Masters of Midnight Page 4

  Exploring through the woods that lead back up to the main house, I stumbled across a small graveyard. At least I think it was a graveyard. Crooked slabs of concrete marked about a dozen plots, but there were no names etched into the faces. I had a distinct chill standing there, and it wasn’t from the sea wind that swept in from the cliffs.

  I could have left, Minter. I could have kept walking through the woods, found my way back to town, gotten in my car and driven away. I could be on my way home to you right now, Minter. But I came back to this house. Somehow I just couldn’t leave. Sure, it’s because of the carrot Mr. Craven has dangled in front of me: more information about my father. But it’s more than that.

  I just have to see him again. I have to look again into those deepset dark eyes of his. I can’t explain it. I just can’t wait to see him again. I am transfixed by him, utterly in his thrall. My quest for answers, about whether I can believe in my way of seeing the world, is all tied up with him. He holds the answers I seek. I cannot explain it any more than that. I just know it is true.

  May 7, 10:35 p.m.—Mr. Craven kept me waiting until after sunset. He was most gracious in his apologies, saying his work had simply overtaken him, and insisted I have dinner with him. Before I could say anything, Hare had wheeled in a tray of lamb chops and roasted potatoes, and I agreed. It was excellent. Mr. Craven didn’t eat any of it, though, saying he wasn’t hungry. “Well, not for lamb, anyhow,” he said with a smile.

  He just sat there drinking his port while I feasted. Every time I’d try to bring up my father and ask him what he had remembered, he’d change the subject. He seemed fascinated about our lives, Minter. An older gay man living vicariously through the details of a younger generation, I suppose. Though I have to admit he didn’t seem quite so old tonight. There was a little more spring in his step, more color in his wizened old cheeks.

  “Where did the two of you meet?” he asked.

  I laughed. “At a bar, actually. I suppose we both thought it was just going to be yet another one-night stand, but fate had its own ideas.”

  “Ah, fate.” Mr. Craven rubbed his hands together as he watched me eat. “And did you court him? Bring him flowers?”

  “Yeah, sure. Especially in the beginning. You know, when things are all hot and heavy . . .”

  “Hot and heavy,” Mr. Craven repeated.

  “You know what I mean.”

  He arched an eyebrow at me. “So is it no longer ‘hot and heavy’ then?”

  I blushed. “Well, I suppose it still is. We’ve only been together ten months. This is actually the first time we’ve been apart any length of time.”

  “You must think of him often, then.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

  “Think of him now.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think of him now so that I may see the look on your face.”

  It was an odd request, but I complied. I must have smiled, for Mr. Craven seemed pleased.

  “I can see him in my mind’s eye,” he said dreamily, “mounted upon his horse.”

  I looked at him quizzically. “How do you know he rides?”

  “Well, of course he rides. He’s always loved to ride.”

  I raised my eyebrows in bemusement. “Are you psychic, Mr. Craven?”

  He didn’t answer me. He stood and began walking around the room, touching things. A vase. An old lamp. A candestick. The spines of the books on the shelves. “He loved to ride, and he loved to dance. Oh, what a wonderful dancer he was—”

  He was no longer talking about you, Minter. His mind was far away. “Mr. Craven,” I asked, trying to be compassionate, “are you thinking about your friend? The one in the portrait?”

  He turned to me with wide eyes, seeming shaken out of his reverie. He had no answer for me. His lips were tight against his teeth.

  “His name was Jebediah,” he said at last.

  “Was he your lover?”

  Mr. Craven’s face went dark. He turned away from me and stared out the window. In the distance dogs began to howl. It gave me the creeps.

  “He was,” the old man answered. “Until a she-devil arrived to take him away from me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He turned back to face me. He was smiling now. “But enough of the past. The past is gone. I must live for now. For today. Tell me more about Minter—”

  “Mr. Craven,” I interrupted, “please. You promised to reveal something about my father. Something you said that you’d remembered.”

  He looked at me. And as I looked back, Minter, I swear he seemed to be growing younger in front of my eyes. His hair was still white and his face still lined, but his jaw was now firmer, his cheeks less hollow. He carried himself with greater strength and determination than he had even when he first came into the room. It was the strangest thing to observe.

  “Your father,” he spoke. “Yes, your father. He was a good man.”

  “You’ve already told me that.”

  “He was a good man who was caught up in events beyond his control. You shouldn’t blame him for disappearing on you. That’s what I wanted to tell you. He was powerless to stop what happened.”

  “Mr. Craven, I’m not following you . . .”

  “That is all you need to know.”

  “What do you mean that’s all I need to know?” I felt myself suddenly get angry. All the warm feelings I’d been experiencing for him dissipated. I felt tricked, manipulated. “This is what you told me to wait all day to hear? This is what you remembered?”

  He smiled shrewdly at me. “Is it not enough, Jeremy?”

  It was the first time he’d called me Jeremy. Before that, it was always “Mr. Horne.” I’m not sure why it stopped me, but it did. In that moment I felt the same chill that I’d felt out in the graveyard.

  “No,” I managed to say. “It’s not enough. If you have details, Mr. Craven, I’d like to hear them.”

  He approached me. If my writing is shaky, Minter, it’s because I’m terrified just remembering the moment. There was something about his eyes, so dark, so deep. He came within inches of my face, and his breath was rank. Up close, he looked still younger: the lines were disappearing on his skin almost as I watched. He smiled, revealing gleaming white teeth.

  “You don’t want details, Jeremy,” he said in a deliberate whisper. “Details are the stuff of nightmares. The way of madness. Of ruin. Details warp your mind. They curdle your thoughts. Destroy your hopes. Abandon your soul to its darkest fears.”

  I held my ground. “In details lie the truth.”

  “And is it truth you seek above all else, Jeremy? Above everything?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice shaking. “Truth is what I came here to find.”

  “Not only about your father.”

  I stared at him. “No, not only about him.”

  Mr. Craven smiled. “You want to know the truth about yourself, too. Why you have been so aimless all your life. Why you have never found your calling, so to speak.”

  It was eerie, how much he knew.

  “Is it so obvious?” I asked. “My life?”

  “Minter is successful, is he not? You feel inferior.”

  I bristled. “No. No, I—Minter is very encouraging of me—my writing aspirations—”

  “You are terrified of his leaving you. Throwing you over for someone else. Someone who has a direction in life. Someone who is superior to you.”

  “No—no, I—”

  “You say you seek truth, but you stand there in denial of it. Is truth really what you seek, Jeremy Horne?”

  I was unable to reply.

  “Is that not right?” he asked. “Above all else, you want truth?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I want truth.”

  A slow, thin grin spread across his face. “And would you trade truth over love, Jeremy?”

  “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Truth over love. How can I be more plain that that? The truth you seek, in exchange for l
ove.” He smiled. “Minter’s love, for example.”

  In that moment I knew utter terror. What did he mean? He was crazy. He was spouting nonsense, but suddenly I detected that in his ravings lay some kind of malice. His gentlemanly demeanor was a mask. The locals were right to fear him. I tried to recall Mrs. Haskell’s admonition that he was just a sad, lonely man—but in his sadness and loneliness, he had become bitter. Malicious. And quite possibly dangerous.

  “Thank you for dinner, Mr. Craven, but I find I must leave now,” I said crisply, turning and heading for the door.

  Just then it began to thunder. The crash shook the house so much that vases tottered on the shelves. I stopped. This was too weird. The rain pummeled the roof. The wind began howling through the eaves.

  “Oh, but you can’t leave in such a storm,” Mr. Craven said, an echo of the night before, the gentility and hospitality suddenly returning to his voice. “The road through the woods will be impossible.”

  “I’ll manage,” I said, resuming my stride toward the door.

  “But I must insist,” Mr. Craven said, and there, all at once from the shadows, was Hare, his big hulking form standing between me and the door.

  I felt Mr. Craven’s hand on my shoulder. It was ice cold.

  “What kind of a host would I be if I were to let my guest go out in weather like this? Your room upstairs is waiting for you.”

  I turned around slowly to face him. He beamed a warm smile at me, gesturing with his hand toward the stairs.

  I couldn’t move. I was caught in his eyes. I could say nothing. I just found my strength and began to walk in the direction of the stairs.

  I’m back in my room now, Minter. I’m trapped here. He won’t let me leave. The door is locked from the other side. There’s no escape. The drop from the window is too steep. I’m trapped!

  I had come here seeking truth. I had thought that here were the answers I’d been looking for all my life. I had convinced myself this was my destiny, my fate—

  But what kind of fate is it?

  Once again I’ve let dreams and fancies cloud my judgment. I’m sorry, Minter. How disappointed you’d be in me. I’ll get out of here in the morning. He doesn’t want to be charged with kidnapping. He’s got to let me out then. He’ll let me out to use the outhouse or something, and I’ll make a run for it. I’ll smash through a window, use a candlestick as a weapon this time if I need to—

  And maybe I’m simply being melodramatic yet again. I just don’t know anymore. But I know I’m not going to sleep. I’m going to stay awake all night. There’s no way I can close my eyes now.

  May 8, 6:02 a.m.—At last the sun is starting to break through the night. Why is it so difficult for me to write? My mind keeps wanting to slip away, to forget—and the pen is so heavy in my hand. But write I must—

  The wounds on my neck are throbbing. The flesh is torn, bright red.

  Proof, Minter. Proof that what I’ve seen is real. You can’t explain these wounds away with any of your logic, any of your damned rational assessment, the way you do when we’re watching Unexplained Mysteries or whatever show like it. I have been attacked, Minter. It was not my imagination. Stop thinking that it was!

  “He is not yours!” Mr. Craven’s voice had echoed through the room. “He is not yours!”

  The woman was sobbing. “He looks so much like Phillip! Please! You must give him to me!”

  My father’s name . . . she had used my father’s name . . .

  Where was that? When did that happen? Had I fallen asleep as I’d tried so hard not to do? I remember images . . . my door opening, the soft tinkling music—the woman’s room, yes, the same place I’d been the previous night. And the same woman—.

  Mr. Craven had laughed at her.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Take him if you want him so much. You will see.”

  No. I can’t allow myself to remember what happened next. My mind pushes the thought away. It was too horrible.

  But I’ve got to. For you, Minter. I’ve got to record what’s happened to me. There must be a record. And you’ve got to believe!!

  Her teeth. So sharp and long. And she came forward as if to kiss me, and I felt such revulsion for her. She punctured my neck with her teeth. The pain was excrutiating. The bile rose in my throat as she lapped at my blood, and I vomited right there, all over her. There are still stains on my shirt. That was no dream. No hallucination.

  The creature screamed. She pulled back from me, and Mr. Craven laughed.

  I fell to the floor, gripping my neck. I felt warm blood ooze through my fingers. I retched again, and spewed the last of my lamb dinner all over the floor.

  “Come to me!” she cried. “Come to me, I command you!”

  I answered her only with a dry heave.

  Mr. Craven’s laughter filled the room.

  “You see?” he said. “I told you he was not for you!”

  “But he is Phillip’s son!”

  “And like Phillip, he is mine,” Mr. Craven told her, and the woman shrieked.

  I can’t write anymore. I can’t

  May 8, 9:30 a.m.—With the sun shining through my windows, I can finally think more clearly. My strength is slowly returning so that I might plan my escape.

  That was no dream. And so I know now that my father met his fate here in this house. The woman knew him. And Mr. Craven’s chilling words:

  And like Phillip, he is mine.

  I inspected my wounds in the mirror. They are healing quickly, far more quickly than they should be.

  Vampires. In the haze of last night, I understood what they were.

  There are such things. That’s what old Edward van Sloan, playing old Van Helsing, had said at the end of Dracula. He was right. There are such things!!

  This journal is not the ranting of a madman, Minter, even though I fear that even now, even after all I’ve written, you still might insist on thinking so. You trivialize my dreams. You demean my imagination. But I was right, my love. This place has confirmed to me that my truth is real. Coming here I did indeed discover my destiny—but is that destiny my death?

  At least I am safe now. While the sun shines, I am safe. And if I am to escape, it must be now. But how?

  My door is locked. There is no way out of this room. No breakfast served this day. And there’s no one to hear me if I tried to call. Hare’s deaf, and besides, he’s under Craven’s power.

  Yet perhaps I could reason with him. Tell him he doesn’t want to be party to a kidnapping. Or worse. As soon as I get out—and Minter, for the record, I am getting out—I’ll report Craven. I’ll bring the police back here and fuck them if they don’t believe me when I tell them they’ll need crucifixes and wooden stakes instead of guns. They’ll find out soon enough.

  What had Craven done to my father? He must have had him in his power. That’s the cult! The cult of the vampire! My father’s fate—it must have been hideous.

  But it won’t be mine, Minter! I swear!

  May 8, 4:45 p.m.—My hopes have faded, my love. My desperate attempt to escape backfired. So I am keeping this journal as a record. Writing it all down so that if I do not make it out of here, you will know what happened to me, Minter. I’ll find a way to secure it. Hide it. You’ll get it somehow. You must! And then you must believe! You must put aside all you have been taught and you must believe!

  Yes, Minter, what he said to me is true. I do fear you leaving me. I do fear you will tire of my aimless ways, my dreams, my flights of fancy. You will leave me unless I can become something else, someone better, someone with direction—

  And yet what does it matter now? My dreams have led me to ruin. I will never see your face again, my love, and you will remember me as a lost soul who wandered off one night, never to return.

  I dread dusk, which draws closer with every tick of the old clock. What I am about to write may be my last entry, my love. It will seem unbelievable, totally fantastic. But believe it, Minter. I want you to know what happened to me. I didn
’t leave you of my own free will! I am destroyed by a devil! I am powerless against him!

  I thought I was home free. I really did. I figured that even though Hare couldn’t hear my calls, he’d feel them. I began to bang on the door, rattle the knob, stomp my feet on the floor. I kept at this for fifteen, twenty minutes, feeling the vibrations shudder through the old wood of the house. Finally I heard the heavy shuffling of Hare on the stairs. I began pounding on the door even harder.

  I heard the key in the lock. The old door creaked open enough for Hare to look inside. His single pulpy eye glared at me.

  “I’m sick,” I said, enunciating the words clearly so that he’d be sure to read them correctly. “I’m sick and I need a bathroom. Please, Hare! Show me some mercy!”

  He grunted.

  “Look at me, Hare.” The stains were still on my shirt. “Please don’t leave me here like a sick animal in a cage!”

  He hesitated, making a low, gurgling sound in his throat. Then he pushed the door forward roughly and took ahold of my wrist. He pulled me out into the corridor and shoved me toward the stairs.

  Hare’s stronger than I am, I knew that much. But I took a chance that I was faster. I’d been a cross-country star in college, after all. So as soon as we were near the bottom of the stairs, I made a break for it. That was my first mistake. In my eagerness to get away, I was rash. Why didn’t I wait until we were outside at the outhouse?

  Oh, sure, I proved faster than Hare. His lumbering stride was no match for my swift sprint across the parlor. But the front door was locked—of course it was—and the heavy iron candlestick only bounced off the glass of the window. Hare was only a few feet from me by then, snarling and salivating, his massive hands reaching for me. I eluded him, dodging behind a chair as he lunged. The big hulk went sprawling to the floor. I ran deeper into the house, slamming doors behind me and locking them when I could. There had to be a way out somewhere!

  But the door leading outside from the old eighteenth-century kitchen was locked too. I was left standing there among old copper pots and pans hung on hooks around an ancient hearth. I lifted one of the largest pots from its place, intending it as a weapon. The glass here proved similarly invulnerable to my swing, so I merely held the pan in front of me, waiting for Hare, who I could hear stumbling and growling his way through the house toward me.