13 Drops of Blood (16 page)

Frank pulled himself away from his drink, seeing Mary with the only eye with which he could see.

He shrugged.

“Where?” Mary snapped.

If Frank had consumed less alcohol, he would have said nothing. Instead, he spoke without considering the consequence. “Not here, woman. In the mausoleum.”

“You lie.” Mary quickly spat, with anger growing inside.

“I do not lie.”

“You do! You wish to lure me there––to bury me, after having raped and killed me! I am a scholar, and not easily fooled. I know the likes of you and your kind. You are not a man. You are a beast!”

Frank had had enough of Mary’s insults. He slammed his hand on the bar, spilling his drink. “You’ve asked me if I’d seen battle, and I did not answer. But I shall answer you now. Yes! I
have
seen battle. I see battle every week of my life. A man my size can know not peace. I am a target, a marked man. I am the man others wish to knock down, to prove themselves men. They come at me often, drunk and brainless––like
you
woman, like you. They come alone at first, then in packs. The violence… it’s always the same. I find bloodshed and carnage waiting at every corner around which I turn. I long for peace. I swear it, I do. But I shall never find peace. Not with the likes of you, and not until someone strikes me down. I shall not find harmony and serenity until I am dead, though my heart longs for its calm and tranquil shores. I pray for a life of peace, though I shall never get it.”

Seething with anger, Frank turned away, wanting to smash something.

Mary gasped. She was speechless; she was touched. The giant man was no ogre. He was intelligent, educated and passionate. He spoke like a scholar, a teacher, a poet. Seconds passed, and Mary felt the overwhelmingly bitter sense of shame. “A book should not be judged by its cover,” she said. “Nor should man. I am sorry, and ashamed. You have done nothing to make me believe that you are a creature of violence, yet it was the conclusion in which I arrived. I feel a fool.”

Frank groaned like an animal. He said, “Don’t bother. This cross is mine to bear, not yours. Just leave me be.”

“But a man does not choose the size to which he grows. He grows until the Lord commands it not.”

“I suppose.”

“It is true. I’ve known it, and yet I was blind. Blind like a bat in the night. Again, I am sorry, truly sorry.”

“Forget it woman. It’s nothing.”

Mary finished her drink, and William poured them another. Time passed. Then changing her tone, she said, “The face of the serpent?”

“Aye.”

“Will you show me?”

Frank closed his eyes. If Mary had been nicer no him, he would have said
no
. Instead, spite encouraged a nod of his head. “Aye.”

Mary shifted her weight, moved closer. “How can I be sure that your intentions are pure? I am a young woman, of nineteen years. I have been called beautiful. Most men considered noble would find themselves swimming with impure thoughts.”

“I am not most men.”

“Yes, yes, of course. But how do I know?”

Frank swallowed half his ale. “William!” he said. “Come.”

William slipped off his stood, and approached the couple. “Another ale to warm the gullet?”

“No.”

“No?” Will seemed puzzled. “Then what is it?”

“You know me?”

“Aye, that I do.”

“Be truthful now. Do men, women, and children, fear me?”

William leaned back; stroked his chin lightly. “You are a man of great stature, of great physical strength. I believe they fear you.”

“You’ve seen me fight?”

William nodded. “Aye.”

“Have I ever picked a fight, picked one with a man that did not ask?”

“No. Not one. Men seem drawn.”

Frank glanced at Mary. “Have you seen me harm a woman, or a child?”

“I have not.”

“Am I known to
be
a man that harms women, children?


“No.” William said. “You are not.”

“Thank you William.”

“Not at all, Mr. Stein. Would you like another ale?”

“No thank you. I believe we are finished here. Isn’t that right,
woman
?”

Mary bobbed her head. “Aye.”

As William returned to his stool, Frank said with a doubtful tone, “I am to show you then?”

“The hand of shadow?”

Frank tapped a dirty finger against his dead eye. “The face of the serpent.”

* * *

They walked through the burial ground as rain bounced off the tombstones, created lakes, drowned the grass, and drilled holes in the mud. Frank led the way, finding the highest ground, where the ponds were shallow beneath his feet. They approached the mausoleum, which sat near the center of the cemetery. Made of sandstone, the building was a considerable size, larger than most fair-sized houses. Trees and shrubbery were plentiful around both sides of the structure. Headstones were also abundant, separated only by Christian statues and stone pathways. Smooth, slippery steps led to a six-pillar entry, centered by a tall black door with a long brass handle. Some thought the handle looked like gold.

Frank approached the door and produced a ring of keys, also made of brass. As he shuffled through them, Mary waited patiently. Frank found the appropriate key and slid it into the keyhole.

They stepped inside.

The crypt was a great hall with several rooms on each side. The air was musty, stale, and polluted with the stench of death. On the floor, mice scattered. Against the wall, unlit torches sat bundled together on a shelf, next to a dozen long, hand carved matchsticks.

Frank lifted a match from the shelf. He dipped it into a small asbestos bottle, which had been filled with sulfuric acid. The match ignited. Using the tiny flame, he lit a torch, and handed it to Mary. Then he lit another torch, which he kept for himself. The burning torches revealed an elaborate portrait on the ceiling. The stones became an ever-changing flicker of cherry red faces and beautiful landscapes, the toils of an unknown artist.

Frank walked past the empty rooms, and approached a staircase.

Mary followed.

“To the basement,” Frank said, running fingers through his sopping wet hair. He briefly pulled his shirt away from his body, hating the way it felt.

“Is it here?” Mary asked, with a growing sense of fear.

“Aye, that it is. The face of the serpent is in the cellar, near the base of the stairs. As you may or may not know, this crypt was a jail in secret for many years. Or so it has been said.”

“Not a secret. I’ve heard those rumors since I was small. This is true of a great many mausoleums.”

“But things are different now. I’ve worked the grave a long while, and known not a single man kept in the dungeons of this place. That time has come and gone, it seems. Until…”

“Until now.”

“Aye.”

Mary coughed twice, and stroked her fingers along her dress. “The hand of shadow, this is a man in a cage?”

Frank grinned. “It is no man. But there is something locked in that cage. In fact, there are four of them.”

“Four?”


“Aye. Four demons. Spawned from hell, the dark abyss, with skin rotting and eyes washed in the depths of fire. They don’t breathe. They don’t eat. They don’t talk. They just wait, observing the living as the skin rots from their bones. And oh, how they moan, it sounds appalling, abysmal.”

Mary looked shocked. Her mouth hung wide, like her jaw had been broken. Finally she snapped her lips shut, and said, “How did they come to be here, these creatures of anguish?”

“They came on the day the storm began, all of them. Loved ones brought three. The other came from the hospital. They were just people then, dead people. Nothing new for a place like this. I put each body in a coffin when it arrived, as I always do. A service was given in the rooms upstairs. We do that sometimes, if the weather is bad, or if it is requested. We charge more for an indoor service so it is not called for often, and when the storm breaks, which usually takes no more than a day or two, we bury the deceased in the yard with the others. But in that time between the service and the burial, we keep the bodies downstairs, locked in a cell.”

“Locked? Why locked? They’re dead, are they not?”

“Yes, of course. But from time-to-time there have been thieves. They break the door, come for jewelry, or the gold in their teeth. At some point I stopped leaving the corpses upstairs. I bring them to the cellar now, and lock them away.” Frank giggled without happiness. “This time, something peculiar happened. Perhaps the storm brought it on. I do not know. Strange time this is. No dead since the storm arrived. None that I know of, anyway.”

An odd droning hum came from the basement.

“What is that?” Mary asked.

“It is the dead. They have opened their eyes, woman. They have risen.” Frank sighed. “I know not why you’ve come this far. You must be mad. But it is not too late to turn away. Satan has not seen your face yet.”

Mary huffed. She wanted to leave, but needed to see. “Can I leave whenever I decide to?”

“You can leave now. I shall not stop you.”

“No. Not yet. I long to see. I need to know.”

“I know why
I
come here.” Frank said. “I come to see that all remains well, but you? Why? Why place yourself within the grasp of a demon? Do you not fear your soul to blacken, your heart to wither?”

“You would not understand.”

“But I would.”

“No!” Mary said, louder than intended. Immediately she wished she had remained silent.

“Have I instilled no trust in that mind of yours? Am I so obtuse?”

“No.”

“Then why would I not understand? Is it because I am a man?”

Mary wondered what to say, what to do. And she was afraid. If Frank wanted to hurt her, it would be easy now. No one would see, or hear. Help would not come. She was alone with the giant, and at his mercy. He could tear her head from her neck with his bare hands. He could snap her arm like a dry stick.

Mary shuffled her conflicting thoughts.

Frank seemed trustworthy. She sensed no hostility from him. He was another tortured soul, like she was. He was an innocent, and locked inside the prison of his own body. She hoped.

“If you must know,” Mary whispered, as if the demons in the basement were listening, “I am a writer on a quest, in pursuit of inspiration. I’ve been asked to write a horror story, but find that I am without insight. My mind works in tragedy, for mine is a life of misfortune. My sister died three weeks ago, and still I cannot summon a tale of horror. If you were to show me the face of the serpent, the hand of shadow…”

“You will write it.”

Mary winced. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Seeing the hand of shadow is not a tale in itself. There is no love interest, no conflict. I need inspiration, not obscure news banter.”

Frank nodded, turned, and walked down the stairs. “Then my dear, you shall see the true face of horror.”

* * *

Mary followed along, entering the basement upon heavy legs. She heard growling, and moaning. A putrid smell made her stomach turn. Reaching the bottom step, she realized that the rainwater had made its way inside somehow: The floor was littered with puddles.

Frank lifted his torch. He nodded, and turned away.

“Are you to leave me?” Mary asked.

With the sound of her voice, the moaning and growling stopped dead.

“Yes. The demons are here. They remain secure. That is all I need to know. Do not stand close to the cell, and you shall remain unharmed.”

Frank disappeared up the stairs.

Mary took a step. Then another. The cell was within an arm’s length now, but she could see nothing unusual.

“Hello?”

No answer. Silence.

Mary moved closer than Frank had suggested. She held the torch against the bars, and felt a chill. The cell seemed full of ice.

Then a boy appeared. He moved without speaking, without breathing. His fingers were long and thin, his stomach was bloated. Recessed eye sockets were drawn and dark. Ten years old and soulless, with skin that had turned from light and fair to black and purple. The eyes were red, shocking red, like glistening orbs of blood.

Looking into those eyes, Mary could see that the boy was not human, not now. He had the pupils of a demon, a serpent. Nothing from this earth could lurk behind those chilling red orbs, those deep haunting spheres.

Looking closer, Mary realized that she was not looking into the eyes of a single demon. She was looking at hundreds of demons––perhaps thousands, millions––all living inside the corpse-child together.

And
he
was the cold one. The chill was coming from inside of
him
.

Mary stepped away.

A man and a woman crept forward. Both were stinking, rotting. It was obvious that the man had been killed in some type of accident: his head was split open; the gray matter from his brain had leaked down his neck. The woman was tall with long dark hair, her dress was torn open; her wilting breasts were exposed. Rope marks circled her neck.

The corpse woman grinned. Pointed. She began to laugh with a multitude of voices. Her voice was a carnival of living death––an eerie rattling grind, a handful of sticks pressed against the slow moving spokes of a coach wheel.