by Mark DuCharme

x

Needless to say, I did not sleep at all well the rest of that night.

I went through the duties of my job as best I could the next day. The handling of carriers, I must admit, now struck a definite note of trepidation in my blood. I could feel, or imagined I could feel, my cargo’s eyes on the back of my neck as I raced with waning caution toward the facility. It was unnerving, but I tried to steel myself to the horror. After all, breaking down wouldn’t have made things any better.

I couldn’t get Old Gruber’s letter— or the strange vision I had encountered— off my mind all that day. I honestly can’t say whether I believed him or not, but I sure didn’t think he was crazy anymore. Hell, maybe I was the crazy one! It was I, wasn’t it, who had had that vision— that hallucination! Who would believe me, if I tried to tell anyone? And what I saw was no less crazy than anything Gruber ever wrote or said. No, it wasn’t him. Maybe craziness was in the air, encompassing this whole city. Some days, it sure felt that way.

I decided that I had to know what was in that other packet. And I realized I hadn’t taken the same precaution with Gruber’s letter as on the previous day. In my sleepless grogginess, I had left it at home, sitting right on the table. That, I realized, had been a foolish mistake.

When I finally made it home, my cargo dropped off at last and the sun finally retreated, I immediately saw that the letter was still there, just as I’d left it, and the second packet remained unopened too. Suddenly, a new fear came over me: what did Gruber think that I could do about this Artemas Thorne— and would I be able to carry it out? Once again, I wished that I had told Ana that night to just go away.

Just as I was about to heat up some food and sit down to read the yet-unopened missive, I heard a rude knocking. I hastily gathered up all the papers and shoved them in the drawer of my nightstand. When I opened the door, it was Ana. A sheepish smile crossed her lips, again lipsticked deep red. Her eyes were wide and playful.

“May I come in?”

I remembered that she had asked that question the last time. It seemed innocent enough— but she didn’t. Nevertheless, despite my wish and her own father’s admonition, I found it hard to say no. If the admonition were true, her charm was certainly part of the danger.

“I guess,” I shrugged. “But I didn’t sleep well last night and plan to go to bed early, and I just got home and haven’t had dinner yet, so please make it quick.”  I was rather proud that I’d found the strength to qualify the acquiescence. She smiled less sheepishly and stepped across the threshold with a click of the heel.  Then she turned and announced, “I won’t be a minute.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I wanted to thank you again for all your help. And I wanted to apologize, because I was kind of in shock at the time, and I’m sure I was rather rude.”

“No worries. It’s kind of hard finding a dead parent, and none of us gets much practice at it.”

“Has he been—?”

“Yes. His remains have been disposed of. I’m sure that’s what he would have wanted.”

She looked down. “Certainly.”  Then she looked up suddenly, and when she spoke her tone was frank. “Look, I don’t know what he told you in that letter, but I can make some educated guesses. It’s true that we had a falling out. I guess I’m not the daughter he hoped I’d be. But I can only be myself. That was his problem with me, if you want to know my side of the story. But I loved him”— she paused— “in my way. I’ll always love him.”

“Whatever there was between the two of you is none of my business,” I interjected, feeling too exhausted to get caught up in their family drama. “And you have nothing to apologize to me for,” I added, hoping to cut her visit short.

“Look, Johnny, the other reason I wanted to see you is about my father’s letter. Not about whatever he said about me, but about the other things he may have told you. I’m not quite as bad a girl as he thought I was. I know what he wants you to do. And I can help you get in the tower. You have my number. Call me if you want my help.”  She was making eye contact, and she looked more sincere than I could  have imagined her capable of being. I felt mortified.

Then she veered and sauntered toward the door, but before exiting, she turned back to face me. “I’m easiest to reach after dark,” was all she uttered. Swerving back round, she disappeared into the stairwell’s dim luminance.

xi

“Dear Johnny,

“If you are reading this, something (and I don’t flatter myself that it was my first letter) has jolted you and made you less doubtful— or more fearful. I hope that you are reading this, and haven’t instead burned my writing, for in truth, what follows is the most important part of what I fear I must posthumously tell you.

“These undead persons maintain their lives by feasting on the blood of living beings— people like you and me, Johnny. The blood of the freshly dead will not do; it has to be a living person’s blood they drink. In this way, they both sustain themselves & add to their number— for any mortal person who is bitten by one of them is very likely to either perish or (unless properly disposed of) become like those who administered the wounds. In this way, the cult of the undead reproduces itself and, at least in our city, flourishes & reigns. You no doubt have seen the undead walking city streets at night. They never move in haste, but purposefully, watching the night for potential victims.  Just the sight of them sends chills through my blood. And to think that these creatures now essentially own at least our main city streets after the sun goes down!

“Ah yes, the sun. I should tell you more about the peculiarities of these beings. They are not people anymore, although, as I say, they once were. They are creatures now, predators with a predator’s instinct to take its prey. That is largely all they do, at least the newer ones. Those who have lived as long as Thorne and his unholy company— for I suspect that there are others in our city who may be closer in age to Thorne himself, and who have been working with him, though I have not yet proved this point with the certainty that I believe I have proved Thorne’s true identity— are more powerful. The older ones, generally, can tolerate a little sun, especially on overcast days, and ultimately can go a long while between victims. The newly undead, by contrast, must have fresh victims every two or three nights, at minimum, and are destroyed by direct exposure to sunlight. They are the ones with the gray complexion and yellowish eyes; after a time, that goes away– if they survive the first few months (and many do not). Then they begin to look more human, and that is when they start becoming really dangerous. All of them, even Thorne, must sleep while the sun shines. It is said that they must sleep in a coffin containing some soil from their native land, but I have not proven that point, nor indeed found much evidence for it. Thorne, for example, based on all contemporary accounts that I have found, probably wasn’t an undead when he took ship across the Atlantic, so it is beyond unlikely that he would have transported a casket of London soil on that voyage, and indeed there is no record of it. Therefore, I have come to believe that this folktale is pure fantasy. However, it is true that such an unnatural being must seek sleep outside the reaches of the sun, and for practical necessity, I think most prefer their coffins, as they allow more absolute protection from deadly sunlight than, say, a chamber with the blinds drawn.

“Another myth about these creatures is that they fear (or are destroyed by) religious icons, particularly the cross, Catholic holy water, or the host. There is no objective evidence for this fanciful belief.

“Certain other characteristics of these creatures sound like wild fancies, yet turn out to be empirically true. One example is the folktale that the undead cannot cross a threshold unless invited in. It turns out that there is some basis for that. I do not know why this would be, but nevertheless I have found enough evidence that I am convinced of it. This is Thorne’s advantage in being a landlord, you see, and why you and I are in such danger: he need not be invited into our quarters! He owns the building. It is we who are his guests!

“What I do believe is incontestably true about these creatures is that there are only two certain ways to destroy them (that we know of as I write, based on my and very few other scholars’ research): decapitating the bodies (some legends say that the mouth must first be stuffed with garlic or silver coins or the blood of a virgin dove, others that the sword itself must be silver, but again, I find little evidence for these fanciful folktales) or driving a wooden stake directly through the heart and clear through the body, into the very earth it rests in.  As to why these two methods are effective, sadly, not enough research has been done. Although the phenomenon of the unliving may go back centuries, so far much of the evidence is still only anecdotal. Unfortunately, it’s very hard to get funding for this sort of work and to get colleagues in disciplines like medicine, biology, history, anthropology, or religious studies to take it very seriously. But I’m digressing.

“Johnny, Thorne must be destroyed. It is our city’s only hope. The newly undead, as you know, can be disposed of with relative ease and at least reasonable safety for those doing that work. But Thorne is much more dangerous than they, not only because his unnatural powers are much greater, but because his property and wealth lend him a kind of prominence that puts him, in many respects, beyond reach. For example, did you know that he is on the board of directors of the company that employs you? And that’s not the only one! It is hard to fathom, when you fully realize what he is, but Thorne is extremely well connected among the rich and powerful in this city. As to whether they realize his true nature or are unaware of it, it is very hard to say. I suspect they do not want to know or are in denial of the truth. It is also possible that they are aware, but have decided that consorting with that Evil (for that is what Thorne is!) is good for “business.”  It is further possible that some, at least, are entirely ignorant of the truth. Whatever the reason or combination of reasons, it does not matter; the effect is the same. Thorne is not only supernaturally powerful, but has gained worldly power through his wealth and connections. This makes him all the more dangerous.

“You have one advantage Johnny (I write this hopeful that you will accept the undertaking upon which rests the only hope for our city and our very souls): you see, Thorne lives in this building, in that strange old tower, in fact. Have you ever noticed that there are no doors on its outside? That is by design, so that outsiders cannot gain entrance to his profane resting place. But you can gain entrance, Johnny— that is, if you can find the key to that old door in the darkened alcove on the opposite side of your flat from mine. The corridor on the other side of that door leads into the tower itself. If you can get past that door somehow— for it is always kept locked— you can destroy Thorne and his reign of terror in this city. I am convinced that you are the only one who can do this; not only are you young and strong, as I said, and not only are you used to dealing with these creatures, to some extent at least, but you live in proximity to his very resting place! If you cannot do it, all hope is lost!

“But I am trying not to despair, Johnny. I am hopeful and in fact resolute in my purpose— as you must be, dear friend!

“May God protect you!—

“Jim”

xii

Gruber’s logic was inescapable, even if I still didn’t know how much of his tale I really believed. For if Thorne were even half as dangerous as Old Dead Gruber claimed, and if Ana were in the least bit dangerous herself, then how could I not be in any danger? And in that case, the only way to save myself must be to gain entry to that tower and do as he pleaded (though preferably without Ana’s help— for, though I was still undecided about how much I believed Gruber, and indeed I found it hard to consider Ana very dangerous, nevertheless, I was still certain that there was something untrustworthy about her). On the other hand, if I did gain entrance to the tower, perhaps I could disprove Gruber’s mad rantings as just that, and so regain my peace. Either way, I had to try. So I decided that the thing I had to do was find that key, without soliciting Ana’s help (if at all possible)— for I sensed a trap might be waiting.

The first thing to do was examine the door itself and its lock. Perhaps I would be able to pick that ancient mechanism or use my good strength (or that is to say, the strength Old Gruber thought I possessed— for in truth, I don’t see myself as particularly either youthful or strong) to somehow break through that dark barrier.

The door was situated at the dead end of the L-shaped hallway (mirroring the L-shape of Gruber’s former apartment) that, along with mine, constitutes the third floor of my building, or that is, the older, main part of it. That few feet of hallway is entirely unlit, in day or night, either by natural lighting or man-made. It is a dark corner one forgets is there. I have never seen anyone walk into it. (The small, dead-end alcove we are talking about consists, at most, of about four feet of space, culminating in the locked door.)

Although I was afraid of rousing the concierge’s suspicions, I could see no way other than to risk it. I hoped that her overall infirmity would lead her not to investigate any noise that I might make, if no guests complained. And since Gruber’s apartment was still empty— dealing with his papers and estate would be a rather daunting process, I gathered, and one that Ana seemed uniquely unsuited for— I had nothing to fear from the third-floor tenants, at least for the time being, because for now I was the only one.

I could see no sense in putting it off. Indeed, the sooner this whole matter was resolved, the better. Yet though I held no great hope of being able to either pick the lock or break through the portal, it was necessary to try, before I resorted to more desperate measures.

Out my door I walked, looking furtively down the stairwell at the angle by which I could see a part of the lobby below. No one was in sight. This was as good a chance as I was likely to get.

I had come prepared with a jumbo paperclip, which I promptly uncoiled. Surely, this was all I would need.

The lock was at least decades old, but perhaps as old as the main part of the building itself. I had no reason to think it had been used recently. Because of that, I wondered whether the lock as such was still functional— even if I’d possessed a key. I felt a little relief when I was able to easily insert the paperclip and, jiggling it about within, feel the pins inside clicking in response to the instrument’s thrusts. Nevertheless, within a few minutes, it became clear to me that, though I could indeed move the pins without trouble, I had no way of actually turning the lock simultaneously, and thus of gaining entrance. I tried inserting the tip of my own apartment key— not because I thought it would turn the lock by itself, but because I hoped that, alongside the paperclip, I might be able to insert it just enough to rotate the inner mechanism and thus unbolt the door, while simultaneously teasing the pins with the uncoiled clip. Sadly, the paperclip took up just enough room that even the tip of my key could not gain entrance. And the clip itself, as several minutes’ fumbling soon proved, was quite impotent alone to unbolt the portal. Finally, in frustration, I heaved my shoulder at the barrier. I know not what wood that door was carved of, but it was an impressively sturdy variety. Further, and most grimly, I noticed that the door was not latched to a plaster or drywall frame at all, but to a wooden one, evidently of the same quality as the door itself. As my shoulder started to grow more sore, with no evidence of gain for my labor, I began to suspect that the mortise was reinforced with some sort of metal at the point the bolt enters the frame.

“Hey! What’s all that racket up there?”

The voice wasn’t that of our frail concierge, but of Mrs. Plunkett, who occupied the largest quarters on the first floor, and indeed in the whole building and its appendages, at least those I had managed so far to investigate.

Turning from my struggle, I looked down and smiled, feigning nonchalance. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Plunket. I seem to have locked myself out of my apartment, and I was just trying to get back in.”  My manner was so friendly and sweet that she could have hardly suspected a thing.

“Well, call a locksmith or something. This noise at night that you’re making has got to stop,” she retorted curtly, abruptly retreating back behind her door and swiftly slamming it shut.

Well, that was that. Breaking in to the tower had been an outright failure. Furthermore, I could not risk such an episode again, it was clear, or complaints might be made. And that would not do. You never know where such a thing might lead, the way people talk. No. Attempting to break in would not work at all. I must secure the key.

I had one other option, before my last and most desperate one.

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Next Time: The Last Haul