Chantal Boudreau Read online

  Beneath the engine’s rumble, he hears a low, guttural moan that sends a chill down his spine. From where he sits, Jackson is facing the garage. His hand hovers over the headlight switch. He knows that turning those lights on will probably show him something he really doesn’t want to see. He does it anyway. About twenty feet from where Jackson sits is what he assumes was once his nearest neighbor, Jim Warren. What’s left of Jim is hardly enough to make it worth boxing up and burying, but somehow, whatever had made Jackson’s wife emerge from her watery grave was also working on Jim’s remains. The Jim-thing turns on its disintegrating legs and takes a lurching step toward the truck. Jackson doesn’t bother hanging around to see how fast what’s-left-of-Jim can move. Jackson turns in his seat, stomping on the accelerator and speeds out of the driveway, spraying little plumes of gravel behind the truck’s beefy tires.

  He’s on the little one-lane road that leads, led, to his house before he realizes he’s crying again. He looks out across the fields and houses as he passes and notices that many of them seem to have undergone similar scenes to the one that played out in his own home. Doors stand open to the night. Windows are broken. One house he passes is on fire, and he can’t be sure, but he thinks he sees someone walking around inside it amid the flames. He doesn’t stop to investigate further. He keeps driving. He runs through the flashing yellow light in his little town’s main and only intersection, passing the parish patrol car piled into the sign in front of the gas station. No one’s around to care if he breaks the law, and those who are around aren’t interested. The few people—if they could still be called people—stand and watch him speed past, apparently afflicted with the same strange ailment that took his wife and neighbor. All he can think of is to get away, get out of this town, and get somewhere safe. But where? Where’s safe?

  Without being completely aware of it, he makes his way toward Interstate 49. He thinks the cities should be safe. Whatever this is, it won’t be happening there. He hopes it won’t be happening in Baton Rouge or New Orleans. He doesn’t think about the possibility that this nightmare is in the cities. He just drives.

  Twisted Words

  By Andrew Stockton

  1

  I first felt uneasy about the whole thing when I drove through the gates and along the drive toward the distant building. The gently undulating fields on either side of the driveway wore an early morning winter mist that swirled and rose, reminiscent of many hackneyed post-war horror films. Images of Vincent Price or Peter Cushing appearing as a black silhouette in the distance flashed through my mind. Yet, it was something more than this that provoked this feeling of foreboding. No, not foreboding. That would be too strong. Disquiet.

  Of course, I put it down to the fact that I had been driving all night: over-tiredness and perhaps an overactive imagination. I had driven up from London, after all, with only a couple of brief stops, and while I was used to driving long distances, this was a long journey even for me. I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself have I? Anthony Kerslake, born in Surrey, travelled a bit, did a bit of book dealing as a hobby, which slowly turned into a living after setting up a secondhand bookshop in Oxford. Single, forty-odd, and here to—well, originally invited to meet an old acquaintance again and check out buying some old books, but now not really sure of whether I want to be here or not.

  The old house disappeared as I drove down a small incline into a corridor of trees and through a carpeting layer of even thicker mist, which gave an eerie impression of unreal trees growing above a cloud of shimmering white. At the bottom of the incline, thick branches intertwined overhead—gnarled hands grasping each other over the roadway—supporting them-selves as if holding up these insubstantial caricatures of decaying life. I was startled to find I had slowed right down, almost to a crawl as I stared ahead at some sort of grotesque death masque. The thicker branches of some of the trees had intertwined overhead and were reaching down in such a way as to produce the shape of a hanged corpse; arms reaching to the throat as if in some vain attempt at release, head lolling to one side and legs and body jerked together in a hideous danse macabre.

  I shook myself and sped through, opening the windows to let in the cold, blasting air. Back again in sight of the house, I felt more reassured, more awake, and I closed the windows as I came to a halt outside the imposing main doors of Malhomme House.

  “Anthony, come in, come in. It really is so nice to see you again!” We exchanged handshakes, smiles, and a brief hug.

  I had met Marco Caldera only once before this weekend, but he hadn’t changed at all in those five years. Not that I knew him that well, but we’d always had a close professional relationship that over the last two years had developed into a solid bond. Marco was a lover of old books, and his knowledge of old manuscripts was probably on a par with the best in the business. He knew the antiques market, too, knew when to buy and sell, which explained his wealth. In part, anyway. He’d always said he’d been born with more wealth than he knew what to do with. And squandered most of it, he’d readily admit. But still remained, in my view at least, fabulously rich.

  “C’mon, lets crack open an Irish. Diana will see to your luggage.” His valet appeared as if from nowhere, nodded and picked up the one case and overnight bag I’d bought.

  “Nice to meet you, Mister Kerslake,” she said as she disappeared with them as swiftly and silently as she’d arrived. I was ushered quickly through the hallway and into a room where the flames from a log fire shook the shadows of huge oak bookcases along the walls.

  “Wow,” was all I could say. This was the first time I had been to this part of the Highlands, the first time I had been to Malhomme House. I had to apologise for appearing so tongue-tied when we sat down with our drinks; I really hadn’t expected Malhomme House to be so big, so impressive (he laughed), and I certainly wasn’t expecting servants!

  “Diana’s more of a necessity than a luxury, Anthony,” he explained. “For a variety of reasons. But come on, let’s have a refill.”

  A refill or two later, I was more than delighted with the results of some business we concluded: two crates stashed full of a range of old books, and a few objet d’art which would fetch a nice price back in Oxford, plus an absolutely perfect Johannes Nicolai which I felt sure would do well at auction. The rest of the day was spent in pretty much of a haze, thanks to the rest of the Irish whiskey and the heady atmosphere of peering through more old documents and manuscripts. Before dinner that evening, we took a walk around the grounds. As we walked through the canopy of trees I was surprised to find how less intimidating they now appeared. I asked Marco about the hanged man, the strange formation of the branches we were now approaching.

  “It is very impressive, isn’t it? Most people mention it when they stay. It has a bit of history, too—remind me to show you the manuscript of Henri de Mascaal when we get back.”

  He knew this last throwaway comment would ignite my interest. I was about to bombard him with a hundred different questions, but he held my arm to stop me.

  “He was hung at this point. That,” he pointed up at the intertwined branches, “is the body of Henri de Mascaal! And this spot here,” he moved me gently to one side, to the spot he was pointing at, “is where all your wishes may be granted! I don’t have a wishing well, I’m afraid. But nearly three hundred years ago, Henri de Mascaal laid a spell on this place, and anyone who desires may make a wish.”

  “Three hundred years? This manuscript of yours is three hundred years old? Is it on the market, Marco? I’ll buy it!”

  “It’s not for sale, Anthony. Sorry.”

  I laughed. “Oh yeah? In that case, I’ll wish for…I wish for fabulous wealth!”

  “Well, I hope it comes true, Anthony, I really do,” Marco smiled. “Come on, let’s get back.”

  “Marco, tell me more about this Henri de Mascaal. Just what exactly do you know about him?”

  An image of Henri the man was already beginning to form in my mind. Not much of an image, it�
�s true; a tall man, muscled, a body forged by hard manual work, and a face lined by experience. A face, I realised with a start, not unlike my companions. A sure sign of a tired imagination, I thought.

  We had stopped. He stared at me, and it seemed an eternity until he spoke again. But an eternity of lives as if we were falling down through the generations from a dim remembered past to the reality of today and—

  “This spot has quite a history. Henri de Mascaal came—no, was brought—here to die, so the story goes.” He pointed up at the grotesque shape hanging down from the damp branches “But with a formation of branches like that, which has stood for several hundred years, you would expect stories like that to develop wouldn’t you?” His voice became a little distant then. “Only stories, though,” he continued in mock horror tones. “Tales from around the fireside; the sort of stories to frighten children when the fires’ black shadows scramble a spastic dance on the walls as if they are trying to free themselves from their captivity to break through the unseen barrier to enter the world of living people. And the noises of the wind outside become the distant cries of the dying or the agonised wails of the lost souls.” His voice trailed away to silence for a moment, then began again. “And yet, on the face of it, the story ties in with the manuscript.” With his mind again thinking of reality, his voice regained its strength. “And the ‘script is undoubtedly genuine.”

  As we began to walk again, back to the house, my feeling of disquiet returned, but this time it was tempered by mounting excitement. A three hundred-year-old hand-written manuscript! This was my idea of heaven!

  We were back at the house before Marco would answer any more questions. “Just read the manuscript and make up your own mind,” was all he would say.

  * * *

  I sat at the table as Marco carefully lifted the manuscript out of its perspex container and removed an outer layer of muslin. He wore fine muslin gloves, and his face took on the look of a surgeon preparing for an operation as he laid the first of the sheets of hand-written parchment in front of me. A thin layer of perspiration crept onto his upper lip, and his hands shook slightly as he laid it down. I was conscious that I was breathing faster; I was conscious, too, of an urge to touch this piece of living history, but I gripped my hands together and began peering at the fading scrawl.

  I knew that the colour had drained from my face within seconds of beginning reading. I looked up at Marco and saw his excitement barely suppressed.

  “Go on,” he urged.

  I read.

  March 4

  God help me, it has been three days since last I saw my daughter. For this reason, I have ceased my Journals and my Practices and have set my time to finding her.

  Yet, search though I will, and thoroughly, I find no clue as to where she may be, and with my inner eye I see her lying dead in many places, or tortured by some Daemon I myself have raised and loosed from its chains.

  And in my dreams, too, I see her walking towards me, alive yet not alive, reaching out to me for help, asking with words I cannot hear, touching with hands I cannot feel, yet upon my waking she is gone and yet… and yet I feel her presence so close.

  Alas! She is not here. My despair is great, a burden made heavier by the grave weight of my part in this. My heart speaks of my wrongdoing in chastising her ignorance of the Black Arts and speaks of my punishment for meddling with them. Yet, I cling to the hope of the hopeless and hope she yet lives. Pah, I banish and summon forces from beyond this life, yet, if my daughter still lives I cannot know.

  Would that I had never sent her away from me that day. Would that I could trade my own life for hers.

  “He must have been frantic,” I said as Marco carefully removed the sheet and replaced it with another. He didn’t reply.

  March 5

  My potions have warded off sleep for four days, and I seek still, though I fear my efforts be fruitless.

  March 6

  It is not of my choosing, but I have returned to the Black Arts. I have prayed to the Good Lord this last week, but His ears are deaf to my pleas. So I turn to the Power With Many Faces and there seek help.

  March 7

  Alas! Alas! She is found, but lost to me. As the sun set last evening, I found her broken body many miles from here. I have carried her home and will lay her to rest if that be the will of the Dark One. Yet, I cling to one hope and one hope alone.

  I am now prepared, and have made my peace with God. Into His hands I commend my spirit.

  “Wow!” I looked up at Marco, expecting to see the same glow of excitement about him, but his eyes spoke more of sorrow and pain than excitement. I couldn’t help myself, and before I had truly realised what I had said, the words were out, “Christ, Marco, are you okay?”

  For a split second, his face changed and I was reminded of a child about to go into their first confession, about to unburden themselves of a terrible secret …but it passed quickly and he laughed.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Sharing this…this…” his hand waved gently over the leaves of parchment, “sharing all this for the first time, it’s so… so…”

  I’d never known him lost for words. These feelings of unease that had stalked me like a shadow all the time I had been here returned and sat in my stomach like a lead weight.

  “Go on, read on,” he said.

  I begin to understand a little of the hand that guides my Fate. It was not for nothing I have delved into the Black Arts. I see now that I have been prepared for this point in my life, prepared and educated to perform the ultimate Act of invoking the Most Evil One and seeking his help to restore my child.

  Yet the fear within me grows, for I fear the price I have to pay to return my daughter to this world.

  It may be I write no more, for it is my belief that the Dark One will seek my own life as payment, yet know you well that I am willing and ready for this and happily will abandon life so that my daughter live. I can foresee no greater sacrifice on my part. Should it be less than this, I will the more happier pay.

  The rituals must now begin.

  May the strength of our Lord protect me, and forgive me, for what I am about to do.

  March 14

  I continue my writing, but with the broken will of a man who has lost everything.

  My daughter lives again, though her eyes are dull and her voice silent. She watches my every move and hears me when I speak, or so it seems. At the sun’s rise she rises and sits in her chair. At sunset she leaves her chair and retires to her bed. Yet the horror of it is that when I hold her close, her arms are limp, her body is loose and, God protect her eternal soul, no heart beats in her breast!

  I read and re-read those last few words a number of times. No heart beats…could that really have been the case? Though my cynical twenty-first century mind said “Impossible fantasy!” and my own experience spoke of the substance of reality, this…this touched something deeper, a more primitive more spiritual part of me. I sat here, aware of something happening beyond my control, aware of the cold sweat that now covered my body, of the unexplained fear that made me look around the room.

  March 20

  I record this now as testament to my betrayal of our Lord and to my foolishness. I record this also so that it may serve as warning to others who may wish to take the Left Hand Path into the Dark World. Would that I had never been born so that my actions would remain undone.

  I will continue to record it within this diary, so that the true events will be told as they occurred, and please, God, none other follow my ill-thought designs.

  Every day, every long hour that passes, she watches me. I can no longer call her my daughter, for she is unknown to me.

  She will not eat, but in my heart I know the reason for it. Every day her skin falls closer to the bone, every day her eyes become more sunken. Her fingers are now blackened at their tips, wrinkled and cracked, her toes also. I hold her hand and she watches my hands upon hers; yet I fear to do that now, for I feel the failing strength within and it horri
fies me.

  Never is there the look of recognition in those lifeless eyes, never the hint of love as there once was. Oh, but I cannot think of things as they used to be, for that brings on the pain, and the pain is too great for me to bear. She watches me now with barren, unseeing eyes even as I write these words.

  This then is the price I have to pay for my foolishness. My daughter condemned to a slow, living death. And I, the perpetrator of the crime, must watch every long agonising moment of her decay.

  March 25

  This cannot continue. Surely such a monstrosity cannot exist in the face of our Lord?

  Her skin decays and is become discoloured. Her lips are drawn back from her yellowed teeth, and her neck is torn and cracked, unable to support her skull so that, if she moves, it rolls upon her shoulders like an ill-made child’s doll.

  Her hair, scant as in leprosy, grows only in the clumps between the rotting wounds upon her skull, and of the rips and tears upon her arms and legs I cannot speak of fully. For, though I clean them daily, still there appear the maggots that gorge themselves upon the flesh, or being fat with flesh, fall off onto the ground.

  She now no longer hears my words, nor looks my way. Still, at dawn she rises and at sunset lays herself down; but not to sleep, for no sleep touches the place where once her eyes were. And I, in such sleep as I have, dream of her as she once was, so that when I wake, I cry to dream again.