John Manning - The Killing Room

He watched now as Chelsea and her friends stood from their chaises, chattering among themselves, talking on their cell phones, getting ready for their shopping spree. He knew his son Ryan was at the brokerage, working even on a weekend, making millions for himself. If a member of the Young family had to die every decade as a result of some old curse, then it was far, far better that it be someone from a branch that didn’t matter as much, that couldn’t claim the power and success that Philip’s family did.

After Chelsea had blown him a kiss and sped off in his Bentley, Philip stood. He benevolently gave Carlos the rest of the afternoon off. Then he hurried inside the house to find Melissa.

She was in the office, waiting for him in the lacy black teddy he had bought her.

He took her in his arms roughly and began kissing her neck. Melissa ran her hands, with their bright red fingernails, all over his fleshy chest and stomach, playing with the tufts of white hair that grew between his sagging pectorals. Melissa excited him more than any woman had in a long, long time. Yes, indeed, she was trailer trash from Bridgeport. But that only made her more appealing. Philip knew it was his money, his status, that aroused her, and he liked the charge that it gave him. The power. He pulled her tightly into him and bit her neck. She moaned.

Then, another sound.

“What was that?” Melissa asked.

“Nothing,” Philip said, but he had heard it too.

A baby’s cry.

It came again.

“Is there a child in the house?” Melissa asked.

“No,” Philip said. “There is no child.”

From such hot passion just a moment before, now Philip’s blood ran cold.

A baby cried again. It sounded as if it came from the living room.

“There is a child here!” Melissa insisted. “I have to go check!”

“No!” Philip insisted. “Don’t go out there!”

She gave him a confused look. “But if someone is here…we can’t get caught!”

Again the child cried from the other room. It was an insistent cry. Terrified. It grew from a few anxious yelps to one long wail now. Melissa ignored Philip’s objections and pulled on her jeans and threw a sweatshirt on over the teddy. She headed out toward the living room.

“Don’t touch it!” Philip shouted, following her.

Indeed there was a baby sitting in the middle of the living room. It wore just a cloth diaper. It couldn’t have been much more than about six months old. It was crying ferociously, its pudgy little hands in the air.

“The poor child!” Melissa cried.

“Don’t touch it!” Philip repeated.

She looked at him as if he were mad. “The child is terrified, maybe in pain…”

“No!”

Suddenly the crying stopped. They both turned to look at the baby. It began to crawl away from them, across the carpet and behind the divan. Melissa hurried to follow it. But as she crossed the room, she discovered the baby was gone.

But in its place were a series of bloody handprints, staining the white carpet in a horrible trail. The handprints ended abruptly in the middle of the room, as if the baby had just disappeared into thin air.

Uncle Howie had sure gone all out for this meal. At some point even before Douglas had gotten up, a whole army seemed to have descended on the house. Whereas yesterday there wasn’t a servant in sight, today the place was buzzing with them. Housekeepers were doing his laundry and making his bed. An assistant was heading into town with a van to haul Douglas’s repaired bike up to the house. And in the kitchen, a dozen cooks and waitstaff were preparing the most elaborate breakfast Douglas had ever seen-let alone tasted.

“The bread is all fresh baked,” Uncle Howie was saying from the head of the table. “There are fresh croissants and scones and brioche. The fruit is all local. Strawberries, blueberries, apples, peaches. The eggs will be out in a moment. You’ll find an assortment of cheeses and fresh herbs on the table to add to your meals as you choose. Basil, oregano, cilantro, rosemary-all grown here on the estate. And you have your choice of Canadian bacon or smoked lox-or you can have both, of course.”

Douglas was famished. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He glanced over at Carolyn Cartwright. She smiled, seemingly overwhelmed by all the food.

“And save room for dessert,” Uncle Howie added. “They’re making chocolate waffles with maple syrup and fresh cream.”

“Awesome,” Douglas said, piling his plate high with strawberries and sliced apples with cinnamon.

“All I usually have for breakfast is coffee and a bagel,” Carolyn was saying.

“Do you want a bagel?” Uncle Howard asked. “We have bagels.”

“No, thank you,” Carolyn said, laughing. “These scones are delicious.”

“I’m glad you like it,” the old man said, watching them both eat.

He himself had little on his plate. When the eggs came, he took a small helping and ate them with a small slice of wheat bread. Douglas, meanwhile, was gorging himself.

The dining room was dominated by a large crystal chandelier hanging over the enormous table, which sat thirty people. On the walls were hung paintings by Renoir and Matisse. An elaborate floral display sat in the middle of the table, a fresh delivery that morning. Fragrant white lilies and purple asters were complemented by a surprising burst of orange birds of paradise.

A server came by to bring Douglas a plate of bacon. He helped himself eagerly.

“You act as if you haven’t eaten in days,” Carolyn observed.

He grinned. “Well, I haven’t, unless you consider Big Macs and Taco Bell eating.”

“I do not,” she said, smiling.

“Uncle Howie always puts out the best spreads,” Douglas said, looking over at his uncle and giving him a thumbs-up.

The old man patted his mouth with his napkin. He had finished his small portion. “Well, you two take your time and enjoy the rest of your meal. I’m going out for my morning walk.” He stood. Immediately a valet was behind him, helping him from his chair. Howard Young waved him away, insisting he would be fine on his own. “Douglas, find me afterward. Out on the lawn.” He paused. “We need to have a conversation, and I’d like to have it before Carolyn leaves.”

“Okay,” Douglas said, his mouth full.

Carolyn’s eyes moved from uncle to nephew and then back again. Poor Douglas, she thought. He has no idea what Mr. Young will tell him. No idea of how his life will change once he learns about the room…

She watched as the old man walked slowly, and just a little falteringly, out the French doors and onto the terrace. Carolyn presumed he was too proud to use a cane. Outside she could see that the sun was bright. Gulls were swooping in long, languid arcs across the blue sky. The crash of the surf filled the room now that the doors were open.

“What was it like,” she asked, “coming here as a child?”

Douglas took a sip of coffee and sat back in his chair. Finally, a break from his ravenous consumption of food. “Well, when I was very young, it was awesome. I mean, what kid wouldn’t love coming to a house like this? I’d run through the halls, up and down those marble stairs, hiding in the attic…”

“I suppose attics and…basements…are irresistible to young boys.” She chose her words deliberately.

Douglas shrugged. “We weren’t allowed in the basement. I guess that’s where Uncle Howie kept all his treasures. But the attic was fun. So many little nooks and crannies where I could hide and jump out from to scare my stuck-up cousins Ryan and Chelsea.” He laughed, then returned to shoveling eggs and bacon into his mouth.

“You don’t get along with your cousins?”