Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee (35 page)

"Like something chose each of us specifically," Cathleen
pondered.

"Vivica?" Willis suggested.

"I was thinking more along the lines of something like
fate-or providence," Nyvysk said.

Westmore wasn't inclined to believe that. "But it was
irvica who chose us, right?"

"Topically, yes," Nyvysk said. "But after all we've seen,
hasn't the house changed since we've arrived?"

"It's become more overt," Adrianne said, "as if it's
grown, as if it's gained something by us being here."

"Energy?" someone said.

Westmore thought more on that, and remembered something Vivica had said. "When I met Vivica, she told me her husband was very sexually obsessed. He surrounded himself
with sexual energy.,'

"Of course," Nyvysk added. "He bought an adult movie
company-"

"And filled the house with porn starlets, people whose
lives revolved around sex," Karen offered.

Mack came back into the room still looking pissed.

Willis: "And the target vision I had tonight in the office ... It was the most sexual vision yet. The woman, Vanni.
I saw her having sex in that mirrored room-with Mack."

Mack smirked, embarrassed. "Well, that did happen, I admit it. She came on to me, and-"

"That's not the point," Willis said testily. "The point is
the nature of the vision. It remained very sexual, and it was
active, not passive. The locksmith woman knew about my
sexual addiction-and its specifics. Then she showed me a
vision of her own. For me, and for any typical tactionist, we
see the past through the objects and/or people we touch.
The past. But I believe this particular vision was showing
me some aspect of the future."

Nyvysk seemed suddenly concerned. "In what regard?"

"The target-object activity began when I touched the
safe," Willis continued, seeming fatigued and shaken. "I believe it has something to do with that piece of paper Westmore found."

Westmore's eyes narrowed, mulling this over. We'll see, he
thought, when I find out what all those numbers on it mean ...

But Willis kept going, to emphasize what he'd revealed
earlier, "And I saw that place, the same place Nyvysk defined earlier in the week. The same place Adrianne, Cathleen, and Karen saw."

"The temple of flesh," Adrianne said.

"The Chirice Flaesc," Nyvysk finished.

The group sat in silence for several moments.

Belarius, Westmore thought.

The night grew heavy; most of the group was exhausted
and went to their beds. Nyvysk, Cathleen, and Westmore
stood out in the inner-courtyard for a final chat.

"And Hildreth," Nyvysk was saying, "when he was
speaking through Cathleen, referred to the future."

Westmore was looking up at the moon. "An apogee. If I
weren't so damn tired, I'd start doing some web searches
tonight."

"Do it tomorrow," Nyvysk suggested. "Get some rest.
It's been a trying day for us all."

Cathleen looked worn, pale-faced in moonlight. "It's all
about sex. This house, Hildreth, and the thing that Hildreth and his people worshiped. This mansion truly is
charged."

"And we're increasing the charge evidently," Nyvysk
said. "Hildreth chose this place specifically for its potential
revenant energy, and the base of that energy is sexual. An
ideal focal-point of worship for an entity as sexual as Belarius. Even in physical death, Hildreth continues to harness
more and more of that energy for the system of his belief."

"Decadence," Cathleen said in a low voice. "Unrepentant lust."

"So this Belarius is solicited by lust?" Westmore said.
"Am I getting that right?"

"By lust and all sins of the flesh, which is why his very
church is flesh," Nyvysk appended. "That energy renders
power. The best way to revere the Chirice Flaesc is by homage through a place like the Hildreth House, a place where
lust drenches the walls, where three weeks ago what took
place was a festival of sexually-motivated murder, or-"

"Sacrifice," Cathleen added. "Which only increases the
mansion's charge."

Nyvysk spared a rare chuckle. "I get the feeling I'm being manipulated. Do either of you feel that way?"

"Oh, I do," Cathleen agreed.

"Manipulated or paranoid as holy hell," Westmore said,
watching drifts of cigarette smoke. Or maybe the teal person
doing the manipulating is Vivica. Paranoid wasn't the word for
Westmore now. Between all this and what he'd learned
from Clements at the bar, he didn't know what to put the
most faith in.

"Time will tell, eventually," Nyvysk intoned.

"I wonder how much time," Cathleen ventured.

"Me, too." Nyvysk sighed, wearied. "I feel very weak
saying this, but I'm almost afraid to go to bed, even as tired
asIam"

Cathleen made a dry laugh. "I'm not almost afraid-[ am
afraid. And that's unusual for me."

Now it was Westmore's turn. "Hey, I'm just a freelance
writer. I'm too objective-or too stupid-to be afraid. So if
I wake up with my head cut off, I guess I deserved it."

He'd said it as an offbeat joke, to change moods. But
Nyvysk and Cathleen both shot him silent, reproving looks.

Skit. "Sorry"

"Good night," Nyvysk said. "I'll see you both in the morning. With your heads."

They finished their good nights and turned in.

Back in his own cubicle, Westmore stripped down to his
shorts, got under the sheets. One small light remained on in
the atrium; he could see it through the gap in his curtains.
Ordinarily it might bother him. But not tonight. Who'd left
it on? Westmore wished that a few more had been left on, in
fact. Then he chuckled to himself. Look at us. A bunch of
adults acting like kids afraid of the dark.

Each time sleep began to claim him, an image jolted him
awake with a feeling in his gut like a glimpse off a cliff. Images
of Hildreth, of the flesh temple, of the engraving of Belarius.
Images of all the pretty faces he'd seen in the DVDs compared
to the butchered remnants he'd seen in the autopsy photos.

Images of Debbie Rodenbaugh.

Shit ...

Was this house really "charged?" They think it's alive with
Hildreth's spirit-an EVIL spirit that's planned something for the
future. Do I really believe that?

He groaned. Maybe this haunted dump wants to make sure I
don't get any sleep tonight.

He got up and didn't even bother putting pants on.
Everyone else was asleep-he could even hear the men
snoring-so who would see him if he walked out in his
shorts?

I don't care.

Next thing he knew he was browsing the atrium, smoking, restless.

He could hear the clock ticking. Then it chimed 3 a.m.
He turned and almost shouted when a figure walked by
quickly.

Adrianne, in her robe, looked bug-eyed at him. "You
scared the-"

"-shit out of me," Westmore finished, a hand to his
heart.

She raised a coffee cup. "I couldn't sleep so I heated up
some milk."

"I might try that too. Can't sleep at all." Then the delayed wave of embarrassment rocked him. Oh, shit, I'm
standing here in myfickin' Fruit of the Looms! Blushing angrily, he said, "Sorry, I didn't think anyone was awake."

"Relax. Just because I haven't had sex in ten years doesn't
mean I'm offended by seeing a man in his underwear. Good
night

"Good night."

She traipsed off and disappeared into her own cubicle.
Smart move, Westmore. What a jackass.

Between Nyvysk, Mack, and Willis, he didn't know who
snored loudest. Jesus, guys. That sounds like a bunch of chainsaws.

Then someone sleep-talked: "No ... God, no-"

And silence. Someone must be having a nightmare.
Then, someone else-Willis, he thought: "Stop, stop. Please
stop...

This house is spooking everybody. The air felt heavy around
him, rich, the way high humidity felt, only the airconditioners were working fine. The house, at this hour, felt
dense.

When he was stubbing his cigarette out, he heard feminine moaning. It sounded impassioned, like a woman at the
point of climax. It's Cadaken ... Westmore shook his head
with a smile. Either she's playing with herself or she's having one
hell of a dream. Nyvysk and Adrianne, he supposed, would
suspect that it was the influence of the mansion rousing
Cathleen, stimulating her.

Westmore wondered.

He slipped back to his own cubicle and went back to
bed. At first he'd thought Nyvysk's cubicle idea was sillyespecially in a house so splendorous. Now, with that inexplicable denseness weighing down on him, he had to admit
he was much more comfortable sleeping in the same room
with the others.

He continued to drift off through veils of vivid, unpleas ant shards of dream, then kept snapping awake. Belarius, ion
signatures, and infrared silhouettes. Naked women with
black, inverted crosses pierced to their nipples ...

When he next snapped awake, he stared, his heart slowing.

Someone stood in his cubicle, the human outline frozen.

Westmore stared through more seconds of speechlessness,
of dread.

"I can't sleep," Karen said.

All that dread poured out of him in a breath.

"Come here," he said.

He slid over on the bed, and she slipped in next to him.
He couldn't even see what she was wearing, but it didn't
matter. He leaned over her for a few moments, cupped her
cheek with a hand, then kissed her. Their tongues touched,
and they shared a breath ...

Then they fell asleep in each other's arms.

Westmore slept dreamlessly.

"Westmore, right?"

Westmore stood duped at the wall opening with a sign
that read: VISITORS: REMOVE ALL SHARP OBJECTS
FROM YOUR PERSON. THIS IS A MAXIMUMSECURITY PSYCHIATRIC WARD.

"Yes, I'm Westmore," he said. "I don't have an appointment but I was told-"

"Quiet."

A basket was passed to him, into which he placed his
keys, pens, etc.

"Wallet, too."

"My wallet's not what I would call a sharp object."

"There are nut jobs in here who'd love to get hold of
your wallet."

"What for?"

"Credit cards."

Westmore didn't get it. "How's somebody in a locked
psychiatric ward going to use a stolen credit card?"

"They cut their throats with them all the time."

Jiminee-Pete. Westmore turned over his wallet, then
walked through a metal-detector. Once out of the glare, he
finally got a look at the person talking to him, a 30ish guy
with a shaved head and all-business face, built like a fire
plug. The tag on his pocket read WELLS - DIRECTOR
OF SECURITY.

Westmore was led down a silent, shiny-tiled corridor.
"So you're the guy who knows-"

"Quiet."

Wells' boot-heels cracked down the hall. "What do you
know about Faye Mullins? You know what's wrong with
her?"

"Actually, no. What is wrong with her?"

"In normal-guy talk? She's all fucked up in the head
from dope."

"How about something a little more specific?"

"CDS-aggravated monopolar schizoaffective schizophrenia and symbolized delusional psychosis with occult and
sexual ideations."

Westmore nearly hacked. "That's some diagnosis."

"We've got her tranked down pretty well, she's usually
docile," Wells informed. "She's usually not coherent, mostly
just motor-mouth word salad. But if you're lucky, you
might get something out of her."

"She ever talk about anything regarding astronomy? Lunar apogees, anything about the moon or the sun?"

"Mostly just fruitloop stuff about dope and gang-blowjobs.
And blood."

"I guess that makes sense," Westmore said. "References
to blood."

"Hell, yes it does. She's the only survivor of that psychoshow Hildreth was running up there."

They passed several nurses stations and med stations, all
heavily locked. Could there be many patients here? Westmore
didn't hear a sound anywhere. He'd borrowed Karen's car to
drive down. The outside of the place looked innocuous
enough: a long complex of clean brick buildings, one-story
each, and a simple entry sign that read DANELLETON
CLINIC. The place looked more like an HMO or chiropractor's.

Westmore's stomach jolted when one of the small doorwidows they passed was suddenly filled by a face: a man
who'd apparently eaten his own lower lip off. Then he
screamed blood-curdlingly.

"Lemme eat ya, buddy! Lemme eat ya! Humans taste like
horse if ya cook 'em wrong. But I'm a good cook!"

Westmore gritted his teeth and walked on with shoulders
hunched.

"Don't mind him," Wells said. "He was the executive
chef at a big restaurant downtown."

Westmore didn't want to know which one. Several
nurses passed without a glance, then Wells loudly unlocked a
door. "You want me to have her restrained?"

Westmore looked at him. "Is that necessary?"

"Probably not."

That makes me feel SOOOOOOOO confident. "No, don't
do it. She'll talk more if she's at ease."

"Cool. But I have to lock it behind me. Hit the button if
she gets froggy."

"Will do."

Westmore was numbed when he stepped into the stark
white room. The face that looked back at him he'd seen before, in the DVD's, but now it looked even more pallid,
more plump-a visage of hopeless sadness. Faye Mullins
wore a white linen gown, from which pale, heavy legs
emerged, ankles swollen from medication-related edema
and overall inactivity. Lusterless eyes blinked above drooping cheeks. Drab brown hair looked unwashed for several
days, flecked with dandruff.

"I saw you in a dream once," she said a second later, eyes
widening on him. "You were getting off a bus, in the rain,
and you went into a bar and got drunk until you were so
sick."

"A couple years ago, that was definitely me," Westmore
said.

"No, no," she hastened to correct. Her hands flew in a
gesture of animation. "It was a dream of the future."