999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [326]
“I cast you out, unclean spirit…
Downstairs in the comfortable, teak-paneled library crammed with books and mementos of travel, Gabriel Case adjusted a television set as Dare watched him from a downy sofa. “Getting nothing but static,” murmured Case with annoyance.
There was no picture on the screen, only “snow.”
“Try another channel,” prompted Dare.
“I’ve tried them all.”
Case flipped through more channels, and then turned off the set. He sat down on the sofa facing Dare. “Perhaps it’s the storm,” he observed. “At least I hope so. We’d never get a repairman to come over here. Never.”
Dare glowered. “I wish you’d try not to say things like that.”
“What’s the difference? Nothing’s happened here in years.”
“No one’s been here in years.”
“Quite so. Like a drink? We’ve got everything.” Case gestured toward a built-in bar in the corner made of dark-stained oak that was shiny with wax. Four ornately carved oaken stools stained to match were arranged along the gentle curve of the counter.
Dare shook his head. “Much too early. My God, it’s barely three.” He checked his watch. “Eight minutes after.”
“Would you like to hear the story of Jung and his ghost?”
Case was innocently staring, hands folded on his stomach.
“You have a dangerous and sly sense of humor, Dr. Case.”
“The story’s fascinating. Don’t you want to hear it?”
“I would sooner be in Bosnia-Herzegovina eating sushi with Muslims in an old Russian tank.”
Dare stood up. “I must make a few notes. You’ll forgive me?”
Without further ado the author strode from the room. Case watched him walk stiffly to the staircase, ascend it, and finally vanish into his room. Case sighed and bent his head and then looked up to his left as a long and jagged fissure in the wall opened up, deep and wide, with a crackling of plaster and wood. Case watched without expression, silent and ummoving, as the massive gap sealed itself up without a trace. Then he lowered his head and gently shook it.
“Bad riming,” he murmured.
A tremor shook the room.
“Bloody nuisance as well,” Case grumbled. “It’s the left hand not knowing the activities of the right.”
He waited for another disturbance. But nothing else came.
Not yet.
Chapter Four
“You’re all right?” Case asked.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Trawley murmured.
“Watch your step there just ahead.”
“Oh, yes, thank you.”
They had entered by the alcove door beneath the staircase, descending stone steps to a concrete passageway that was narrow and dank and dark. Case shone a powerful flashlight beam on the ground just ahead to illuminate the way.
“There aren’t any lights down here?” Trawley asked. Above her dress she wore a thin tan cardigan sweater. “Seems there ought to be,” she gently complained.
“They’re here. They don’t work for some reason.”
“No.”
“In here. Watch your head, Mrs. Trawley.”
“I will.”
He led her through a doorway into a small rectangular chamber. “Well, we’re here,” he announced, and they stopped. He lifted the flashlight beam to a structure, an ornamental gray stone crypt just ahead of them. Carved into the front of it, glaring in fury, was a hideous and gaping demonic face identical to that on the door above.
“This is the heart of the house,” Case intoned.
The psychic made no comment. He turned to her.
“That was meant to make you laugh,” he said quietly. “It’s what they say in haunted house movies.”
“I know,” Trawley said. “My heart smiled.”
“It should do that more often.”
Case centered the light beam on the gargoylish face. “Pretty creature,” he observed sardonically.
“How hideous. That’s where he buried her?”
“Not exactly,” answered Case.
“Not exactly?”
“He sealed her up inside while she was still alive.”
Trawley winced. “Dear God,” she murmured.
“Brutal bastard. Forgive my French.”
Trawley moved slowly forward and then lightly brushed a hand along the face of the crypt.
“Can you see?” Case inquired.
“Very well.”
He came up beside here.
“Is Quandt in here too?