Southern Gothic (23 page)

“I know. I don’t like being this way, but what my mother said way back then, it’s just —”

“We don’t know what it was. I do know that you’re stronger than this. You’ve always been there for me, pushing me, telling me to be stronger for myself. Now, you need to listen to your own words. Take a breath. Shove these doubts aside. Be the woman I know you are.”

Swallowing hard, Sandra nodded. “Don’t worry. I know what I have to do here. You can count on me. I’ll get it done.”

“I know.”

Max lifted Sandra’s hands to his mouth and brushed his lips across her skin. They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment longer, and then he stepped out of the car. She drove away.

As Max walked toward the Baxter House, he tried to take his own advice. He worked to clear his thoughts and to focus on the task at hand. He had only seen a glimpse of those blueprints, but it had been enough to tell him that the rest of this night would not be a pleasant one.

Max clapped his hands once and rubbed them together. “Okay. Here I go.”

Chapter 25

Max had no trouble
entering Baxter House — the front door stood wide open. Switching on the flashlight, he made his way toward the study in the back. Though he hadn’t seen the House plans for long, he had seen enough. All those floors running straight below the secret room like a tower going in the wrong direction — Rolson had to be there.

The house seemed darker now, but that had to be a trick of lighting. Knowing this did little to ease Max’s tension. He could feel walls of dark closing in around the flashlight’s beam, crowding out any spill from the light, making sure Max could only see what lay in the beam’s path and no more.

Walking deeper into the house, Max wondered if he should have brought a weapon. He knew Rolson would be armed, and there was that old saying about bringing a knife to a gunfight. What did it mean when he only had a flashlight?

Except that Max knew his level of skill with guns. He had meant to spend more time at the gun range, but practicing had never been his strong suit. Better that he didn’t have a gun — he would probably end up shooting himself. Besides, Sebastian Freeman died in that study without a mark on his body, without any sign of cardiac arrest or illness or anything remotely connected to a normal, mundane way to die — evidence of magic. And with magic involved, guns rarely offered any help.

Max walked into the study to find the room illuminated by the black candle in the adjacent secret room. That lone candle provided enough light that he could turn off his flashlight, but Max kept it on anyway. He heard Sandra’s warning echo in his head — better to be extra cautious, he decided. Besides, the last time he had been in this room, he knocked the candle over.

The candle gave off a musky aroma like a barn full of animals as its flame flickered off smoke. Rolson had been here. But even if the candle had not been reset and lit, Max would have known that Rolson had indeed come through because one of the seven painted doors had turned out to be real. Across from Max, a section of the stone wall stood ajar.

“Well,” Max said, “at least you did the work for me.”

He poked his flashlight into the dark recess of the open wall section. A narrow staircase spiraled downward like the stone stairs of a medieval castle leading to a dungeon. The walls looked cold and wet, and the dull odor of mold crept up from below.

Max looked back at the study. An odd sensation hit him as if he had been cast at sea and the study floated within reach — an island that guaranteed his safety. Or he could dive downward, cross his fingers, and hope that whatever lurked below would not kill him. All logic pointed to the safe island.

“But I’m dealing with magic, not logic,” he said, allowing his voice to echo back into his ears.

He had to trust Drummond and Sandra. No matter what he found down there, he had to trust that they would do their part in time to keep him alive. He knew they would try, but that did not mean they would succeed.

Max swallowed hard and remembered the arguments he had given Sandra back in the car — he had to do this. If for no other reason, then to get them free of Cecily Hull. Crossing his fingers for real, he closed his eyes, and thought of Sandra. When he opened his eyes, he glared down the stairs with determination set in his heart.

And he climbed down.

With his flashlight held shaking in one hand, his other hand trailing the wall, he wished for a handrail and shoes with better treads. The entire way, which only comprised fifteen steps, felt like a treacherous journey along the side of a cliff. At the bottom, he entered a room shaped identical to the one above — including the circle painted on the floor. Unlike the other room, this one had no doors. He had no clue where Rolson had gone.

Max approached the circle, his heart hammering, his feet sluggish. He had no way of knowing if this circle held the same kind of power as the one above, but he also had no other ideas of how to move forth.

Three steps away from the circle, a gust of wind smacked him sideways. The air felt cold as if the gust came from aboveground, and as fast as it arrived, it disappeared. Max popped back to his feet only to get hit in the back with another huge blast of wind.

He spun around and headed back for the stairwell. The winds kept blowing from one direction, then another, with no perceivable pattern. They hit so hard, he could not make any forward progress.

The decision came fast — if he couldn’t go forward fighting it, he’d have to go with the wind instead.

When the next gust came, this time from his left, he simply walked with it, letting it push against his back. It rushed on even heavier, lifting him up and hurling him against the far wall. There, he saw one source of the storm — vents had been built into the wall, flush with the surface, and painted to blend in.

Before the vent in front of him could shove him to the ground, Max grabbed a small lever at the side and pulled it down, shutting the vent closed. He saw the winds blow dirt by him this time, but none ushered out of the vent, none thrust him off his feet.

Staying close to the wall, Max walked around, shutting every vent one by one. When he finished closing the last vent, a door to another stairwell opened with a loud creak.

These stairs leading down to the next floor harbored all the cold, damp stone that the first set of stairs had, but these had a darker, more ominous aura about them. The walls seemed to suck in the light that Max shone down. And even noises sounded dampened and unwelcoming.

Halfway down the stairs, he heard the door above close and the winds started to blow again. A foul odor assaulted Max like a punch to the nose. Every step, the odor grew more pungent as if he closed in on a giant vat of excrement.

At the doorway, Max stopped. The room looked to be about twice as large as the ones above. An icy slush covered the floor — the source of the putrid stench. Another painted circle peaked out from beneath the odorous goo. Three wall sconces kept the room dimly lit. Running the perimeter of the room, Max noticed a narrow, stone rim that poked out. It led to a door on the opposite side. At one point, slush stained the rim in a splash pattern — it looked as if Rolson had slipped.

Max stepped out onto the ledge. He tried not to think of what horrible, disease-ridden foulness could create such a disgusting smell. With his back to the wall and his toes hanging beyond the edge of the rim, he inched his way along toward the door.

He took shallow breaths — only through his mouth. He kept his eyes focused on the door. As he stepped under one of the sconces, he heard the buzz of a fluorescent light. He stopped and peeked to his left — he had reached the spot where Rolson had fallen in.

He didn’t want to chance stepping in the same place and meeting a similar outcome. No way would he be exposed to whatever concoction of ills formed that foul slush. Lifting his shaking foot, he stepped across and risked being unbalanced for a short time. Quickly he brought up his other foot and exhaled with relief as he slid along toward the door.

Standing in the doorway at the top of another spiraling staircase, Max paused to catch his breath. The smell kept him from taking too long, but his climb downward went slower this time. Despite the cold, sweat dripped off his chin.

At the bottom of the stairs, he found the entrance to the next floor blocked by a large rock. He turned his flashlight beam onto the rock’s edges, tracing their path around the entrance. Near the top, Max noticed a chip in the stone. The closer he looked, the more he saw the white, chalkiness around the chip.

That’s not solid stone.

Max set his feet in a wide stance, lowered his body, and shoved the large rock. It moved so fast, Max lost his balance and tumbled over. His shoulder banged into the wall, whirling him around and into the room. He tripped and tumbled face first into the stone floor.

Stars split across his vision. Blood dripped beneath his cheek, and his tongue could wiggle his left incisor back and forth. When his eyesight returned, he discovered that he had come to rest only two feet away from a corpse.

He rolled away from it, letting loose a girlish yelp, and did not stop until he reached the wall. Despite the aches in his face, he managed to sit up and glance back. The corpse had been there a long time — dust covered the clothing that covered the skeleton. Looking toward the doorway, Max saw what had tripped him up — the skeleton’s foot. And around the ankle, he saw a gold cross. He glanced back at the arms — a Bible clutched tight against the ribs.

“Samantha Shoemaker,” he whispered.

Back on his feet, Max inspected the room. Much like the previous rooms, this one had a magic circle painted on the floor. Large stones like the one he had moved dotted the edges. The only weird part — well, weirder than everything else he had experienced so far — shimmied under his feet. The floor.

It didn’t want to stay in place as if the whole thing were floating atop a small sea. Based on what he had already seen, this didn’t seem too far-fetched. He looked back at the open doorway, and an idea formed — one he thought quite bizarre.

He walked along the perimeter of the room, checking each stone for chips or cracks that resembled the one he had moved. None stood out, but he noticed that a thin crevice existed where the floor met the wall — or didn’t meet. His idea solidified. He had to be right.

As he had done before, he set his feet firmly on the floor, put his hands on the wall, and pushed. The entire room moved like a giant merry-go-round. He held back pushing too hard, so the room moved slowly. He saw the doorway he had entered from disappear behind a wall of rock. Off to his right, another doorway revealed itself.

He shot out his hands and pushed in the direction opposite the room’s movement. The stone wall concealed half of the doorway before Max’s efforts stopped the room. He had enough space to slip through.

At the top of another set of stairs — Max shook his head and sat on the cold stone. He needed to rest. He needed to sleep for a week or two, but a few minutes would have to suffice.

Exhaustion made up part of it, but if he wanted to be honest, seeing that skeleton had spooked him. Not simply the unsettling sensation that often comes when confronted by such a thing, but it had reached deeper within, churning his guts with a primal force. He had felt that way as a child when he saw his first dead animal.

It was in the summer at a friend’s birthday pool party. Robbie Horner — Max couldn’t believe he remembered that name. At the party, Max and two other boys had been horsing around in the water when they finally heard the call for cake. Dripping wet with pruned fingers and shivering under their towels, the three of them headed around the house toward the front door to get inside. They could have easily gone through the back sliding door, but in their heads, this would be funny — and funny ruled over everything.

As they turned the corner, they found Mr. Horner standing next to a rose bush. Under the bush was a dead rabbit. Maggots squirmed all over its body — everywhere but its eyes. Those black beads stared out at nothing, had no life, but they bore into Max just the same. A breeze blew across and for the first time, Max smelled death. Before he knew it, he had run back around the house and puked in the pool.

Sitting at the top of a stairwell in the middle of a twisted mind’s architectural nightmare, Max wanted to run off and find a pool to puke in again. What awaited him below now carried the weight of death in a way that had only seemed hypothetical before. Now, after seeing that skeleton, Max felt in his bones the reality of his situation.

He stood and shined his flashlight down. If Sandra and Drummond weren’t busy with their part in all of this, Max might have turned around. But they were out there, and just as he counted on them, they expected him to do his best.

He opened his mouth, ready to yell down at Rolson in defiance, but he held back. This wasn’t a movie or some stupid television show. Yelling out his position would only help Rolson prepare.

Instead, Max made a fist and knocked on the wall. It wasn’t wood, but it was the best he had available for good luck. Then he moved on.

Two more skeletons littered the next floor. One stretched out across the painted circle. The remnants of a leather bomber jacket clung to the bones. The other draped over a series of holes dug into the stone — numerous necklaces fell beneath the rib cage. From these little bits that remained, Max felt sure he had stumbled upon Alex Crane and Ushiro Takashi.