Fallen Stones (2 page)

He looked slowly around the unusual room, absorbing the essence of the space and marveling at the fine craftsmanship the numerous contractors he had employed to turn what was once a rundown, dilapidated hexagonal shaped out-building into a luxurious spa retreat for the ultimate in relaxation.  Washburn had spared no expense in funding the project as was typical of the man. After all, he had so much money at his disposal, acquired from his various past illegal enterprises, that spending it lacked any real significance to him. He had given up tracking the cost of the spa's luxurious restoration at around the sixty thousand dollar mark, and that was much earlier and a substantial amount of additional money as well.

A large stone fireplace, which Washburn assumed had once been used many years ago for heat, had been rebuilt into the wall behind him. When he had purchased the property, the fireplace was practically in ruins and no longer functioned. It now looked strong, with a thick highly polished handcrafted mahogany mantel. The entire edifice had been dismantled, stone-by-stone, then restored to a state far more luxurious than its original condition and was retrofitted with a natural gas burner for instant, convenient ambient lighting as well as heat. It could also burn wood if Washburn desired to do so.

Surrounding the tub area on four of the remaining five walls were large single piece mirrors, perhaps six feet tall and ten feet wide, which Washburn had ordered custom-made to the exact specifications of the six-sided room. Above the mirrored walls, weathered varnished boards of varying lengths, cut from oaks, which had been harvested from the many large trees on the property, were placed at forty-five degree angles to form a series of repeating triangular patterns around the room.

This pattern served to draw the viewer's eyes toward the incredible vaulted cathedral-like ceiling with its many arches of heavy timbers, which were originally part of three hundred year old church in Spain, and had been salvaged after the building had succumbed to a fire. Most of these amazing aesthetic features were scarcely visible in the gloominess of the shadowy room, but Washburn knew they were there, and somehow that simple knowledge helped to relax him enough to prepare him for the unwanted visitor he knew would soon arrive.

Washburn thought about the pitiful shape the building had been in when he discovered it shortly after purchasing the farmette. Structurally, the original building was similar to its present state, but it was in a deplorable condition; with sections of wood missing from the roof and walls, as well as broken windows and severe water damage throughout. Bats, rats, birds and other such wildlife had all found sanctuary in the ruins of the building.

There had been no plumbing or electricity in the original building, and the floor had been constructed of flat flagstone laid over compacted dirt. Washburn had never been able to determine the actual purpose for the original structure, but he had assumed from its contents and design it might have been used for bathing. That was why he thought of the room as a spa and why he had chosen to remodel it for that particular purpose.

A large, severely rusted and weather damaged cast iron bathtub had been sitting in the middle of the floor, at the center of the building. In fact, the ancient tub, now beautifully restored was the very same bathtub in which he now soaked. However, when he had discovered it, the old claw-foot tub had not been designed with plumbing or faucets. He had gone to great expense to have the tub properly drilled to allow for hardware and appropriate plumbing fixtures. Then he had it refurbished to its current immaculate condition. Washburn assumed when it was originally used, water must have had to be brought to the room from a nearby well or stream, heated in the old fireplace and then poured into the tub as required.

 He also was of the impression the original fireplace must have been the only heat source for the entire building. He had never heard of any early twentieth century Pennsylvania coal region homes or farms with such frivolous and luxuriant bathhouses. To the best of his knowledge, bathing had always been done inside the main house. But based on what he discovered about the former owners and their level of affluence, construction of such a structure to be used for such a purpose might actually have been plausible.

After an extensive and costly amount of research, Washburn had learned the original builders and owners of the property were actually his maternal grandparents, Dwight and Marie Livingston. He had not known or heard much about his grandparents while he was growing up, but after hiring a private investigator to research the property as well as to find out as much as possible about his own family heritage, Washburn learned the Livingstons had been quite wealthy, having owned much land in the area as well as several coal companies. They had apparently purchased the land and built the house in the early 1900's.

Washburn had also learned his grandparents were not the first settlers to build on the property. Houses of one sort or another had existed on the land for several hundred years. However, at the time his grandparents bought the land, most of the outbuildings as well as the main farmhouse had ceased to exist; perhaps burned in fires or destroyed by other forces of nature. As a result, his grandparents hand started with a clean slate, so to speak, and built everything from the ground up.

Emerson Washburn's mother had never told either he or his younger brother Nathan about their grandparents, and neither of them had much interest in such things as either children or as young men. Washburn knew his grandparents had both died fairly young, in their early thirties, and he always felt that prior to their deaths they may have done something unspeakable because none of their living decedents ever spoke their names or even acknowledged they ever once existed.

On several occasions as a young boy, Washburn would catch his mother or father discussing something in hushed voices, wearing looks of disapproval. He might hear the occasional snippet of a phrase or the occasional word such as, “mother”, “father” or even words like “tragic” and “horrendous” and he knew they were speaking about his mother's parents. His mother always got a look of anger, or perhaps hatred whenever they spoke this way, as if to suggest she despised her mother.

This often served to confuse young Washburn as he had also heard that his grandparents had died when his mother was only about two years old. He couldn't comprehend how she could have such hatred for someone she never really knew and certainly could not recall.  

Washburn's young imagination often went wild with ideas trying to determine what his grandparents may have done to warrant such a family shunning. As soon as his parents would see him trying to eavesdrop, they would immediately cease their conversation and order him to go outside and play with his brother. They had no intention of allowing him to learn the mysterious family secret.

Then years later, after Washburn had grown to be a man and had found his way into a life of crime, he often wondered if he had chosen the lifestyle because of some genetic predisposition. He often wondered what sort of evil his grandparents had perpetrated, which was so vile as to have their very names banished from all family discussions? As a child he often thought he would give anything to learn the horrible family secret, but now that he did know everything, he wished to God he did not.

Growing up he often thought about what he heard adults refer to as “bad blood”.  Later when he had broken all ties with his immediate family, having been branded a “black sheep”, he became more certain than ever that he had chosen a life of crime because he had been born for it. Whatever “bad blood” had coursed through his grandparents veins must obviously run through his own.

Since then he had spent many years building his criminal empire, dealing in virtually every known vice modern man could desire, from stolen goods to drugs to prostitution. Although his activities were considered evil in the eyes of society, they felt perfectly right and normal to him. For Washburn, it was as if the idea of right and wrong had no meaning. His parents had tried to instill in both himself and Nathan what society considered proper values. The concepts seemed to stick when it came to Nathan, but Washburn couldn't quite come to grips with them.

As he lie soaking in the tub, Washburn recalled the life-changing event which made him cast aside his life of crime and which brought him home. As if ordained by fate, many years earlier during one of his “business trips” to Pennsylvania, Berks County to be specific, something happened that spurred him not only to suddenly become interested in his heritage but also to eventually have it become an obsession for him. While staying in the area around the city of Reading, he read a story in the local newspaper about the tragic death of a couple in a car accident. A drunk driver had plowed into the couple's vehicle head-on as they were driving home from a movie.

To Washburn's surprise, the names of the couple, which seemed to scream out at him from the first paragraph of the story, were those of his estranged brother Nathan and his wife, Mary. Washburn had not spoken with either of them in many years and despite their lack of closeness, he felt a deep sadness, knowing he could very well be alone in the world, since he had never married and had no children of his own.

Perhaps he was simply overcome with a bit of melancholy that might have accompanied growing older without either a wife or children, he didn't know, but the feeling was quite disheartening. That particular event had sparked what would grow through the years to become an obsession with learning about his ancestors. The death of his brother and wife was likely also the catalyst for him to leave his life of crime, eventually retire and then hire a private investigator to search for any possible living relatives many years later.

As a recent unforeseen result of that investigation, he had learned a little over a year earlier about the existence of the farmette and its availability for purchase. It was when he discovered the property had originally been his ancestors' family homestead, he immediately decided to buy it; on the spot, sight unseen. This was not how Emerson Washburn normally conducted his business, but the idea seemed so right that he did so without forethought. It had been over ten years since he had first read about the death of his brother.

Washburn had purchased the property from a holding company, which had bought it many years earlier.  The farmhouse and out buildings had been abandoned and unused for over thirty years and had been allowed to fall into disrepair. The buildings were uninhabitable shells, which appeared to have been vandalized over the years. The original Livingston farm had been much larger, hundreds of acres but through the years, parcels of land had been sold off, reducing it to a forty-acre farmette. Prior to the holding company taking possession the property had hands many times with residents never staying more than a few months and Washburn now understood the reason why. No wonder the former residents had fled leaving the structures to fall to ruin.

Washburn suddenly felt a slight prickling sensation at the back of his neck and knew from previous experience what was about to happen. He reached down over the side of the huge tub and allowed the document he was holding to fall to the floor with a slap, echoing loudly in the silent empty chamber. The cover of the document read “Last Will and Testament of Emerson Charles Washburn”.

As he slowly returned to a sitting position in the tub he noticed a familiar change occurring to the wall-sized mirror located directly in front of him; a change he had seen many times before, but one which nonetheless always brought a disturbing sensation, which radiated to the very core of his soul. The mirrored glass seemed to slowly shimmer at first, and then begin to ripple like it was liquid in composition and as if someone had dropped a pebble into it. Then the ripples began to work outward in ever growing concentric circles. Washburn smelled a recognizable foul and dank odor like that of rotting vegetation and decomposing long-dead animals. During his lifetime, Washburn's illegal business dealings had required he dispose of more than his share of dead bodies and as such, he knew well the stench of decomposition.

The candles surrounding the tub started to flicker as if a breeze had suddenly blown across them. Within a few seconds, the image of a man gradually took shape in the undulating glass surface and Washburn knew the time he had anticipated with dread had finally arrived.

From inside the liquefied glass, the visage of a man slowly emerged. He was dressed in the type of clothing an early twentieth century gentleman of wealth would have worn. His form was translucent and his movements appeared jerky and irregular as if he was but the projection of a man. The creature moved with the same spastic motion one would see if watching an old silent movie, filmed with an obsolete and possibly damaged camera, using substandard film. However, Washburn knew the likeness, which had visited him many times before was not an illusion but was actually the spirit of his long-dead grandfather Dwight Charles Livingston, somehow made manifest. The ghost was tall and thin, perhaps gaunt would be a better description and appeared to be in his early thirties with dark brown hair and stylish mustache. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and carried a cane or walking stick with what appeared to be an ivory handle fashioned in the shape of an animal's head, a wolf. Washburn had seen a similar cane in a large portrait of Dwight and Marie Livingston, which he had professionally restored and which currently hung in the living room of the main farmhouse.

One site he could never fail to notice, but always wished he did not have to endure, was the long gash sliced across the specter's throat. It was like a giant gaping toothless mouth of tattered flesh hanging in a flap across the wretched creature's neck. Several times Washburn thought he had seen some sort of insects, perhaps worms or maggots crawling about inside the cavernous slash.

Over the past year, Washburn had been haunted and tormented relentlessly by the specter, ever since the start of the restoration. In fact, he had first seen the image shortly after discovering the straight razor, which now lay on the floor next to the tub. Since then he had been forced against his ever-weakening will to do whatever the spirit commanded. In fact, the reason Washburn had been in that very room, soaking in the tub that very night was because he was carrying out a set of specific instructions the tormenting specter had ordered him to complete.