’s fear. ‘Nobody’s haunting anybody. Nobody’s shifting shapes. It’s just – suggestion.’ Harper put down her mug, thinking of the best way to explain. ‘Look, Zina – it’s like I said before. All those stories about the house, the history of the place – that’s what’s haunting you, nothing else.’

‘Stories. What?’ Hank asked.

Harper picked up a cookie and crossed her legs. She looked at Zina. ‘You want to tell them?’

Zina emphatically shook her head, no.

So Harper began. ‘In 1989, when Professor Langston first decided to will his collection to Cornell, he hired a young woman to catalogue it. One night, just before Halloween, the research assistant—’ Harper stopped as the wind screeched through the windows, interrupting, as if to prevent her from going on.

‘The research assistant got mauled to death,’ Zina finished when the wind subsided. ‘And the killer cut her heart out.’ She didn’t look at Harper. She set her bangle bracelet down on the table, picked up her mug and gulped hot buttered rum.

‘Well, we’re not sure about her heart. But, yes, she was killed.’

‘No. She was
mauled
. As if by a jaguar. Or a mountain lion. And her heart was dug out. Get your laptop,’ Zina insisted. ‘Let’s Google it and I’ll show you.’

In moments, the four were huddled around the screen, reading newspaper accounts of a mystery over two decades old.

Carla Prentiss had been found early Halloween morning, set out at the end of the professor’s long, wooded driveway, positioned as if on display under a tree. Her wounds were extensive, and there was a lot of blood, so much that at first police didn’t notice the hole in her chest where her heart should have been.

‘See that?’ Zina crossed her arms. ‘They took her heart, the same way Pre-Columbians took human hearts—’

‘But that’s my point,’ Harper interrupted. ‘You got spooked by that horrible old crime. It’s almost Halloween again – the anniversary of that murder. And you had that story in the back of your mind—’

‘Read on,’ Zina interrupted. ‘“Because of the missing heart, Professor Langston speculated that the murder was designed to resemble the work of a mythological shape-shifter who would sacrifice the hearts of enemies to the gods, or eat them to acquire their strength.”’

‘Yuck, they ate them?’ Vicki winced.

‘Read it for yourself.’ Zina went on. ‘Even Langston thought there was a Nahual—’

‘Bull. Shit,’ Hank interrupted. ‘No such. Thing.’

Vicki was still reading. ‘Hmm. It says that, for a while, police suspected the professor’s Brazilian housekeeper. Oh, wow. He was having an affair with her, and she was jealous of the attention he paid to the dead girl. And there was another suspect – a kid who hung around with the professor’s sons. His family pulled him out of school and sent him abroad.’

‘OK, Vicki. We get it.’ Harper was watching Zina, saw her biting her lip, holding her stomach.

‘No.’ Vicki wasn’t finished. ‘Wait, listen. That house – wow.’ She looked up from the computer screen. ‘Did you know about the family that lived there before the professor? The dad killed his wife and kids. With an axe. And he slit his own throat.’

Hank leaned over her shoulder, reading.

‘And before that, a silent film actress disappeared there. Wait – oh, man – did you know the house has hidden passageways—’

‘Vicki, enough. You’re not helping.’ Harper closed the lid of the laptop; the articles disappeared.

Hank scowled. ‘Was reading.’

Zina cowered.

‘OK,’ Vicki sighed. ‘I get why you’re scared, Zina. That house has some bad karma.’

‘Karma? Oh please, Vicki.’ Harper was dismissive. ‘It’s just an old house, like this one, just bigger. The professor raised his family there – three sons, right? A couple of them still live around here. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened there in what? Twenty years? More? Not since the murder.’

‘Maybe that’s because the professor locked the collection up. No one’s even looked at it since that assistant got killed.’ Zina curled herself into a ball. ‘Until now.’

The fire crackled. Harper began to argue, but Zina cut her off. ‘No – now I’ve gone and messed with the relics again. So that shape-shifter thing that killed the last researcher is back. And, I swear, whether you believe me or not – if I hadn’t run out of that house tonight, they’d have found my body tomorrow with my heart cut out, just like hers.’

The fire crackled, but for a while nobody spoke.

Then Vicki tried to help. ‘But Zina. Think about it – that murder was so long ago. The killer would be an old man by now – if he’s even still alive.’