The Legend of Darklore Manor and Other Tales of Terror (11 page)

     Sandra and I planned to drive to Gloucester together, leaving early on the morning of the 27th. The guys would drive out in a separate car and meet us at the manor in the afternoon. The fact that it would be just the two of us girls making the trek together made it feel like a college road trip.
     We hit the highway just before 7 a.m., avoiding the brunt of rush-hour traffic. As usual, Sandra insisted on driving, making me the designated navigator. As we drove along the east coast highway we shared some girl talk and laughs, then began to review the case.
     "So what did you find out about the mysterious Brotherhood of Thule?" Sandra asked.
     Consulting my notes, I began to read what I had discovered about the enigmatic sect. "The Thule Society was founded in Germany near the end of the Victorian era. According to legend, Thule was an island located somewhere in the far northern Atlantic Ocean. This mysterious and secluded isle was said to be the last outpost of an ancient advanced race of beings that inhabited the Earth long ago. These 'Ancients' or 'Masters,' as they were called, could be contacted through mystical rites and black magic and could enlighten and endow the initiated with supernatural abilities. Thule ceremonies involved ritual chants and sacrifices that would allow communication with the Ancients. Membership into the inner circle of the Thule Society was closed to women, and for this reason certain sects were also known as the Brotherhood of Thule."
     "Interesting."
     "Do you believe any of it? I mean do you really think that this place is haunted, or that the Darklore curse is real?"
     She stared out at the highway for a long moment, as if contemplating whether or not to reveal her true thoughts to me. Finally she confided, "I believe something's there. I'll admit that I have an uneasy feeling about going into that place."
     "Why?"
     "It's the dreams," she said quietly, "they've been getting stronger. I can see things clearer now. I'm inside an old house. It doesn't look or feel familiar, but I seem to know where every door and hallway leads. There's music playing—sort of a light childish melody—and I see a little girl in a scarlet dress. Her skin is white and smooth. She's all alone and I get this terrible feeling of sadness. There's a door that I can't open, and somehow I know that I should never open it, never step inside, but something is calling me from beyond the door. And then I see a man. He's tall and cloaked in shadows. I can never see his face, but he whispers to me, repeating the same name over and over again. He's calling to me, but it's not my name that echoes from his lips."
     "What does he say?" I asked.
     Sandra paused for a moment to compose her emotions, then whispered, "Belladonna."
We arrived in Gloucester just after 11 a.m. It was a quaint little town that reminded me of something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. The old-fashioned architecture of the buildings held a simple rustic charm. The town square was lined with curious little shops and red brick office buildings nestled together in a cozy setting. I couldn't imagine such a peaceful and inviting place harboring a mansion of horrors.
     Sandra dropped me off at a local market store to grab some last-minute supplies then she headed to the police station to meet with the sheriff. Twenty minutes later she picked me up in front of the store.
     "I spoke with the sheriff. He's meeting us here at 11:30 to drive out to the manor with us and let us in. He made us a copy of the mansion's floorplan. Ronnie and Jake got here about an hour ago and went on ahead to take some establishing shots of the mansion's exterior." As she spoke, Sandra used the car's rear-view mirror to fix her hair and apply a fresh coat of lipstick.
     "So what's the sheriff like?"
     "Tall, dark, handsome—not your type at all."
     "I see."
     "This is him now," Sandra said, nodding her head in the direction of an approaching police vehicle. "Just remember, Pammy, I saw him first."
     The police car pulled alongside us and the sheriff got out and walked over to our vehicle. Sandra wasn't kidding. He was tall with dark hair and chiseled features. He looked to be somewhere in his mid-thirties, which would have made him right around Sandra's age.
     "Sheriff Hill, allow me to introduce you to my trusted assistant, Pamela Moore."
     "Nice to meet you, ma'am. Welcome to Gloucester." His husky voice matched his rugged good looks.
     He quietly stared through the driver's side window, shifting his gaze between Sandra and I, as if sizing up our strength for what lay ahead. "Are you sure you know what you're getting yourselves into here?"
     Sandra smiled and said, "We do this for a living. We have a very high threshold for fear."
     There was a hint of skepticism in his eyes that felt vaguely insulting. After an uncomfortable moment of silence he returned Sandra's smile and gestured to the road behind him. "The mansion is about twelve miles from here, out along Old Salem Road. Just follow me."
     The sheriff got back in his car and led us out of town. We trailed close behind him, heading south along a two-lane road that ran between a long stretch of dense woods and a rocky cliff overlooking the Atlantic shore. At times the narrow road veered dangerously close to the edge of the cliff and the tumultuous sea below. After several miles the road turned inland and the woods thinned to sparse patches of twisted trees and wild brush.
     After another mile or so, the sheriff's car slowed to a crawl and turned down an old red brick drive. As we followed him along the overgrown trail, a distant shadow began to emerge from the surrounding cover of barren trees and tangled vines, and as we drew nearer my eyes beheld Darklore Manor for the first time.
     A tall wrought iron fence surrounded the manor grounds and withered vines twisted in and out of the black gates, wrapping themselves around the rails and posts, blocking the view of the grim structure from the main road, completely isolating it from the world around it. The mansion loomed in the distance beyond the black gates, high on a hill overlooking a wide stretch of unkempt property overgrown with tall grass and thorny bramble.
     The sheriff's car came to a halt alongside Ronnie's van, which was parked near the entrance gates. Sandra pulled in on the other side of the van and neither one of us moved or said a word as she threw the gearshift into park. We both sat speechless, staring at the nightmarish vision before us.
     Standing three stories tall, the mansion was a magnificent and macabre relic from the past, ravished by time and tragedy. The stone and bricks that comprised the building's weathered facade had darkened nearly to black, casting a sinister taint over the ornate details of the elaborate masonry. Gothic columns framed the main entrance and supported a stone balcony surrounded by a parapet reminiscent of a medieval castle. Three pointed dormers crowned the mansion's heights and the peaks of each roof were topped with antique lightning rods that ended in tall iron spikes. Narrow windows lined the edifice at sparse intervals, but the glass appeared solid black and seemed to absorb the light of the graying sky, rather than reflect it. The twisted trees and dead vines that clung to the mansion's perimeter gate added a final accent to the sense of menace and foreboding gloom that permeated the site.
     We sat mesmerized by Darklore Manor's macabre hypnotic hold until a nearby clicking sound roused us from our trance. Ronnie had snuck up next to our car to snap a photo of us.
     "Sorry," he laughed, "but I had to get a picture of your faces the first time you laid eyes on this place. Is this awesome, or what?"
     Jake walked up alongside him and said, "We did the same thing when we first got here. We just sat there staring at it. This place is incredible."
     Ronnie and Jake were an unlikely pair, but they had been friends for more than ten years and the two worked together like a well-oiled machine. They were both in their late twenties, but that's about where the physical similarity ended. Ronnie had a slender physique and thinning blonde hair. He never went anywhere without his camera, which he wore like a medal of honor on a strap around his neck. Over the years he had several showings of his photography in some fairly prestigious galleries. He was a true artist, and as such, he was somewhat eccentric.
     Jake was an electrician by trade. He was the consummate professional and all-around workhorse. He was extremely resourceful and his powers of deductive reasoning allowed him to troubleshoot almost any problem. He had a stocky, muscular build that enabled him to haul hefty loads of equipment with ease. He was a good guy to have on your side if the going got tough.
     As we got out of the car, the sky began to darken.
     "Looks like rain," Jake said, nodding his head toward a patch of threatening clouds that loomed in the distance. "I think a storm's heading this way."
     "Perfect." Sandra said with a laugh.
     Ronnie reloaded his camera with a fresh roll of 35mm film, then strapped on a large military backpack that he had filled with photographic equipment and various supplies. Jake hoisted two large satchels out of the van and slung one over each of his shoulders, then he pulled out a large cooler and set it on the ground. Sandra and I traveled light, bringing only our purses, a few blank notebooks and our case research files. As we gathered our luggage and prepared to embark on our excursion, the sheriff approached Sandra.
     "So what do you think, Miss Faraday? It's not too late to turn back." The tone of his voice made it difficult to tell whether he was serious or kidding.
     "Very impressive," Sandra replied. "The photos I saw don't do this place justice. It's a lot bigger than I thought it would be. I'm surprised that no one else is here. I expected the place to be swarming with curious locals. Something like this usually draws a pretty big crowd."
     "We kept things kind of quiet. We didn't want to make a big fuss about it. I didn't think you'd want a major commotion out here."
     "That was very thoughtful, Sheriff. Thank you." Her voice was sweet as sugar as she spoke to him. I turned my head and rolled my eyes behind her back and Jake chuckled.
     The sheriff handed Sandra an old skeleton key and said, "This will get you inside the front door. After that, you're on your own."
     "You're not going to chaperone us?"
     "No," he replied with a nervous laugh, "I don't want to be in your way. I'll be right outside, making sure you're not disturbed. If you need me, just give me a holler. One of my deputies will take over for me tonight, but I'll be back here in the morning."
     "You don't like this place much, do you, Sheriff?"
     "I've only been inside the mansion once, five years ago, and that was enough for me. I'm not a superstitious person, at least I never used to be, but that was before I saw what this place could do to a man."
     "You mean Richard Franklin, the councilman who hung himself here?"
     He looked at Sandra with a puzzled expression, as if he thought she were reading his mind.
     "I saw the police report, Sheriff. It said you were the one who found his body."
     "That's right. I was just a deputy at the time. I knew Richard. He was a good man—smart and stable. Something inside that place must've made him snap." The sheriff's stoic facial expression faded to a look of sorrow. "But that's in the past. Right now my main concern is you and your crew."
     The sheriff checked his watch, then said, "You'll have daylight till about 8:30. After sundown, you'll need to use flashlights and lanterns. The electricity's been shut off for years, but the place still has candelabras in every room and hall. Just be careful not to set anything on fire. The old wood inside the manor is as dry as kindling. One careless match and the whole place will go up like a tinder box."
     "You seem to know a lot about this place."
     "Yeah. You can't grow up in Gloucester without knowing about Darklore Manor and the Darklore curse. Most people in town won't come anywhere near this place, except for a few curious kids."
     "Why hasn't it been sold or demolished?"
     "It's complicated. In the first place, nobody has ever made an offer to buy it—probably because of its history. Folks around here are kind of superstitious, and I can't say that I blame them. The city council doesn't want to spend the money to tear it down and nobody wants to build anything new on the land, so there it sits."
     "One last question, Sheriff—does the house have a basement?"
     "I take it you've heard the rumors about the secret chamber below the mansion."
     "Does it exist?"
     "Well," the sheriff began, then hesitated, "the manor doesn't have any cellar windows, and nobody's been able to find any doors leading to a lower level... but that doesn't mean there isn't one."
     "What makes you say that?"
     "The old blueprints of the mansion don't show anything beneath the main level, but Edmund Darklore was a mason and he made a lot of renovations to the mansion's interior in the 1920s. He allegedly constructed an ancestral crypt below the mansion where all their descendants are buried. According to the rumors, the Knights of Thule held their meetings down there." The sheriff shrugged his shoulders and added, "It might just be a rumor."
     "Thanks. We'll see what we can find."
     "I hope you know what you're getting yourself into here, Miss Faraday. Maybe you can do some good by finding the source of the problem. Maybe you and your team can set things right. Just be careful in there. The ghosts that haunt this place are real." His voice held a deadly serious tone.
     "I appreciate the concern."
     The sheriff walked up to the front gate and unlocked an old padlock that secured a heavy chain holding the gate shut.
     Ronnie was taking a long drag off a cigarette as Sandra announced, "Smoke 'em if you got 'em, boys. Once we get inside, no more cigarettes."
     "I know, boss," he replied, dropping the butt to the ground and twisting it into the dirt beneath his boot.
     Jake approached Sandra, carrying a portable cassette recorder. "This is for you," he said, handing her the device. "You wear it like a purse and just turn it on and off with the microphone switch. The mike clips onto the strap, so it doesn't get in your way."
     "Cool. Thanks, Jake." She slung the strap of the cassette recorder over her shoulder and checked the microphone for a good volume level. "Okay, people, let's get this show on the road."