The Manor (28 page)

Anna sat on her bed, huddled in a blanket. The room had grown cold during the afternoon, the temperature faling as the fire burned low. She found herself staring at Ephram Korban's portrait, searching his face for ge-netic features that had been passed down to her. Korban, Rachel, Sylva. And somewhere in there, a faceless fa-ther, who'd slipped her off the mountain, abandoned her with only a first name, and died rather than return to the mountains. By his own hand and noose, accord-ing to Sylva.

She had drifted for so long, rootless and uncon-nected, and now she belonged to too many people. Her bloodline was too crooked, the generations skewed by whatever magic slowed the ravages of time here at the manor. Because if Sylva was a hundred and five, and Anna was twenty-six, then Rachel had died less than three decades ago. Or maybe when you died, you were ageless, and the years no longer counted.

There was a knock and Cris entered. "Hi, girl, what's up?"

"Just brooding."

"Hey, that's no way to spend an artists' retreat. Leave that to the idiots who think it's okay to starve for art. Or to pigheaded photographers."

"Ah, what's the point?"

"That's exactly the point. If it doesn't matter, if it's al a solo wet dream, then why not enjoy yourself?"

"Maybe you're right. I'm taking things a bit too seri-ously."

"That's the spirit." Cris slipped into the bathroom, paused at the door. "Excuse me. Time of the month. Full moon tonight."

"So I hear."

"And a big party on the roof. Miss Mamie says it's not to be missed. If Mason's there, maybe you'll get lucky." Cris winked, then closed the bathroom door. Anna puled the blanket more tightly about her shoul-ders. When Cris came out, she rummaged in her dresser for a sweater. "Hey, did you mess with my sketch pad?"

"I haven't been here today."

Cris held it up. Scrawled across a large sheet of paper, in slashing strokes of red crayon, were the words
Go
out frost, come in fire.

"Maybe it was one of the servants," Anna said. "A reminder note to put more wood on the fire."

"It's getting cold, all right. October in the moun-tains. If it wasn't for the faling leaves, I think I'd rather have Rio. See you tonight." Cris waved and left, tying her hair back in a ponytail as she went. Anna watched the grain of the door as it swirled and bent inward. A shape superimposed itself against the dark oak panels. A pale hand, holding a bouquet, the woman with desperate eyes. And that one whispered word,

"Anna."

Resting in peace was apparently not alowed for ei-ther the dead or the living.

Mason wished he'd brought a lantern, since the af-ternoon had grown suddenly dark, heavy clouds sweeping from the northwest like smoke from a distant prairie fire. At least he was out of the house, having dodged the questioning gaze of Miss Mamie. He didn't want to go down into the basement, at least not until his head cleared. Anna was right, he'd become ob-sessed, and it was far more than just the pursuit of praise that drove him.

He headed down the road toward the barn. It was about time for Ransom to feed and put up the horses. Maybe Anna had gone to help him. Like Mason, she probably preferred the company of the old mountain man to that of the rowdy revelers in the manor. And she was nuts about the horses. If he saw her, then he could apologize, talk plainly. Maybe try to understand her. She knew more than she let on, and unlike the other guests, she recognized that something seriously weird was going on at Korban Manor. And the two of them had something else in common.

Because, though she tried her best to hide it, a suffering ran deep inside her, turbulent waters beneath the calm surface. Or maybe he just liked looking into her cyan eyes and his imagination had done the rest. His imagination had always been his blessing and his curse, both his exit door from a lifetime in Sawyer Hosiery and the demon that rode his back in every waking mo-ment and most of his sleeping ones.

He folowed the fence line, stopping once to glance back at the house. There were several lighted windows, but much of its facade was dark and featureless. A few high piano notes tinkled in the breeze. He looked up at the roof, at the flat space above the gabled windows where the rail marked off the widow's walk. A few peo-ple moved about beyond the white railing, probably the servants seting up for the party. Mason compared the real thing to the painting in the basement. No contest. The real thing was much creepier. He didn't buy Anna's lie about never having been to the manor, though Korban must have painted the picture decades before her birth. Mason had memorized her face wel enough to know it was plainly Anna walking in that painted haze, complete with the bouquet and lace dress. Miss Mamie didn't like that painting, either. She'd acted almost afraid of it, despite her obvious adoration of Korban. He shook his head. Why was she so adamant about his finishing the statue? She seemed even more anxious to get it done than Mason himself, as if she had her own critics to please. He put his hands in his pockets. The forest seemed closer and darker, as if it had picked up and moved while no one was looking. An owl hooted from a stand of trees to his right. He walked a little faster. Imagination.

Right, Mase. Big dream image. Korban on the brain.

The dream was a crock, a smely pile of whatever it was that he'd just stepped in. The barn lay ahead, a faint square of lantern light leaking from the open door. Mason hurried toward it. He looked above the door and saw that the horseshoe was points-down on the wall. He couldn't remember if that was the good position or the ghosts-walk-on-in position. He almost wished he had a rag-ball charm to wave.

Mason stepped inside, his sneakers muted by the hay scattered across the planks. He didn't see Ransom or Anna. The smel of the leather harness and the sweet sorghum odor of the horse feed drifted across the air. The opposite door leading to the meadow was closed off. He swallowed and was about to cal out when he heard Ransom's voice among the wagons: "Get away, George. You ain't got no cal to be here." The shadows of the surrey and wagons were high on the walls, and the staves and wheel spokes and the tines of the hay rake cast flickering black lines on the wooden walls. Ransom spoke again, and this time Mason located him, crouched behind one of the wag-ons.

"Got me a charm bag, George. You're supposed to leave me alone." The handyman's eyes were wide, star-ing across the buckled gray floor.

Wasn't George the name of the man who'd been kiled in that accident? Had Ransom's belief in ghosts and folk magic finaly driven him off the deep end?

Then Mason saw George.

And George
looked
dead, with his hollowed-out eyes sunk into the wispy substance of his impossible shape, the stump of one forearm held aloft. George looked so dead that Mason could see through him. And George was smiling, as if being dead was the best thing that ever happened to him.

"Been sent to fetch you, Ransom, old buddy." The words seemed to come from every corner of the room, rattling a few crisp leaves that had blown in during winters past. A chill ran up Mason's spine, his scalp tingled, he felt as if he was going to pass out.

Because this was no dream image.

He couldn't blame his imagination for
this.

"Get on back, damn you," Ransom said, his voice shaky. He kept his eyes fixed on the George-thing and didn't notice Mason. George took a step forward.

Except that wasn't a STEP, was it, Mason? Because George didn't move a muscle, just floated forward like a
windy scarecrow on a wire.

Cold air radiated off the George-thing, chilling the cramped space of the barn. Mason wasn't ready to cal it a ghost. Because when he told Anna he'd believe it when he saw it, it turned out that he had lied. He
still
didn't believe it.

And he didn't believe what was dangling from the George-thing's lone hand. The missing hand, its milky fingers flexing as if eager to get a good grip around somebody's throat.

"Come on, Ransom," the cemetery voice said. "It only hurts for a second. And it's not so bad inside, once you get used to the snakes."

"Why, George? I ain't never done a thing to you." Ransom's eyes were wide with terror. "You was a good, God-fearing man. What you gone and got yourself into?"

Laughter shook the tin roofing. Mason's heart did a somersault.

"Got myself into the tunnel, old buddy. 'Cause I just had to
know.
Now let me fetch you on inside. Korban don't like to be kept waiting."

There was a rusty creak, and the hay rake roled for-ward. Ransom's eyes shifted from side to side, looking for an escape. He saw Mason.

"The charm ain't working, Mason.
How come the charm ain't working?"
George turned in Mason's direction, again without moving any of its withered, fibrous extremities.

"Plenty of room inside, young fellow. The tunnel ain't got no end." Ransom ducked between the wagon and the surrey and Mason turned to run. Too late. The barn door screed across its track and slammed shut.

Mason fled along the inside of the wal, making sure he kept plenty of distance between him and the ghost—
you
just called it a GHOST, Mason. And that's not a good sign
—until he got beside the surrey. He dropped to his knees, his bones clattering against the floorboards. He crawled to Ransom's side. "What the hell is that thing, Ransom?"

Ransom peered between the spokes of the wagon wheel. Mason could smel the man's fear, salt and cop-per and greenbriar.

"What I been warning you about, son. He's one of
them
now. Korban's bunch."

"I don't believe in ghosts."

Ransom's rag-ball charm was clenched inside his fist. "That don't matter none, when the ghosts believe
in you."

The shape floated forward, arms raised, the ragged end of its amputation flutering with the motion. Mason found himself staring at the stump, wondering why a ghost shouldn't be all in one piece.

Ghost—you called it a ghost again, Mason.

The hay rake creaked, rolling out of its corner to-ward the pair.

"Go away," the old man said in a high, broken voice. "I got warding powers."

"Come out and play, Ransom," said the George-thing. "Gets lonely inside, with just the snakes for company. We can set a spell and talk over old times. And Korban's got chores for us all." Ransom held up the charm bag. "See here? Got my lizard powder, yarrow, snakeroot, Saint Johnswort. You're
supposed
to go away."

George laughed again, and thunder rattled in the saves of the barn. Horses whinnied in the neighboring stalls.

"Don't believe ever litle thing they tel you," George said. "Them's just a bunch of old widows' tales. 'Cause it ain't
what
you believe, is it, Ransom?"

"It's how much," Ransom said, defeated, looking down at the litle scrap of cotton that held the herbs and powder. The cloth was tied with a piece of frayed blue ribbon. White dust trickled from the opening. Suddenly Ransom stood and threw the bag at George. "Ashes of a prayer, George!" Mason was frozen by his own fear and a strange fas-cination as the bag came untied and the contents spread out in a cloud of green and gray dust. The mate-rial wafted over the ghost, mingled in its vapor, caught a stir of wind from the crack beneath the door, and swirled around the shape.

George shimmered, faded briefly, fizzled like a can-dle about to burn the last of its wax—

Jiminy H. Christ, it's working,
Mason thought.
IT'S WORK—

The cloud of herbs settled to the floor, and George wiped at its eyes.

"Now you boys have gone and made me mad" the ghost said, its voice flat and cold, seeping from the cor-ners of the room like a fog. "I tried to do it nice, Ransom. Just you and me, taking us a nice long walk into the tun-nel like old friends. But you tried to spel me."

George shook its see-through head. The motion made a breeze that chiled Mason to the bone. Ransom ducked behind the wagon wheel and tensed beside him. The ghost flutered forward, steadily, now only twenty feet away, twelve, ten. A rusty metallic rattle filled the barn.

George held up the amputated hand. "They took my hammering hand, Ransom.
He
took it" The ghost sounded almost wistful, as if debating whether to folow the orders of an absent overseer. But then the deep caves of the eyes grew bright, flickered in bronze and gold and blazing orange, and the face twisted into something that was barely recognizable as having once been human. It was shrunken, wizened, a shriveled rind with pockmarks for eyes. The voice came again, but it wasn't just George's voice, it was the combined voice of dozens, a congregation, a chorus of lost souls.
"Come inside, Ransom. We're waiting for you."
The horses kicked their stall doors. A calf bawled from the meadow outside. The surrey and the wagons rocked back and forth. The lantern quivered on the floor and shadows climbed the wals like giant insects. The calf bawled again, then once more, the sound somehow standing out in the cacophony.

"Calf bawled three times," Ransom whispered. "Sure sign of death." Mason crouched beside him, wanting to ask Ransom what in the hel was happening. But his tongue felt like a piece of harness against the roof of his mouth. He didn't think he could work it to form words. Ransom looked at George, then at the closed door. The door was much farther.

Mason reached out to touch Ransom's sleeve, but came up with nothing. Ransom made a run for it. The ghost didn't move as Ransom's boots drummed across the plank floor. Mason wondered if he should make a run for it, too. Ransom moved fast, arms waving wildly.

He's going to make it!

Ransom was about six feet from the door when the hay rake pounced—
POUNCED,
Mason thought,
like a cat
—with a groan of stressed steel and wood, the rusty tines of the windrower sweeping down and forward. Ransom turned and faced the old farm machine as if to beg for mercy.