Epilogue 2
He didn’t understand the summons, but ignoring it was out of the question, especially when it came after nine in the form of a stone-faced police officer damp from the rain.
So, he pulled on his boots and followed the officer to his cruiser. He couldn’t remember having ever ridden in the back of a police car. His father would have strangled him after his mother was done turning his backside purple.
But he sat quiet in the backseat while the radio crackled random dispatch codes he didn’t understand.
Why would he?
He ran an honest little roadside stand selling fresh strawberries. He wasn’t in the habit of getting in trouble. Even in his fully grown age with two children and a wife, he’d done his part to be an upstanding citizen.
Still, his clammy palm made him a liar. They trembled slightly as he rubbed them up the soft grain of his trousers.
“Can you tell me what this is about?”
The officer, no older than twenty. Practically a kid, stared through the rain splattered windshield and gave a tense, “The detective will fill you in.”
Detective?
He’d seen enough true crime documentaries to grasp that this was a big deal. Something terrible happened and somehow, he was the person they needed.
Even in the dark, in the murky gloom of fog and rain, the monument of a structure dominated the evening dusk. It punctured the heavens with spires and wrought iron rods. Dozens of vacant eyes glowered down from a mossy face of stone and age.
All around it, parts crumbled and were swallowed by growth like the earth itself was reclaiming the land.
But as they rolled around the bend and followed the gravel path, they were blinded by the flash and twirl of lights splashing red and blue into the heavens.
He counted six.
Six cruisers.
They were number seven.
Unlucky, his wife would tell him.
But he wasn’t given a chance to contemplate their presence when his door was yanked open and he was motioned out into the steady downpour with the sullen faced man in jeans and a long, black trenchcoat.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.”
I didn’t think I had a choice, he thinks, but keeps to himself.
“I was told it was urgent,” he says instead.
The detective inclines his head. “I believe it is. This way, please.”
There was nothing he would rather do less than follow, but his legs shuffle after the other man up the stone steps.
The foyer is a dark wasteland of brittle leaves, filth and debris. It stinks of water damage and mold. It’s nearly enough to make him sick.
“How well did you know the Ushers?”
He shrugged and eyed the dozens … hundreds of mirrors. One on top of the other. Hung in haphazard clusters all down the creepy corridor. They seemed to be everywhere.
“Not very. Hardly at all, honestly. We had just gotten into talks about expanding my farm. Hiring more hands. Mr. Usher was offering to become a silent partner.”
“A guy you didn’t know?”
He understood the doubt. He had barely believed it himself when Marcus Usher appeared on his doorstep with the offer.
“He said he liked my strawberries,” he explained, feeling a bit stupid. “What’s this about? Did something happen?”
The detective shrugged. “We don’t know yet. We’re hoping you can shed some light on the situation.” The man continued along the unsettling corridor and he followed. “When was the last time you saw Marcus Usher?”
He scratched his head. “He and his sons came to the farm with the paperwork. It was during that storm we had. Next I heard, they’d slid off the road and didn’t make it.”
The detective nodded. “Did you go to the funeral?”
“Of course.”
The man stopped and faced him. “What about the girl?”
That made him blink. “The niece? I didn’t know she existed until the funeral. Marcus never spoke about her. The boys didn’t either, now that I’m thinking about it. I was surprised to see her, but again, we only just started talking so…”
The other man’s eyes narrowed in the murky gloom.
“What did you think of her?”
He shrugged. “Hard to judge someone at a funeral.”
But he tried to think back on that devastating afternoon. The ground was frozen and he’d wondered how they managed to dig three holes. Money, he mused. With enough of it, there wasn’t much that couldn’t be accomplished.
But the girl.
He remembered seeing her standing at the lip of the graves. Small. Pale. She hadn’t said a word but stared down at the caskets with numb acceptance.
“My wife and I thought it was sad that she was completely alone on such a day. We tried to talk to her, but she just stood there. Kind of staring off into the distance. You see, we didn’t know her and she didn’t know us, so we didn’t want to upset her by being intrusive, so when she said nothing, we left her. ”
“Are you sure?”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
The detective resumed his strides.
“Are you sure she didn’t know you?”
Bemused, he shrugged. “I don’t know. Marcus might have mentioned me to her?”
“But you never met her before the funeral?”
“I told you I didn’t. Now, can you please tell me what this is about?”
They arrived at a heavy set of high, arched doors. But rather than go through, the detective paused.
“We were called in at seven this evening by a neighbor. Every night, at that time, this neighbor walks her dog past the Usher House and every night, she sees a light moving from room to room. Like clockwork, she says. But not tonight. She waited and nothing, and she worried. So, she called us. We arrived and, well, I have never seen anything like it.”
With a shove, the detective forced the doors open. The hinges screamed in the endless silence. It seemed to rumble through the entire house, and it felt wrong that such a young girl should have been left alone in such a place.
“Did she really not have anyone?” he asked.
The detective stopped and glanced back. “She lost her parents when she was fifteen. Marcus Usher and his sons took her in as a favor to her father. They’d been estranged for years, but I suppose you don’t leave family on the streets.
No one hardly saw her. By all accounts, she kept herself locked up in here, until their death. ”
Guilt tugged at the strings of his heart. “Why did no one come to check on her?”
“I don’t think there is anyone. It was just Marcus, his sons and her. Oh, and the housekeeper and butler. Cordelia and Arthur Pym.”
A spark of hope flickered in his chest that perhaps that poor girl wasn’t truly alone in the world.
“Where are they? Maybe she’s with them?”
The detective paused. Only a heartbeat. Only long enough to meet his gaze with grim amusement.
“We found them dead in the kitchen in a state of heavy decomposition. Weeks by the looks of it. We’re guessing since just after the funeral. Both are seated at the kitchen table as if waiting for their afternoon tea.”
“Jesus,” he breathes, shuddering beneath the serrated chill that clawed down his spine. “Do you think she killed them?”
The other man clicked his tongue and resumed his strides.
“Not from what we can tell. It looks more like they simply sat down and expired.”
He blew out a breath. “So, not only did she have to bury her entire family, she gets home and the only people she had left die, too.”
The detective shrugged and nodded. “Basically. Pretty sure that’s enough to send any normal person over.”
He thought of something to say but the words died in his throat as they stepped over the threshold and into another corridor.
A dark, dank tunnel with walls slick with sweat and carpets swollen with moisture. The pungent stench of confined rot washed over his face, embedded into the threads of his clothes. He knew he would never get clean.
“What…?”
The detective was already moving on, heavy boots sloshing. He seemed immune to the water droplets dripping from the ceiling. Or the strange hum that scuttled across the stone.
But his companion followed. They moved deep through the chamber. He couldn’t imagine why such a place needed to exist or be so grand. He and his wife were perfectly content in their two story, four-bedroom ranch. This was much too large for anyone.
Still, he kept quiet until they rounded the bend and he froze.
There were no lights further in. No signs that it even ended anywhere. The police — he assumed — had brought torches. Giant lamps on stands hot enough to turn the sour stench of wetness to the consistency of a swamp.
But it was the walls. The patches of illuminated stone shiny with running water from above. The harsh, frantic scribbles. The jagged lines and angry slashes over and over across … forever. Hundreds upon hundreds. Like a child writing lines. But the words…
“That’s…”
The detective, studiously studying his face, nodded. “And that’s why you’re here.”
The companion turned clumsily, brown eyes enormous as he took in more. Endless and forever.
“But…” It didn’t make sense. “I don’t understand…”
Etienne Duval.
His wife Sarai Duval and their two sons, Augustus and Bernard Duval.
Julen Duval.
His wife Adela Duval.
Their children Noah and Patricia Duval
Julen.
Julen.
Julen.
Over and over and over.
Everywhere. In every color. Small and loopy. Enormous and carved with rage.
“I don’t understand,” Julen gasped again. “Why? I barely knew the girl. Outside of offering my condolences, I’ve never spoken to her. How does she know my wife’s name? My children? My brothers and their families?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” Water sloshed as the detective moved to stand beside him.
“But my theory is that you were the last person her uncle and cousins went to see before they died. Your name was the last one she remembered. The neighbor reported that Lenora Usher would simply wander the corridors all hours of the day and night. Her light, moving from room to room. I think, in her grief, she lost herself.”
Julen rubbed a clammy hand over his face. “Jesus. That poor girl. Where is she now?”