by Mark DuCharme

xiii

I had been rapping steadily at Mrs. Dittleboffer’s door— since she is the concierge, of course, her quarters are on the main floor, proximal to the central building’s entrance— for what seemed a quarter hour, but in reality was probably closer to three or four minutes.  I had heard no footsteps approaching, so I was surprised when the sound of the bolt turning became audible, and then the door creaked open.

Old Mrs. D’s languid, sagging face emerged from the shadows.  When I spoke, I was wary to keep my voice low, lest that busybody, Mrs. Plunket, be listening stealthily, just behind her door.

“Mrs. Dittleboffer, how are you,” I beamed, with no possible hint of insincerity.  “I’m so sorry to trouble you at this odd hour.  I wonder, though, if you can help me with something.  Is there any way to get into that door at the end of the third-floor alcove?  I wonder if you might have the key.  I’ve heard some strange noises that seem to be coming from there these last few nights.  It would sure help my peace of mind if I could just peek behind that door and assure myself that there’s no mischief there.”  I smiled.  I could be such a charming bastard, when I put my mind to it.

She looked at me as if I had just thrown sand in her face.  “No, there ain’t no key to that door.  I ain’t never seen one.  No key.  That tower deserted,” she said, in her version of English, and practically slammed the door in my face.

Well, that hadn’t gone quite as I’d expected.  But one should never give up hope.

I guessed that the only option now was Ana.  I really had not wanted to resort to that.  But what was I to do, short of abandoning Old Gruber’s plea altogether?  And if I were in danger, wouldn’t it be better to face it head-on, rather than live in passive dread of it walking through my door at some godforsaken hour?  No, I wasn’t going to live like that.  I resolved that I had to get in that tower, even if I had to resort to asking for Ana’s help.

Well, it was kind of silly.  I mean, what did I really think I would find in that dusty old tower?  I had no idea, actually.  Yet, I couldn’t shake that feeling of unease, that feeling of not knowing what was behind that old door, and whether there really was danger there.  And I really thought it might bring me some relief, if only I might just peer inside and assuage my darkest anxieties.

The phone rang three times, then went to voicemail.  “This is Ana.  Leave a message.”  Beep.

“Hi, Ana.  It’s Johnny.  Hey, listen— you said you might be able to help me get into that tower, so I thought—”  Suddenly, I couldn’t find the words to complete that sentence.  Suddenly, a cold fear overtook me.  This wasn’t like me.  I’m always calm, aloof and rational.  Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed.  I hung up the phone, to my own surprise.  I was even more surprised at what happened next.

“Johnny.”  It was Ana’s voice, just outside my apartment door.  The phone hadn’t even been down for a cold minute.

“What is it?”  I was tired, disappointed, cold, and scared.

“May I come in?”

“Sure.  I’ll unlock it for ya in just a—”

The door moved, seemingly of its own will.  The odd thing was that I was certain I had locked it.  All that thinking about picking locks and calling cards on my pillow had somehow reinforced my resolve to keep locked my own entrance.

It moved, I say, seemingly of its own will, and behind it Ana stood, stark upright and pale— as pale as moonlight.

She didn’t ask, this time— for I guess she had already.  Her heels clicked across the threshold.

“What can I help you with, Johnny?”  Her uncharacteristic demureness belied my growing dread.

“Ana— Analeise— you said you could get me into that tower.”  I was almost stuttering, for in truth, now I was truly afraid.

“Sure, I can, Johnny,” she replied, smiling a warm smile and stepping closer, as if we were intimates, or might soon become such.

Already, I was having second thoughts.  “What’s beyond that door?”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Johnny.  You just leave that to me.”  She smiled again.  I knew she was lying.  Oh hell, why hadn’t I ignored crazy Old Gruber’s dying testament?  Yet why had I ignored his admonition that his own daughter was dangerous?  I could feel it now— and now I was truly scared.  For her part, Ana just smiled that sweet, voluptuous smile that lets you know all bets are off.

“Come.  I’ll get you into the tower.”  She took my hand.  Her flesh was surprisingly cold.  We walked, and as we did, I could feel my own resistance to her grow suddenly numb, as if I had no will of my own left to take my hand away and back out of the bargain.

When we got to that ancient doorway, to my shock and growing dread, it yielded to her, and flung itself open at her approach, though gently and with malicious ease.  There is no other way to describe it.  She held my warm hand in her cold, clammy one the whole time.  I don’t even think she looked at the door.  She just knew that it would yield to her.

Behind it, from what I could see in the dimness, was a dusty corridor that led several feet to a lengthy spiral stairwell leading up to god-knows-what.  She didn’t pause; she was evidently quite familiar with the passage.  My hand was held in hers the whole time.  Her heel clicked on the first step, and the thud of my own shoe followed.  The door, as if by some preternatural force, swung closed behind us, as easily as it had yielded to her approach.  She never looked at me the whole time.

Up that winding staircase we walked.  Can I tell you what growing dread I felt?

Oh, why had I even for a moment trusted her?

We reached the floor she wanted, and made our way toward dim candlelight.  Though the illumination was welcome, I quickly realized it was evidence that someone did live inside this odd, post-medieval, circular structure.  My terror quickened.

At last, we arrived at a chamber from which I saw further candles’ illumination.  Once more, it was clear that she knew where she was going, and she led me— I knew not for what purpose.

I followed her lead— for at this point, what else could I have done?  I could not have broken free of her if I’d tried.  As she drew open the chamber door, it creaked a little.  Behind it was a windowless room brightly lit by candles.  There must have been at least a half dozen.  And in all that relative warmth, we encountered there a man— close to six feet tall, I’d wager, and middle-aged, from the looks of him, slender though not slight of build.  He looked as if he were well off.  Dressed in black from head to foot, his clothes were not just fashionable, but all the rage.

His gaze met mine, and then he smiled.  Though his complexion was most pallid, his lips were red– almost as red as Ana’s lipstick.

“Mr. Pinklund, I gather,” he said in a deep voice that tried to seem cordial.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“So good to meet you at last.”

“Why do you want to meet me?”

“I might ask the same question of you.”

He looked at me knowingly, smiling an indulgent but faintly mocking smile.  “But let me introduce myself.  I am Artemas Thorne.”

“I hear you own this building.”

“I own a lot of properties.  It has proven—” he paused— “useful for my purposes.”

“Which are?”

“Always trying to get to the point, you vivants.  As if a wasted moment could cost you an eternity.”  He had been speaking almost to himself, yet suddenly regained his politesse.  “Won’t you sit down, young gentleman,” the host purred suavely.

In addition to the candles, there was an antique-looking couch and two antique-looking chairs, plus some minimal bric-a-brac, which also didn’t look like it had been brought home from the store any time recently.  I reclined on one of the chairs, he on the couch, while Ana, who hadn’t really joined our party, stood to the side, looking away, near the door that she had led me through.  Although there was a seat for her, she didn’t take it, nor did Thorne invite her.

“You no doubt have heard tall tales from my departed tenant.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what to believe.”

“Your own eyes and senses will lead you to the truth.”

“Which is?”

He laughed to himself.  “You are remarkably impatient, even for one of your kind.”  I had started to notice his accent; he sounded kind of British and kind of American at the same time, but in a funny way, for he talked like no Brit or native of these shores that I had ever encountered.  It was— quaint, as if he came from a different time altogether.

“Then indulge my impatience just one more moment, sir.”

He paused.  “It’s not just the properties, so much, though there have been times when having a variety of potential”— he paused again— “residences has been most helpful.  But more helpful still has been the money, and the power it accords one.  The earthly power, of course.”

I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go with this— or how I was going to manage to get out of this tower (for it had begun to dawn on me that this whole affair had been a very bad idea, and that, even if I wanted to kill this suave but, I sensed, dangerous host, I was quite unprepared to do so at that moment).  So I decided to keep up the open-ended questions, so long as he was responding cordially, and to bide my time until I could find an excuse to depart.

“Why is that?”

“Surely you understand, Mr. Pinklund, that those who hold wealth hold the ability to control their destinies.  And I now possess a very great deal of wealth, indeed.”  He resisted smirking, but couldn’t resist the triumphant glare his eyes exuded. “It has taken me quite a long time to accumulate— more time than you can even imagine; but I have succeeded, and so now I am welcomed (with certain precautions) in the gatherings of the elite, whether they be boardrooms or private meetings with government officials or even social fêtes— though, again, my welcome is always conditioned upon the usual superstitions.”

“And what exactly are those?”

“Oh, Mr. Pinklund, surely you are not such a naïf.  What can fate possibly do to cure you?”

“Tell the truth, possibly.”

“What more is there to say?  I am sure that annoying old gossip told you all the tall tales of yore.  Tales of crucifixes and holy water, of graves unearthed at dawn most dramatically, of stakes and consecrated hosts and whatnot.  Such legends!  We are both modern men, Mr. Pinklund.  Surely, neither of us will be deceived by lurid, second-hand folklore.”

“I’m not sure what I believe yet, Mr. Thorne.”

“That is a pity.  For I’d hoped we could do business.  You see, since I arrived here long ago, and that old native shaman put this curse upon me (and yes, I made sure that he was the first to suffer from my new life— a new life in a New World, or so I called it then), I have learned that doing business is a great way to forge bonds with those whose source of sustenance, for want of a better term, may be very different from my own.  Indeed, I have forged many of what I consider real friendships with mortals, in this way.”

“But aren’t you, too, a mortal?”

He smiled with an almost sneering amusement.  “Oh, my dear Mr. Pinklund, haven’t you already guessed?”

“But why should they welcome you if they also fear you?”

“Because I am one of them, Mr. Pinklund!  No, they do not drink mortal blood, exactly; nor do they sleep in coffins by daylight.  But nevertheless, we understand each other.  We have much in common, actually.  That is the best way to put it.”

It was clear his patience was thinning.  “I will put it to you, sir, that I am offering the opportunity to join my organization— if you would call it that.  To be of service to me from time to time, mostly in trivial matters.  To assist in my enterprise.  But if we cannot do the business I would prefer, sir, we shall engage in another sort of— transaction.  Well, what will it be?”  His eyes were most serious and menacing, yet it was entirely impossible— by what ungodly force, I could not guess— to retract my gaze from his.  I was dumbfounded, and had no idea what to say, a silence he must have interpreted as a rebuff.  “Ana,” he summoned sternly.

She turned, finally, and approached with eyes downcast.  She truly seemed sad and remorseful, and this shocked me momentarily, for I hadn’t imagined her character contained that potential.

“It’s not often,” she explained, “that youthful rebellion marks you for life, and even after death.”  Our eyes met, and I detected regret there too.

“Ana, don’t you understand?  You’ll be undoing everything your father worked and struggled for!”  I was surprised at my sudden interjection.  It was a desperate plea, but I felt desperate.

She met my gaze again.  “I’d like to help you, Johnny.  And I would have liked to help my father more.  But I’m not one of the living now.  And his power”— she glanced toward Thorne contemptuously— “is so much greater than my own.”  With that, she turned her head and walked away, slow heels clicking.

Thorne laughed his cold laugh that came too easily.  “Excellent work, Analeise, excellent!  For this, you shall be rewarded.”

“Fuck you and your rewards,” she snapped back coldly, still looking away.

“Then only I shall indulge in this feast?”  His grin widened, and I could smell his rank breath unforgettably.  She did not answer, and he didn’t seem to want her to.

He moved toward me instead, and the very air seemed to bear him forward.  All his politesse was gone now; the look in his eyes and his whole demeanor was suddenly a mountain lion’s, at the end of the chase, when the prey has lost all energy to flee.  That look of triumph.

I heard gibberish and rustling when the cold snapped at her feet.  An evil leer overtook his reddened eyes.

That is the last thing on earth I remember.

O help me, Lord!

But what am I saying?  I am still on earth!  I have never left!  It’s never been better here!  I walk every night, after the sun dies, as we all must, once, before tasting reality.

Things look more beautiful before dawn.  It’s hard to explain.  There’s just something about the absence of sunlight.  I mean the blues are too vivid; I mean that there are colors one only fully sees in the absence of direct light.

Thorne still lives and rules this land, an immortal baron over a helpless fiefdom.

As for Ana, she chose shortly after that night to take her own life, walking directly into streaming, mid-morning sunlight.  It is said that she vomited blood, but I didn’t witness.  I couldn’t have, you see.

The events described here occurred roughly 139 years ago this month, if I count the phases of the moon correctly.  That was the night of my awakening.  Since then, I haven’t been a transporter at all, but have been sort of promoted, in a funny way.  You see, I’m now one of those, like sharks, who saunter down uneasy thoroughfares at night.  You might even say, if you wanted to make a bad joke, that it is I who have now been transported.

But in truth, if you see me walking about the avenues at night, there’s an excellent chance it will be you who joins the ranks the transported.  I guess I’m still working for the Company, after all.   But aren’t all of us, in our own strange ways?

das Ende

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.

Next Time: The Last Haul