Skull Creek Stakeout (Caden Chronicles, The) (3 page)

B
arlow retrieved a long black frock from a coatrack and I followed him out, waiting by the horse-drawn carriage while he pulled the door closed behind him. With a lot of grunting, the innkeeper pulled himself onto the driver’s seat and lit the coachman’s lantern.

“Well? You coming?”

I remained on the stoop, unsure if I should get in the carriage. The business in Deadwood and the Old West ghost town had forced me to examine certain aspects of the supernatural world, and what I found left me disturbed. Not because I believed in black magic and sorcery — I did not. But many of my friends did.

During my brief time at the
Cool Ghoul
, I’d learned that for every act of spiritual worship, there appeared to be a corresponding ceremony for the occult. It was as if those who practiced witchcraft and participated in séances believed they were tapping into demonic power. But could they really? Was it actually possible for people to give their souls away in exchange for paranormal power? And if so, had Forester?

I climbed into the carriage. Barlow cracked his whip and away we went up a rutted trail. Once we were in the forest, spindly limbs whacked the sides of the carriage and a wispy mist closed in around us. The road leading up the mountain seemed more like a trail than a real road. I’d barely settled into my seat when we crossed a stone bridge and rolled past a cascading waterfall that hissed and spit and left my cheeks and hair damp. In the thickening mist the coach’s lantern seemed small and weak.

There comes a point in any journey when you wonder if you’ve made a mistake, headed off in the wrong direction. For me that moment came as soon as Barlow began rambling about vampires and curses. Right then I should have called Dad and told him to find me a hotel room in Asheville. But I didn’t want him to know that Aunt Vivian was living in a nursing home. She’d seemed embarrassed when she’d told me where she was staying. The least I could do was stick it out for one evening.

Outside my window the pale orb of a full moon peeked through the tops of pines and shone down on the fog. Far away
there began a low, baritone baying, like the howl of a wolf. I peeked out at the whirling carriage wheels and felt my chest shudder at the sight of large claw prints etched into inky black mud.

Some months earlier I’d read an article about how the federal government wanted to reintroduce red wolves to the Great Smoky Mountains. At the time I thought how awesome it would be to see a park ranger carrying a furry pup to its new den and stapling a GPS tracker to its ear. What I had
not
pictured was a large snarling beast charging through the forest to devour me.

The howling started again, this time coming directly ahead of us. With my heart thumping against the walls of my chest, I glanced at the medical bag and wondered what sort of tools Barlow had included.
Even a pocketknife is better than nothing.
Before I could look, a phantom figure shot past the carriage. Up top I heard Barlow cracking his whip and yelling to the poor horses to hurry. Then …

Wham!

The carriage shuddered.

Whack!

Again something slammed into the carriage. Growing more worried by the second, I looked down and saw a beastly creature sprinting alongside the carriage, its ears erect and black snout glistening. Huge paws ripped up chunks of dirt as it ran. The thing that drew my attention, though, were the fangs and the way they shimmered with saliva. I had no experience with
wolves, only knew them from watching the Nature Channel, but even in a full run I knew this was no ordinary wolf. It was much too large.

As quickly as we’d entered the fog, the carriage exploded from the mist and went rocketing across a grassy meadow. I took a final look back at the woods and saw the beast pacing along the tree line, eyes glowing yellow in the fading light of the lantern. No sooner had I settled back in my seat than the moon shone down upon a mansion perched along the crest of the ragged ridge. Darkened windows looked out upon a courtyard overgrown with weeds. Vines crept up gray walls. No sign of cars or movement of any kind.

Barlow guided the carriage over a stone bridge guarded by gargoyles and under a stone archway. The clomping of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone drive echoed off stone walls. The carriage stopped and Barlow dismounted. I didn’t move, not a muscle. I kept thinking that any minute floodlights would come on and people would burst from behind the thorny hedge and shout, “SURPRISE!”

My door opened and I gazed up at the mansion. A cool night breeze skipped dry leaves across slate steps. Scraggly rosebushes with shriveled petals bracketed the front landing. Bare wires from a busted porch light dangled over the wooden door.

“This is a joke, right?”

“Don’t forget your tools,” Barlow said, grabbing the medical bag from my lap. “Your life depends on it.”

“Did my dad put you up to this?”

Barlow took my elbow and pulled me from the carriage. Clutching the straps of my backpack, I studied his face, looking for any sign of humor.

“You can’t possibly expect me to stay here. Where are the botanical gardens and the fountains and the rocking chairs for the guests? Where’s the pool? Where are all the, you know … people?”

“Wait right here. I’ll see if your room is ready.”

He ambled up the steps and went inside the mansion, leaving me alone by the carriage. Clouds moved across the moon. The breeze worked its way across the courtyard and whipped my bangs. Far away, the howling began again. I pulled out my phone but the service indicator showed one bar, then none, one then none. A crow flew overhead, squawking, as though mocking me. Hooking the strap of my backpack through one arm I picked up the medical bag and started walking until I reached the front door.

“Hey, is there a light switch somewhere I can turn on?”

The moon’s slanting gray light cast my shadow across a hardwood floor. I paused in the doorway and waited for my eyes to adjust.

“Yo, Dr. Barlow, did you get lost?”

After several seconds I could make out portraits hanging on paneled walls. Doorways opened off the hallway. A wide carpet runner led from the front door toward the rear of the house. A suffocating stillness settled over the house. Gradually my night vision improved. To my right was something like a front parlor
with a couch and chairs. To my left two open doors lead to a study. The wind fell away and it occurred to me the howling had ceased. Then standing in the doorway of the darkened mansion I understood why.

Click, click, click

Hard claws tap-tap-tapped on the porch landing’s stone steps. My silhouette in the moon’s shadow expanded to include the bulk of a large creature standing behind me. Warm breaths misted my palm. A low growl chilled me. Without moving my head, not an inch, I looked out of the corner of my eyes and saw the animal’s lips pulled back. Fangs glowed white in moonlight. I smelled the stench of decay in its fur. Yellow eyes studied me, then narrowed as if the animal was preparing to pounce.

“Moses, heel!”

I jumped at the sound of the Barlow’s voice. A halo of candlelight appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Heel, I say!”

Barlow descended the staircase. The animal took a step away from me and settled onto its haunches.

“My apologies if Moses frightened you. I should have mentioned we have a guard dog.”

My eyes remained on the creature. Each one of its enormous claws was the thickness of my thumb.

Stepping past me, Barlow pushed the door shut. “All set to go, this way.”

The wolf dog followed Barlow up the staircase. I hung back, remaining at the edge of the light’s halo. I wanted to keep some
distance between the animal and me in case it wheeled around and attacked. We reached the second floor and turned right. Moonlight leaked through the window at the far end of the hallway. Floorboards creaked under our weight.
Click, click, click
went the wolf dog’s claws tap-tapping down the hallway.

We stopped at the end of the hall and entered a front bedroom overlooking the drive. The room actually looked pretty nice. Four-poster bed, nightstand, a porcelain washbasin. Frosted windowpanes were covered with bars. Barlow lit a candle on the dresser and said to me, “I trust you will enjoy your stay at Randolph Manor. Remember what I told you: Stay away from cemeteries, morgues, and crypts. Do that and you might make it out of Transylvania alive.”

“Wait! Let me go back with you. I’ll sleep on the floor by the fireplace, or in a chair. Anyplace but here.”

“You want to hunt vampires, don’t you?”

“No!”

Too late. The door clicked shut. Barlow locked it from the other side.

His footsteps had barely faded before I hurried over and pushed a chair and storage trunk against the door. I looked at my phone and silently pleaded with my service provider to blow a signal my direction. No luck. Next I looked inside the medical bag and found a wooden stake, woodworking mallet, and garlic cloves in a plastic baggie. Someone was obviously playing a joke on me, probably Dad. I kicked off my sneakers and rummaged through my backpack for my phone charger.

I was about to blow out the candle when I saw the small brown leather-bound book on the nightstand. Across the front in faded gold lettering were the words,
Vampire Mythology: The Curse of Darkness.
I built a nest of pillows against the headboard and picked up the book. A handwritten note fluttered onto my chest.

The note was signed
Barnabas Forester.

I tucked the scrap of paper back into the vampire book and, stretching out on the bed, thought of how ironic it was that I’d found another note from the grave. Just like Deadwood Canyon. I blew out the candle and sank onto the bed, tightly clutching the mallet and wooden stake in case, you know …
this isn’t Dad’s idea of a joke.

I
woke up Thursday morning at 7:11. I’d made it through the night without getting bitten by a vampire. I flipped open Forester’s leather journal and started reading where I’d left off the night before.

I tucked the journal into my back pants pocket, pushed aside the chair and dresser, and tried the door. The knob turned easily. I peeked into the hallway, ready to spring back at the sight of the wolf dog, but found the corridor empty. After a quick rinse in a claw-foot bathtub, I changed into my last pair of clean jeans and pulled on a blue long-sleeve tee.

The manor didn’t seem nearly as scary by day, just old and unkempt. I crept down the long staircase and listened for the click-click of claws approaching. In the entrance hall, dusty drapes woven from heavy fabric covered floor-to-ceiling windows. Spiderwebs glistened between banister spindles. I checked the front door and found it locked, just as Forester’s note said.

I wandered through the main part of the house, checking each room, testing every latch and lock and window. In the banquet hall I found china settings, wineglasses, and silverware placed around a long dinner table. Tapestries covered the walls. A pipe organ dominated the music studio; in the billiard room, I saw an oil painting of dogs playing poker. Chess pieces sat on a dirty game board. The mansion seemed to have everything but an exit. Only one room remained unexplored, the room by the front door.

Dark-paneled doors swung open and I snapped pictures with my phone’s camera. Bookcases on two walls, green drapes
over the windows. Spiderwebs knitted over an empty fireplace. On an ornately carved desk a silver chandelier sat with hardened dollops of wax. The room had the smell of musty books and soot and another odor, like that of a stinky, wet dog. Gray hair, like dog hair, covered the crimson rug. There was considerable wear on the hardwood floor along one corner of the rug, so I dropped to one knee and lifted it.

A metal latch sat in a divot carved into polished wood planking. It had been designed to rest flush on the floor, leaving no hint of the latch beneath the rug. I smiled at the genius of it. Who would have thought to look for a cellar door in the study?

With a twist of the lever, a catch released and a section of the floor raised a few inches. I pulled the trapdoor the rest of the way up and, using my phone’s light application, illuminated a staircase. Rounded steps spiraled downward between crumbling brick walls. Water seeped through chipped masonry. Taking a deep breath, I started down.

The staircase made one full revolution before leveling off. I swept my light across blackened stone tiles and walked down the cramped hallway until I reached a large room with a low ceiling. Overhead, cobwebs clung to heavy floor joists. A dressing mirror stood in a corner. On the floor, a squatting candle sat beside a dusty black coffin.

The wolf dog lay between the coffin and me with ears erect and eyes watching. It lifted its head and emitted a low growl. The clinking of chain links scraping on hard stone revealed
a short chain and U-bolt cemented into the stone flooring. The beast was on a short leash.
Thank God!
Switching apps, I snapped pictures of the coffin and wolf dog. At the flash, the wolf dog sprang onto all fours and moved not toward me, as I’d feared, but closer to the coffin.

“Easy, boy, you can keep whatever’s in that coffin. I’m just trying to get out of here without getting bit by you … or anything else.”

I reactivated the flashlight app and aimed it at a second opening across the room. Flattening myself against the wall, I crept sideways and slunk away from the animal. At the edge of the open doorway, I snapped one final picture of the wolf dog standing next to the coffin, then ducked into the tunnel and hurried off.

Stone flooring gave way to hard-packed dirt. Once I thought I heard the click-click-clicking again, but when I swept the light behind me, all I saw were rats. The tunnel sloped downward and ended in a crude drainage system. Rusty pipes jutted out of earthen walls and dripped into a shallow trench.

The trench became an underground spring. I don’t know how long I walked. As I walked I thought of something we’d gone over in my social studies class. Apparently during the Civil War, Union sympathizers in the Appalachian Mountains helped slaves escape to the North. I wondered if I was walking an ancient underground trail or merely rushing toward a dead end that would force me to backtrack. After a long twisting section, I came to a shallow trench filled with bones and skulls.
Maybe human — it was hard to tell, some were so tiny. The deer heads were the easiest to identify.

A short ways past the skulls, I came to an opening partially covered with vines and bushes. I crawled out and emerged on a ledge overlooking the cedar-shingled roof of the guesthouse.

I found Aunt Vivian knitting in the driver’s seat of a pearl-colored Cadillac.

“Did you sleep well, dear?” A knitting bag sat beside her. Wearing a purple blouse, cream-colored slacks, and white walking shoes, she looked elegant.

I reached over and turned the keys in the ignition. “Let’s go.”

“Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad.”

“I have to know, is Dad the one who told you to book me a room in that place?” I buckled my seat belt. “It’s okay if he did.”

“No, darlin’, I promise. Your dad had nothing to do with it. Why? Did something happen?”

“Rather not talk about it.” I took a final look at the guesthouse and saw Barlow watching me from the upstairs window. To Aunt Vivian, I said, “Can you drop me off at the medical examiner’s office? There’s someone there dying to meet me.”

Transylvania did not have a medical examiner. What they did have was a coroner working out of a single-story, brick-and-glass office building on the corner of Morrison and Main.

Aunt Vivian parked in a handicap spot and opened her car door as if to come inside with me.

“I can do this myself.”

She patted me on the shoulder and said, “I’m sure you can, hon.”

“Really, Aunt Vivian. I’d
rather
go it alone.”

“Sugar, do you have any idea what it’s like to be my age?”

I confessed I did not.

“At my age you can’t see or hear. Your
friends
can’t see or hear. You spend all day in a room full of deaf and blind and comatose retirees who sit around a TV that no one can work except Mr. Spencer — who used to own a television repair shop — and who complains loudly to anyone who
can
hear that the last really good show on television was
Hee Haw.
Then when Mr. Spencer
does
decide to switch channels to something really good, like the
Andy Griffith Show
, inevitably somebody yells: ‘Hey, why’d you change the channel?’ So we go back to watching overweight women with peach fuzz on their upper lip complain about how they can’t get a date. Except they don’t say
date
, if you know what I mean.”

I did.

“Meanwhile, I wander back to my room and look in the mirror and see Lady Bird Johnson looking back at me. Do you know how depressing that is?”

“Who’s Lady Bird Johnson?”

“See? This is what I’m talking about. Life is passing me
by. And don’t get me started on the horny codgers prowling around in that place.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

Aunt Vivian got out and locked the car, then said to me, “Walk me inside.”

I hurried around and took her arm.

“Most of the men on my hall smell like they haven’t bathed since the Nixon administration. They walk around with their pants pulled up to their armpits, which makes them look like paratroopers about to invade France. And that’s really sad because I know good and well some of them
did
fight in World War II but their families don’t seem to care. Boys your age can’t even pull up their pants.”

I wasn’t about to get into a style discussion with Aunt Vivian over the social significance of “sagging.” I held the door open for Aunt Vivian and she shuffled into the lobby.

“I wake up at four and can’t go back to sleep because when I look in the mirror I see this wrinkled, white-haired person and so I sit in the kitchen reading my Bible until the morning news shows come on. Sometimes I’ll pray for your father. He was such a sweet boy growing up. I wonder why he never calls or writes.”

“He’s busy. We all are. I hear him tell Mom all the time how busy they are.”

“But not too busy to go to Florida on a vacation?”

“We did that for my sister.”

“Just saying, hon, we make time for the things that matter.” She stopped and patted me on the cheek. “But don’t you worry.
I’m not going to make your father feel guilty for not visiting, I promise. Now then, I’ll be in one of those chairs over there, knitting. You won’t even know I’m here, I promise.”

While Aunt Vivian deployed needles and yarn, I told a dour-faced woman behind the sliding glass window that I was there to view Forester’s body. She asked me how I was related to the deceased and I explained my position with the
Cool Ghoul Gazette.
She placed a call and I waited.

In a few minutes a door opened and a round little man with reading glasses perched atop his bald head entered through a side door. He had a chubby, double-chinned face and looked to be anywhere between thirty and forty. I strolled over and he introduced himself as Dr. Arthur Edwards. Dad says you can tell a lot about a man by the way he shakes your hand. The doctor’s grip was limp and sweaty. He wore a brown suit, scuffed black dress shoes, and a look of irritation.

“I am afraid I cannot allow you to view the body. Authorized personnel only. Unless you are an immediate member of the family — are you?”

“No, sir, but I would only be a few minutes.”

“No media, sorry.”

Aunt Vivian looked up from her knitting. “My nephew traveled a long way. Flew all the way up from Florida.”

“Yes, ma’am, I understand,” Dr. Edwards said, “but there are rules.”

“Rules my foot. I bet if he was whatshisname, that handsome man on
Good Morning News
, you’d bend the rules.”

Dr. Edwards cut his eyes toward me. I shrugged to let him know
I
didn’t know what guy she was talking about either.

“Oh, don’t look at me that way, you know who I’m talking about. Dimpled chin, boyish face? Has really nice teeth and a funny name I can’t pronounce?”

“Even if your nephew was this individual,” Edwards said to Aunt Vivian, “I still could not allow him to see the body.”

She sighed, put down her knitting, and ambled over. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a church-offering envelope and slipped five twenty-dollar bills inside.

One hundred dollars?

“I can only imagine how expensive it must be to run for the office of county coroner,” she said to Edwards. “My late husband was on our local school board back in Asheville. He loved kids but hated politics.” She pressed the envelope into the doctor’s sweaty palm. “This is for your reelection campaign. It’s not much but maybe this will help buy a few yard signs.”

Edwards pocketed the envelope without smiling. “I will speak with my assistant.”

“Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

Reaching for the door handle, he stopped and turned back toward me. “Yes, I do mind.”

“I’ll make it quick. The victim, I understand he’s been identified as Barnabas Forester.”

“I cannot confirm that. You’ll need to speak to Lieutenant McAlhany regarding the particulars of the deceased.”

“Did you know the victim?”

Edwards glanced at his watch and made a nervous twitching noise with his teeth that sounded like a rabbit nibbling a carrot.

“Not really. I know his wife. She and I helped chair a breast cancer awareness event last fall. Lucy has a gallery here in town. From the way she talked, her husband was something of a recluse.”

“So you and the victim’s wife, you are friends?”

“Lucy?” For a split second his look of irritation faded. “Of course.” The scowl returned. “Look, are you writing a story or investigating this man’s death?”

“Both. I’m part of a group that analyzes television shows — crime shows in particular.” I explained how we cataloged the shows and fed the information into our database. “With that information I can run a query of all shows that match certain variables. Like in this case, now that I know he was married, we have a dead husband as the victim, a spooky mansion, a strange-acting innkeeper, those sorts of things. Once I have all the variables, I review any episodes that match those elements.”

Edwards looked over at Aunt Vivian and back at me. “I cannot imagine that works.”

“It does, actually.”

“Look, I have to go,” he said dryly. “I have
real
work to do.”