Chapter 35
I wake up to silence in Noah’s apartment. Still wearing the sweatsuit he gave me, I make up the bed, grab my discarded dress, and tiptoe downstairs.
There’s no sign of Noah. Or André, either. But I find a note on the kitchen island next to my purse.
Had to leave town for a couple of days. Family needs me to handle a business emergency.
Make yourself at home.
Noah.
Frowning, I stare at the note. I’d hoped to talk to him this morning, to apologize for getting so emotional last night.
But the family interferes again.
Like some curse I can’t get rid of.
Keeping the paper with me, I turn in a circle and scan the kitchen. Noah’s offer to stay was what I needed in the moment, but now I want a long, hot shower. In my rental, with my own shampoo, and my own clothes.
Plus, Clairee is probably waiting at the door, ready for her morning bathroom and breakfast ritual.
I check the time as I cross the courtyard. It’s after eleven, but the day is gloomy, distant clouds bruised and swollen. A sign that another storm is coming.
The perfect kind of day to stay inside, curled up with some snacks and a blanket and my cat and a book. But no lusty vampires this time. Only feel-good romances allowed. Maybe one with a puppy.
After last night, I need an emotional cleanse.
As soon as I turn the key and crack the door, Clairee slips out. She throws an unhappy mewl my way for leaving her alone all night.
“Sorry, girl. Couldn’t be helped.”
She does her business and is back in a flash.
A half hour later, I’m showered and downstairs, whipping up cheese toast and tomato soup. Comfort food. Finding a tray in the pantry, I carry it all up to the study. My laptop sits where I left it on the desk, so I have a seat and open the browser.
Unburdening myself to Noah was a good start, and my dark secret looks different laid bare to the light.
Still, whatever revelations I make in my personal life, the mansion isn’t good for my state of mind. I need to leave. Which means finding a pet-friendly hotel and moving out. That’s the plan. A solid plan.
But when the homepage loads, that solid plan crumbles.
The leading story is still about the protests, but the accompanying photo is from a bird’s-eye view. Likely taken from a helicopter, the picture shows thousands of people filling the streets. Thousands of people blocking the streets.
Taxis won’t be running. Not when they can’t drive anywhere.
Copying the French text, I open up a translation site. I read the English version, and the news is bad. What started as a transportation strike is now also a labor strike involving all manner of businesses. Including hotels.
Plopping back in the chair, I swivel in a circle and consider my prospects. How long can a protest of this magnitude really last? Surely, it’s close to a breaking point.
I spin for a minute and then finally accept the reality. I’m not going anywhere, at least not today.
Huffing out my frustration, I take the laptop and tray over to the sofa. The first drops of rain hit the window, and I consider building a nice, warm fire.
After a bite of cheese toast, I log in to check my email. The usual correspondence fills my inbox—newsletters, blogs, ads, junk. I’m halfway through the list when a subject line jumps out at me.
Approval to join the Tour the Dark forum.
My fingers freeze on the touchpad. The dark tourism site. I completely forgot.
Closing my eyes, I try to return to the state of mind from five minutes ago. When I had decided on a new perspective.
One that doesn’t include the gruesome events surrounding this mansion.
I look again at the screen. What will it hurt?
Most of the questions I had about Maison Marteau have been answered.
A murder-suicide happened here many years ago, and a child died in a tragic accident.
I know why Luci lied. The vampire talk is based on a man’s mental illness.
And Rose likely left of her own free will.
Yes, I’m stuck here for a little while longer, but all the bumps in the night won’t be as scary. Now that my previous worries have been laid to rest.
And I make sure never to be alone with Ric.
Then why the itch of curiosity in the base of my brain? What more can I discover?
The green skull from a T-shirt floats behind my eyes. Like a creepy, neon harbinger of doom.
But what was done to her body.
Forging ahead, I click the link and confirm my account. I enter the username and password I previously submitted, then the screen blinks, and I’m in the forum.
I scan the page and find my name. A small triangle points to the words My posts. I click and am shocked to see paragraphs of discussion, a back-and-forth chat about my original question.
Scrolling to the bottom, I read what I wrote first and then the responses.
The initial comments are about La Danse des Monstres, because that’s the reason I found this site in the first place.
I skim most of this topic, because I’m now familiar with Grégoire Marteau and his Renfield Syndrome, but one topic bleeds into another.
I slow down when I find dialogue about death and murder.
As expected, the man who killed his wife and then himself is mentioned. One user extolls the history of the mansion, praising the building for its many sordid tragedies. Practically gushing over the myriad deaths linked to Maison Marteau.
A dark tourism super-fan.
A green light glows next to his username. He’s online.
I click on his name, GraveDanger, and a pop-up gives me the option of sending a message.
My first question is short. I want to grab his attention before he logs off.
Can we talk Maison Marteau?
I wait less than thirty seconds before I get a reply.
Always.
Flexing my fingers, I think of what to write.
Hoping you can answer a question. I met a guy outside MM. He mentioned a woman being killed there. Any idea what he meant?
I hit “send” on the message and wait.
More than one woman I know of. One from the 1920s was the first. Killed by her husband. Left behind a couple of kids.
I do the math in my head. The children left as orphans then would have been the right age for one of them to have been Dora’s parent. I’d guess she’s around seventy years old.
But none of this answers the burning question.
Anything weird done to her body?
She was stabbed thirteen times.
I widen my eyes and blink. This guy really does know the mansion’s history.
Nothing else?
He’s gone for longer this time, and I understand why when I see the length of his response.
There are two categories when it comes to deaths associated with Maison Marteau. First, the ones that definitely happened inside the mansion. Other than the murder-suicide, most of those are people who died of natural causes.
Then you have the “associated deaths.” The ones that happened somewhere in the vicinity of Maison Marteau but for one reason or another were blamed on the mansion. Like the place is cursed or something.
This guy really is a font of information. My fingers fly over the keyboard.
Tell me about the associated deaths. Any of them women with something weird done to their bodies?
Another short pause.
There was a girl found in the catacombs. Scrapes and bruises attributed to banging around in the dark. But I think you’re asking about the party girl.
The words “party girl” jab from the screen and send a shiver down my spine. I haven’t heard anything about this one. What party? When?
I start to type, but GraveDanger beats me to it.
Happened in 1985. Her body was found in Bois De Boulogne, a forest on the west side of Paris. Covered in leaves and dirt but not buried deep. Sloppy and amateur, like someone didn’t know what they were doing or didn’t care if she was found.
I read his response again. Confused, I ask a follow-up question.
Why linked to Maison Marteau?
He takes a long time, and I nibble on my thumbnail. Watching the screen, my muscles tense, clenched with sickening dread.
At last, he comes through.
She went to a party there on the night she disappeared.
Info about her last activities is hard to come by, but the police issued a statement saying she had last been seen crossing Pont d’léna, the bridge near the Eiffel Tower.
Online sleuths don’t buy that story. The witness was never named, and the investigation dried up.
Another investigation into the Marteau family stalled out. Because of police corruption? The money and influence of the family? I lean in and continue reading.
There were other reasons people think party girl died at the mansion. Did you read the earlier comments about the guy who built the place? How his habits started talk of vampires?
Dropping my hand to the computer, I type two words.
Yes. Why?
I hold my breath and watch the screen.
His answer pops up and my stomach drops.
Because party girl’s body had been drained of blood.