There it sat, like a king upon his throne. Foxworth Hall, appearing just as it had when I'd first seen it. New, and fresh, yet not so. I tried to imagine the way it looked before the fire. If it radiated malignance now, I wondered how it had effected people before. Perhaps no one noticed. No, I don't think they would. I was of the opinion that the rich didn't notice much outside of their personal world. As I looked on and on, not wanting to get out of the car, my stomach writhed and flipped and I felt a curious tingling sensation in my fingers and toes. I was frightened, more frightened than I'd ever been in my entire life. I tried to deny my fears, tried to put on a brave face, but when it came down to it, my entire being trembled, body, mind, and soul.
Adrian and I stood under the portico, knocking at the door sharply. For one shining, wonderful moment, I thought everyone had left. Patrick had concluded his report, Bart had taken off to Richmond, and Joel...well, he wouldn't answer the door for me.
Instead, my gut summer-saulted as Bart flung the door open. His hair was disheveled, he looked furious that someone would have the indecency to bang on his door like the police. At that moment he struck me as a dark stallion, whipping his legs against a backdrop of thunder and lightning. Completely without control or restraint. Then he took in the sight of us. His eyes narrowed at me, and I knew at once that he'd been told who I was. It was written all over his suspicious and seething eyes.
"I knew you'd be back!" He snarled. Then he whirled around and stalked inside, leaving the door open.
I led the way in, without being invited. Bart watched us as we closed the heavy door. Then he started walking briskly to that slap dash office.
Armed only with the book and the locket, we followed him silently. Once inside, he threw himself in his chair behind the desk. Joel stood in a darkened corner of the room. I tried not to look at him.
"How much?" Bart asked, his right hand over his face, as if this was all too much for him to bear.
"I'm not here for money." I said quietly, and I was surprised to find out that my voice didn't quake. It had a silky tone to it, dangerous, almost. Bart looked at me; shock flitted across his face. He threw a look at Joel, who gazed back in a way I wasn't sure how to interpret. Then he drew his brows together and scoweled.
"I don't believe it." He said, looking at me like I'd already stolen the cash from his wallet. "Not for a minute. You wouldn't have come back if it wasn't for the money."
I could almost hear Joel: "She'll deny it of course, but her family is very poor. She'll want it for herself. I don't, of course, because I was a monk and money turns men to evil. I dare not take it."
I didn't have time for these games.
"I'm not that kind of Foxworth." I began in a low voice, feeling my anger flaring up again. That strange anger that burned as wildfire, blazing through the night. All it required was a spark. "If you have EVER had a thought that was remotely your own and not influenced by some PIOUS OLD MAN then you will listen to me! Your life, and the lives of those you love depends on it!"
He was speechless for a moment, and I took my chance. I slammed the old book down on the table in front of him. In that low silk voice I said,
"You see before you, the accounts of Corinne Foxworth the firsts' family. Your Grandmother, Joel. It's mostly in Old Romanian, which we had interpreted when we left. But the last few entries are in english and I suggest that you read them yourself. I don't want to waste my breath."
I flipped open the book to the english section and shoved it under Bart's nose. I knew it was really him that I had to convince in the end, for it struck me that Bart was like me. If he became convinced of something, he would not be swayed. Bart began to read it, and Joel crept up out of the shadows to peer at it, and with a look on his face I wasn't accustomed to seeing: it was fear.
After they'd read it, they were a study in contrasts. Bart's face had taken on a childish look, one of doubt. He moved his eyes around as if he wasn't quite sure where he should point them. Joel, on the other hand, stared straight ahead, trying not to show anything that was going through his mind by appearing dumbfounded. I cleared my throat.
"The Church won't send an exorcist." I said. My anger had dissipated by this time. Because they had read it, and seemed to comprehend the implications, I suppose I felt more relaxed that I'd gotten this far without being physically ejected. I was amazed that I was prepared to be physically ejected if nessecary. I sighed for how I'd changed since coming to this house.
Bart resurfaced from his mind a little.
"But Durwood said that The Church had to reveiw the evidence."
"Patrick is trained to say that to everybody who requests an exorcism. The Catholic church is very...selective about exorcism. They rarely do them anymore. The modern church doesn't want to appear medieval. They want to attract new converts. Anyway this isn't even a demon possesion, so they wouldn't send you an exorcist under the best of circumstances."
Bart glanced over his shoulder at Joel, who put his eyes to the floorboard, still stone silent. As I watched him, I recognized disappointment flicking past in those eyes, so like mine.
"The workers never complained of ghosts, did they?" I asked, glancing from one to the other.
Bart looked away, embarassed. But Joel raised his eyes to look me straight in the face for the first time. He looked at me shrewdly as though we were playing chess and I had just cornered the King.
"This house must be cleansed." he said, in a throaty whisper.
I let out a short laugh.
"I couldn't agree more." I said.
I briefly explained that I carried provisions to break the curse and "cleanse" the house.
"Witchcraft!" Joel exclaimed, staring at me in horror, like I'd sprout wings and spit acid in another moment.
"If the curse was cast by a gypsy, then gypsy magic is the only thing that can break it! Honestly, you can preform whatever ritual you like. Say the rites of exorcism, you're a monk, you must know them! Immerse yourself in your beliefs but the cleanse must be carried out by blood relations! You have a little gypsy blood in you, whether you like it or not. It's the only way!"
Bart sat staring off into space, wide eyed, shaking his head inperceptilby, as if he were wondering how the hell he had woken up on a normal day and ended up talking about magic curses.
"Listen," I said, desperate, now. "Just do this with me, and I swear on my life, and those of my colleagues, that I will never darken your doorway again."
Bart and Joel looked at each other, and then the latter shrugged.
"Prepare yourselves, and be in the foyer at midnight."
Patrick glared at us as we opened the door to his room. He had his equipment stowed in the trunk, and appeared to be making his final notes. He looked first to Adrian with something resembling sourness, and then he turned his eyes on me, and it made my heart heavy to see pain there. He turned back to his table, writing again, pushing his glasses up his nose. At first I thought he'd resigned himself not to speak to us, but then he said,
"What do you want? I told you, I don't need you."
"We're cleansing the house tonight." I said. I knew that even through his anger, and his horrible sadness, he would be interested. In any case, I heard the pen stop scratching on the paper.
"So?" he said, turning slightly.
"So, I think you should be there and film it. You might catch something very ground breaking."
He sighed, then turned and looked at me. I stared at him hopefully. If he caught something really spectacular on camera, he just might forgive us. His eyes registered my hope, my attempt to reach out to him. He opened his mouth for a moment then closed it again, exhaling heavily through his nose. He turned back to the table and nodded his dark red head slightly.
As I sat in what was my room, going through the box, and attempting to prepare myself, the lead knot in my stomach grew larger and heavier. I began to feel a nervous twitter in my breast. I became restless. I prowled the room, not really doing anything. I picked up the instructions my grandmother had written for me, and saw the words as only jumbled symbols. I looked around the room, and it seemed too bright. It began to look strange to me. It was as though it were, thin, somehow. Like all the furniture, the walls, even the world outside was just a thin layer of a fake reality, covering the true reality. I had a wild urge to rush to the walls and tear away that fakeness, that awful thin screen over what was really there. It was too clean, too rich, so very thin. That little nervous bird in my chest flittered harder, trying to break out. I couldn't relax, I couldn't focus. I tried to find my resolve, my determination to do what was right, not just for those Foxworths who survived, but for myself as well. I was disturbed to find I couldn't shake my tension. I realized it was fear; fear so strong I had blocked it out instrinctively to protect myself. But I knew, just knew there was something else. It was like I had forgotten something, missed some crucial step. It's like leaving your wallet at the restaurant. You feel mostly normal, but something just isn't right. The world becomes thin. Sometimes you don't even notice it, but sometimes you do. You wonder what it is that's so important. You feel frustrated, because it's staring you right in the face, but you still can't make out what it is. I went on like this for some time.
Then Adrian was at the door. His face was whiter than usual, but otherwise his face was as always, impassive.
"It's time." he said.
Already? No, no, no. I wasn't in the right state of mind yet. It just couldn't be time. I strode over to the desk and picked up my watch. I'd put it there to stop myself from checking it obsessively.
11:45.
I shakily tried to fasten it to my wrist and promptly dropped it. I put my quaking hand to my lips and tried to fight back the tears that wanted to spill out. Why was I so damned afraid? Adrian stepped forward and picked it up, then took my hand in his own and put it on me as tenderly as a mother attending a baby. When it was on, he continiued to hold my hand as I scooped up the box and take the long walk downstairs. My feet were leaden and I felt a numbness in my mind. The hall was dimly lit and the silence so complete, I felt like I was the ghost, haunting the corridor. The only thing I could feel was the warmth of Adrian's hand in mine. That warmth was what kept my feet moving forward, knowing he was there, gave me enough strength to continiue to the end of this strange story.
At the top of the stairs, I looked down on a curious scene.
Someone, Joel perhaps, had lit candles, which barely covered the darkness that mammoth room could contain. It was cast in a golden glow, like in days of yore. It was barren, unfinished, which added to it's cavernous effect. Three people stood on the untiled, rough concrete floor.
The sight of Joel in his brown homespun habit was startling. He had his hood up and his hands clasped together with a rosary in his fingers. I was suddenly reminded of the spectral figure on the front of my fathers' book. Bart looked as though he were going to a funeral. He wore a black suit and tie, and his hair was combed back from his temples, his expression solumn. He bowed his head as he stood next to Joel, glancing reverently at his uncle from time to time. Patrick, in contrast wore a plaid shirt and his usual ripped jeans, and was busy fiddling with his camera and tripod. He'd set up in the front of the room, nearest the windows, with the camera facing inward. We began our decsent.
All three turned to look at us, King and Queen of the night, looking down upon our prey. Patrick scoweled at Adrian, his eyes flicking to our clasped hands. Joel stared at me appraisingly, sizing me up. Bart's face was fearful, extremely pale, and as he noticed us it looked for a moment as if he might throw up. At the bottom, Adrian released my hand, and as the warmth left me, I felt that thinness close it's jaws around me once again.
I immeadiately set to work, getting down on my hands and knees in the center of the room, to draw a circle on the concrete with the single piece of chalk that came from my box. I drew an eye at the top, a hand at the bottom, and symbols I didn't recognize on the sides. I put two lines in the circle, making a cross with four equal quadrants. I took out the bag of salt and poured it around the parimeter. Then I took out a pin and drove it into my index finger. I sucked in my breath from the pain then I let a single drop of blood fall onto each of the four points. The circle was ready.
Next I took out a wooden bowl, and I poured some dried herbs into it. Into this bowl I also poured a bottle of some special water. I mixed the contents with my hands. I stood and nodded to the others who'd been watching me do this silently.
"Please stand at the four points."
They came forward. Joel, his hands squeezing his rosary so tightly, it's a marvel it didn't snap, standing in the north point. Bart, looking sick, standing in the east. Adrian, pulling the silver locket out of his pocket and placing it in the center of the cross, stood in the south. And finally me, holding the bowl in my hands, standing in the west point, in front of Patrick, who switched on his camera. I heard the electronic beep that signaled he was recording.
I opened my mouth to recite the words that I'd spent days memorizing. As I did so, Joel began to intone softly in latin.
"Cleanse this family." I dipped my fingers in the solution and flicked the drops into the circle onto the locket, trying to imagine that old gypsy man being washed out, as if swept away in a flood.
"Cleanse this room."
Flick.
"Cleanse this house."
Flick.
"Our eyes are blind, our lives out of control, let the water run down."
Flick.
"Let the water run down."
Flick.
"Let the water run down."
Flick.
Nothing. Not a shadow, not a change in temperature. Nothing. I heard Patrick sigh.
I had another trick up my sleeve. One I'd come up with entirely on my own. I picked up another item I'd brought down. It was my violin. I took it out and began to play the song I'd heard the young man playing on the beach in my dream. I'd always had the ability to hear a tune and remember it fairly well the next day. As I played I did feel something. Something stirred and woke in the dark corners of the room. I played on, while Joel continiued to chant. I imagined the dungeon, focused on the old woman being tortured. She deserved it, she deserved it, I thought over and over. I was baiting him.
It happened so quickly, that now when I think of it, it makes my flesh crawl. Oh, the speed of it was frightening alone. I am determined to tell of this properly.
Well, it felt like a gust of wind rushed by me, into the circle itself, from all four corners, meeting in the center. The candles in the room all went out at once. As we were all plunged into darkness, someone, or maybe all of us let out a gasp. There was a moment, a split second, when the air around us suddenly felt so heavy, so pregnant, and nothing moved, or made any sort of noise. I don't believe any of us even breathed. It was as if time had stopped. Then I saw a glint in the darkness; Adrian was raising the silver dagger. Something was happening in the circle, the darkness seemed thicker, and it moved independantly, forming shapes. Then I saw it. A spectral face, made out of the darkness itself, staring at me. It was like a skull with eyes, transparent skin stretched taut, and it was smiling.
Bart let out some sort of strangled yell and he and Joel turned and fled.
"NO!" I screamed after them.
It was too late, the circle was broken. I felt myself being engulfed by something, something strong. It felt like being bombarded by a wave in the ocean. I heard laughing, high pitched, and it grew in pitch, until it sounded like a sort of squeal, and made my eardrums pound. It came from all sides, it was all around me; horrible sick laughter. I was lifted bodily and slapped across the face by an invisble hand. It was such a hard blow that I was instantly dazed, and I fell to the floor. As I twisted and fell, I felt something rush by overhead, and I heard a loud crash. I felt a sharp pain in my side and I smacked the hard concrete.
The foyer was flooded in harsh hallogen light. The first thing I noticed was the glass. Hundreds of shards of glass littering the floor, sparkling like jewels. Some were plate sized, and some were tiny slivers, but they covered the floor entirely. I tried to sit up, but I felt a shot of stabbbing pain in my side. I touched my stomach and felt something warm and sticky. I looked at my fingers. Blood. What is blood? Blood comes out of you when you're hurt. I reached down again, and felt the edge; a piece of glass sticking out of my abdomen. I was immeadiately panicked and barely noticed Adrian rushing around to turn on more hallogen construction lights. I heard a soft gurgling noise somewhere behind me.
"Adrian," I said weakly, my voice came out grainy. I extended my bloody fingers toward him. He was still turning on lights.
The gurgling noise again. It was a little louder this time and I heard the sound of glass grinding and clinking together. A rustling, like fabric shifting. I rolled onto my back and turned my head toward the sound.
That's when the world ended. Ended as I'd known it so far. From this moment on I would never be the same person again.
Patrick was lying on his side, his face a sickly grayish color. His brown eyes were wide with horror. The camera tripod was knocked askew and lying across his legs, which shifted weakly, as if attempting to kick it off. His hands were covered in blood and scrabbling at his neck where blood spurted forth, softly gurgling. A red piece of jagged glass stuck out there. He was looking at me, but his eyes didn't appear to be seeing me, or anything in this world. His wet fingers slipped on the glass as he tried to pull it out. Every window in the foyer was completely shattered, it looked as though it had been blown in. The pool of blood was growing by the second.
"Adrian!" I tried to scream, but my voice was still too weak. Every time I tried to talk, my diaphram pushed on the piece of glass and it pained.
"Adriannnnnn Hellllp!" I managed at last to put some volume into my cries.
"I'm coming!" I heard him call from across the room.
I heard footsteps, that quickened the closer he got, until I heard him sprinting across the hall, crunching glass.
Patricks' eyes grew glassy, his hands slowly stopped struggling, his legs lay still. I tried to call to him, but my voice was gone. I tried to tell him to hold on, Adrian was coming to help. Adrian would know what to do. Then the world was growing dimmer, Patricks mouth worked soundlessly. Then everything was extinguished.