Authors: Denise Daisy
“I say we call 911,” Emma suggests. “After all, I would consider twelve people trapped inside a room an emergency.”
Austin agrees and punches out 911. His expression reveals he’s getting the same results as me.
“Maybe it’s the phone,” Emma says. “Tony, use yours.” Sighing, he pulls his cell out and tries the emergency number. A shake of his head seals our doom.
“My God.” Phyl pulls on Jason’s arm. “I can’t even call to check on the children.”
“I think we are overreacting here,” Jason announces with his positive-thinking attitude. No wonder he made a fortune in network marketing. “Maybe we should humor him and go on his treasure hunt. I think it might be our way out.”
Everyone agrees, despite their previous refusal to participate. I don’t agree because I don’t want to play.
Mary Elizabeth has gathered all the decorative candles sitting around the room and placed them on the table. “I think there’s enough for each of us to have one.” Her Texas drawl sounds much nicer than her husband Peter’s. “In any case, it will give us more light than we have now.” When the candles are lit, I notice an envelope lying on the table.
“That wasn’t there before,” Quillan says, noticing it too. Grabbing it, I break the wax seal on the back and pull out a yellowed piece of aged parchment. The cursive writing appears old, faded, and is difficult to read. Austin and Brianna both move their candles in closer, helping me decipher the cryptic note.
Fear not them that kill the body,
But are not able to kill the soul
But rather fear him who is able
to destroy both soul and body in hell.
You have until midnight…
Only time will tell.
“It’s from the Bible,” Tony announces, “I recognize the verse.”
“That’s great, sweetheart.” Regina pours more wine into her goblet. “Can you explain what it means in relation to our predicament?”
Tony leans over the table, closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He asks me to read it again. As far as I know, he’s the closest thing to a Bible scholar we have. So I read, slowing down my pace and enunciating each word, giving him a chance to decipher. When I finish, Quillan asks me for the note. I hand it to him. He folds it and places it inside his back pocket. His face is stern, hardening his features. He stares at me a few seconds. I’m drawn into his gaze as if I’m caught in quicksand, helpless to pull away. Why is he looking at me like that?
“Time will tell.” Quillan quotes the final sentence. When he does, his countenance changes back to calm. “Let’s search the room for a clock.” With no better suggestions, everyone disperses throughout the room. With candles in hand, the search is on. Quillan reaches out to me. “Help me look.”
In a way, I am relieved. I didn’t want to search alone, not in here, but his solemn expression is back, and it frightens me. He leads me over to the far end of the room before extinguishing our candle and putting us in a dark corner. I begin to protest when he pushes me against the wall and covers my lips with his finger. “Shhh,” he whispers. My heart is pounding. “It’s eleven fifty-five.” He leans and speaks into my ear. “We have five minutes to escape this room. Whatever you hear or whatever you see, do not panic. Just follow me. You’re in over your head.”
“What do you mean I’m in over my head?” I ask Quillan, but he doesn’t answer.
“Just look for a clock,” is all he says while he relights my candle. I have a better idea. I bang on the wall, which I believe is connected to the kitchen. Maybe Mike will hear and find a door.
“What are you doing?” Quillan scrutinizes me like I’ve lost my mind. I don’t care. I’m thinking I might die if I don’t get out of this fun house.
“I’m getting Mike’s attention.” I try sounding cool and composed while I continue pounding.
Quillan grabs my hand. “I don’t think your boyfriend can hear you.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I am quick to pull my hand free, hoping he didn’t feel my clammy palms. “He’s just a friend is all.”
“There is no clock anywhere in this room,” Emma Chizzam interrupts us with her anxious whining. “Are you sure we should be looking for a clock?”
The words have no more left her mouth, when the bonging of a nonexistent grandfather clock begins to strike midnight.
One bong. The soft sound of frivolous talk and laughter fills the air.
Two bongs. Everyone stops searching and turns toward the center of the room.
Three bongs. An icy chill sweeps across the floor, and I watch a low fog rise from the ground and hover in the center of the room. Not able to move, I stand spellbound, unwillingly ushered into the twilight zone of this manor’s gruesome history.
Four bongs. The chatter grows louder. The tolling competes with my accelerating heart. Silverware clinks against fine china plates.
Five bongs. My pulse is racing and my legs wobble. Fear has zapped my strength. My knees are weak. I may fall any minute now. If this is some practical joke of Mr. Brackett’s, I swear I will kill him myself and add another death to the history of the macabre place.
Yet, what transpires on the sixth bong could not be the work of an elaborate hoax. People began appearing around the table. At first glance, they emerge as shadows, but as the fog clears, their bodies materialize.
Seven bongs. Although I am staring at the dismembered guests of James Faulkner, they have come back to life. At this moment, their bodies are still intact and whimsically adorned in elaborate antebellum attire. I watch, helpless as they gorge themselves on prime rib and guzzle high-priced wine.
Eight bongs. I look at Quillan. He’s staring at the table, entranced while watching the dignified Mr. Faulkner spill expensive cognac on the satin tablecloth as he attempts to pour himself another glass of brandy.
Nine bongs. I’m ready to pound the wall hard enough to knock it down when I notice one of the ancestral portraits hanging on the wall in front of me. An esteemed Southern gentleman, who eerily resembles our eccentric host, is posing, demonstrating great posture. With one hand, he leans on an ornate walking stick while the other hand disappears inside his coat pocket. Dangling from a chain is a gold watch. It appears to be glowing, and the hands point to midnight.
Ten bongs. I yell, letting everyone know I have found the only clock in the room. Eleven bongs. Everyone runs my way. Quillan touches the pocket watch, and when he does, the portrait vibrates and begins moving to our left.
Twelve bongs. Ear-piercing screams fill the room as the dinner guests begin shrieking. I know what’s going on, but Quillan won’t let me look. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me inside the dark passageway.
Quillan drags me down a long corridor. I can barely keep up as I totter along in Steffi’s stilettos. I could run much faster without these strappy heels, but I don’t dare stop to unfasten them. Quillan’s charging the tunnel now, running blindly in the dark. The musty air from the secret passage snuffed out our candles, refusing to let us invade the concealed catacomb by light.
I hear no footsteps following us, but I can’t turn my head to look for the others for fear I will lose my balance. Besides, it would be a futile attempt with the tunnel being as dark as it is. I am wondering how Quillan is managing to move so fast without light to guide his way. His luck runs out and, without warning, the floor beneath our feet takes a steep decline, sending us cartwheeling on top of each other. I lose his hand during the tumble and go sprawling against the cold earth. My fingers dig into damp soil while I skid forward, skinning my knees and dirtying the side of my face. One of Steffi’s stilettos broke and is dangling off my foot, the uncomfortable shoe still attached by a single strap. I scramble up on all fours, feeling my way as I crawl with one hand extended, searching. I’ve heard when one of your senses is absent the others take over in intensity. It must be true because I pick up on the sound of distant mumbling, and the stale, musty air now reeks of filth, smelling like the sweaty locker rooms at the gym.
“Quillan?” I call out, hearing the terror in my voice. “Where are you?” There is no answer, but the mumbling stops. I call his name again but am stopped short when a hand cups over my mouth.
Before I can fight, Quillan whispers in my ear. “Be quiet, or you will give us away.”
Releasing his hand from my lips, he pulls me back, shoving me behind planks of wood. I bristle as Steffi’s dress snags on the rough edges. As much as I can tell, we are huddled down, hidden in a dark corner.
Quillan sits beside me, pulling me close. Usually I would protest and slide over, but I’m scared shitless right now. I will utilize all the protection I can get. He cups his hand slightly below my mouth as if he anticipates me making more noise. Again, he gives a quiet warning. “Sh-sh-sh.”
We wait. Suddenly, a faint glow of light materializes far down the passageway. My heart catapults up in my throat, choking the air from my lungs. Quillan doesn’t need to worry. I couldn’t scream if I wanted to. I dig my fingernails into Quillan’s arm as the glow of light grows and the sound of scuffling approaches. Peering through the slats of the wooden crates that conceal us, I count seven people heading our way. A nice-looking guy, around Quillan’s age, is leading the group. His skin is brown, and his hair is pulled back in a long ponytail of dreadlocks. He’s wearing dark pants, a soiled shirt, and suspenders. Mud covers his black boots. In one hand, he holds a lantern and, with the other, he clutches the hand of a little girl who could be no more than six years old. His face is determined, as if the life of this precious child depends entirely on him.
Trailing behind him are three other kids, all brown-skinned, as well. I guess their ages to be anywhere from eight to thirteen. A man and woman bring up the rear. The woman is wearing a long dress and is carrying a bundle of blankets close to her breast. I figure it’s a baby. They march along in silence, oblivious to us watching them from our cubbyhole. Quillan’s rigid posture melts into a more relaxed position after they pass by. Without the glow of their leader’s lantern, Quillan and I are left in darkness once again, which is terrifying, since I am positive we just witnessed a family of ghosts march by.
“Who are they?” I squeak out, finally able to find my voice. Quillan doesn’t answer me. Instead, he yanks the broken shoe off my foot and then tells me to remove the other. The intensity of his voice motivates me, and my fingers struggle with the buckle, sensing his impatience.
“Hurry up.” His voice is commanding.
“I’m doing my best,” I bite back. “My hands are shaking so bad I can’t unlatch it.”
I hear him sigh right before he grabs my leg and unbuckles the shoe. How in the hell did he do it so quickly?
“Let’s go.” He pulls me to my feet. We inch down the corridor, hugging the wall. Eventually, the cold ground beneath my feet slopes back upward.
“Watch your step,” Quillan whispers as he leads me up a steep, rugged staircase. Pausing at the top, he cautiously opens a door. We step outside and into an open field. Beams of moonlight extend their luminous greeting. I am thankful I can see again.
Even though I hardly know Quillan, I could kiss him right now for leading me safely out of that insane haunted house. Forget hitching a ride with Mike, I have no intentions of going back inside. Treasure hunt’s over. I will gladly run barefoot all the way back home. First thing in the morning, I’m going to call Steffi and make a huge complaint about her weirdo client Mr. Brackett.
The dew on the grass cleans the dirt off my feet as I high step through the overgrown field. The balmy summer night is aglow. Moonlight casts a silvery path across a small pond and silhouettes moss-laden trees that border the property.
I take a deep breath and look around to get my bearings. The tunnel must have come up through the carriage house, emptying us out into the far backside of the estate. Rising on my tiptoes, I look around. It’s then I see Quillan staring at me. The expression on his face gives me shudders.
“Well, thanks,” I say, eager to leave and get the hell off this property. Casually twirling my finger in the air, I give a slight bow and bid my handsome escort adieu. “I guess I’ll go now… I’m just gonna make my way back to the main road and—”
“You can’t, Averie,” he says.
Something inside me sounds a warning that things aren’t quite right.
“Why not?” I say, hoping my fear doesn’t show in my voice.
“It’s not the right time to leave.” His answer is vague and doesn’t hold water with me. I care nothing about manners at this point. Right now, I intend to eat and run.
“It is for me,” I say with extreme confidence. “My job is done here. And believe me, I didn’t get paid enough for this.” I turn to make the long walk back to the main road, but Quillan grabs my arm, stopping me.
“It’s not raining. It’s a nice summer night.”
“So?” I’m somewhat perturbed. I’d be angrier if he wasn’t so damn hot.
“It was storming only minutes ago when the lights went out…” He punctures a hole in my balloon of self-assurance, letting all hope escape me.
My intuition rings true. Something is not right.
“So?” I say again, lifting my chin and placing my hands on my hips like my momma does when she challenges me. I hope my defiant stance dispels the omens hanging in the air.
“You’re not where you think you are, or better yet, you’re not when you think you are.”
I stare at him, not able to say a word. A shudder traces its bony finger up my spine and, despite the heavy humid air, I shiver.
Quillan picks up a smooth stone and hurls it across the pond, skimming it at least seven times before it disappears beneath the surface. I hug myself, trying to calm my trembling and watch him repeat the action a couple more times. I contemplate leaving him standing there by the pond but, for some strange reason, I am compelled to hang close. I step into the shallow water before taking a seat on the grassy bank. I bury my head on top of my knees. It’s then Quillan stops skimming rocks and takes a seat beside me. He rubs the back of his neck the way guys do when they’re ready to break up with you and don’t know quite how to word it without causing a meltdown.