Airel - Aaron Patterson [138]
William Marsburg had not yet touched his own brandy, though he could have used it—he was chilled to the bone. “No matter,” Marsburg blurted. “I can only thank you, sir, for being kind enough to allow me to prevail upon your hospitality as my host.”
“Certainly.” Herr Wagner was still marveling at the fact that Marsburg had evidently arrived at his isolated doorstep on foot.
“I shall leave early tomorrow. I do not wish to put you out in the least.” Marsburg wanted to say far more than propriety would permit—he wanted to interrogate the man, make him pay for his insolicitude, cause him pain, beat him, bind him and extract the answers he sought; that he valued more than his own life. And though Herr Wagner made a show of protest and offered him his house for as long as he required it, Marsburg knew he was being insincere. The German had wanted him gone as soon as his identity had become known to him.
A servant showed him to his room. He turned into bed and slept fitfully.
He awoke in the morning to find his host as missing as was the book for which he had come. The valet, however, soon came howling into the drawing room in hysterics, screaming sacrilegious oaths in frightened German. Wagner was in his room, murdered; flayed like a beast and strung up by his limbs above the bed, dripping. William Marsburg could not stifle a shudder, knowing more than he would readily admit.
Police came to investigate and found nothing but the unspeakable realities. They instructed Marsburg to remain in Stuttgart until further notice. That night, if he had been unable to sleep well the night before, he slept not at all.
In the morning, feeling on the edge of illness, he arose for breakfast, courtesy of the late Wagner’s servants. It tasted horrible. He knew, of course, exactly what he intended to do.
As soon as there was reasonable opportunity to take his leave, he dismissed the servants to quarters and began searching the house. He was not a man to be kept from what he wanted, especially after having traveled through so much adversity. And he could not allow himself to flee, though he could taste his desire for it, until he had at the very least satisfied a lust far darker and more compelling: his lust for the book.
It was a dark day; the heavens seemed to mourn both the loss of the master of the house and the manner of his passing.
Down long corridors, past hideous wooden gargoyles and demonic statuary, over creaking floorboards, he crept. He searched using only what daylight made its way past the shutters into the house. After hours of searching, only one possibility remained: the cellar.
His breaths came in short intervals as he realized what he must do. He risked discovery by the servants as he exited the back of the house and stepped into the snow. Though only fine rays of sun filtered through the thick clouds, the light was focused on him, as if announcing his plan to the world.
He stepped lightly toward the side of the house, where a single heavy door was situated over the steps that led to the dankness of the cellar. Brushing off a crust of snow from the frozen iron ring on the door, he heaved upward, snow sliding off noisily into a pile beside it. He glanced roundabout him and, seeing no one but the dog, descended quickly down the stone steps, allowing the door to close softly over him. It was like, he supposed nervously, being buried alive. He wondered offhand if that was what his own funeral would be like—with none in attendance, none to mourn his passing but the dog.
In the stifling darkness , he reached his trembling fingers into the pocket of his greatcoat and found his sterling matchbox. He struck a match and it flared up, revealing the icy puffs of his breath, then a taper candle set on a ledge. He could not see much in the darkness beyond. He took a deep breath and tried to reject the overpowering idea that he would share Wagner’s fate, only in slightly different gruesome detail down among