John Manning: The Killing Room

Yet even as she said the words, she knew her father had not been a man to give in to fear. She might try to cling to an idea that the deaths had all been hysterical reactions to the outrageous tales her family spun, but her theory collapsed when she applied it to her own father, a well-decorated Navy pilot in World War II who had looked death in the face many times. It hadn’t been hysterical fear that had stopped his heart in that basement room ten years ago. Standing there in front of her family, Jeanette began to accept the terrifying fact that what her uncle had told her must be true-no matter how much she still outwardly denied it.

But even if she had wanted to, there was no way to back out now. She steeled her nerves as they all bid her good-bye in the parlor. Her brothers, each in turn, embraced her, saying nothing. Even as she felt the trembling of their bodies, Jeanette did her best to push the stories Uncle Howard had told her far out of her mind. With her chin held high, she followed him across the foyer to the door leading to the basement. She refused to entertain any more thoughts of avenging spirits and haunted rooms. Uncle Howard had relayed to her the origins of what he called the family curse-a long, winding tale of madness and revenge-but she wanted none of it. She refused to keep the details in her mind. She would enter that room a modern, liberated woman, a student of philosophy near to completing her master’s thesis at Yale University, a strong, independent soul with a mind of her own. Old folktales had no power over her. It was the only way, Jeanette was now convinced, that she’d get through the night alive.

Uncle Howard pulled open a creaky old door and descended a dark staircase. Jeanette kept close behind, a dim bulb casting a pale orange light, providing barely enough illumination for them to see their way. It was at that moment that she thought of Michael. Michael-with his broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes and strong, reassuring voice. The man she hoped to marry.

“I just wish I could go with you up to Maine,” he’d said to her the day before, caressing the long auburn hair that fell to Jeanette’s shoulders. “I don’t like the idea of us being parted, even for a few days.”

“You have an important exhibit in New York,” she’d replied briskly, declining to get emotional. “If you’re ever going to be recognized as the major artist I know you’re going to be, you need to do these things.”

“It’s just so far away from you.”

Her heart was breaking, but she wouldn’t admit it. Now she wished she had been more emotional, holding Michael longer. But she had been stoic. It was always her way.

“It’s only for a weekend,” she’d told Michael. “Besides, I haven’t seen my family in so long. It’ll be nice to reconnect with all of them.”

Michael had taken her in his arms, and they had kissed. Now, in the musty basement air, Jeanette longed for her beloved’s arms.

They had reached the bottom of the steps. Uncle Howard turned to see how she was doing. Jeanette nodded that he should continue. He sighed, slowly crossing the floor of the cellar. With a key, he unlocked a door on the opposite wall. He turned and looked again at Jeanette with sad, soulful eyes.

“This is the room?” she asked boldly.

He nodded. Without any hesitation, Jeanette stepped inside. It was a plain room, rather small, no more than twenty feet across. An old sofa squatted beside a table with two chairs. It had been a servant’s bedroom back when Uncle Howard had been a boy. That’s what he had explained to Jeanette earlier. A servant girl had lived here…

And died here.

Jeanette’s eyes came to rest on the wall opposite her.

“There?” she asked her uncle. “Was that the wall?”

He nodded slowly.

That was where the poor girl had been impaled.

Beatrice. Uncle Howard had said her name was Beatrice.

And she was murdered here in this room almost half a century ago.

All of the horrors they had known since came from that fact.

Jeanette approached the wall. She stood in front of it, examining the white plaster. It had obviously been painted many times. How many coats, she wondered? How many coats did it take to cover the bloodstains left behind by that poor woman?

And by the members of the Young family whose grisly deaths had followed?

Her father had been fortunate, Uncle Howard had said. He had merely died of a heart attack. Not so her Uncle Douglas, whose wrists had been found slit, his body drained of blood. Not so her grandfather, the first after Beatrice to die in this place, whose severed head was found on one side of the room and his body on the other.

It had started to rain. She could hear the raindrops hitting against the one window in the room, a dark rectangle of glass embedded in the wall over their heads.

“I would have chosen any other name but yours, my dear,” Uncle Howard said. “I would gladly take your place in this room tonight. But in forty years of the lottery, my name has never been drawn. It is my own curse to watch as my kinfolk enter this room, one by one.” His voice choked. “Your aunt is right. We learned that first time that substituting someone for the one who was drawn will only bring more destruction.”

“I’m the first woman to spend a night here,” Jeanette said. “The first who has studied philosophy and science. This first modern Young to face this ancient force.” Her eyes fixed on her uncle. “I will survive this night. You will see.”

“Your bravery outshines us all,” he managed to say. He gripped her by the shoulders and kissed her forehead, much as her father had done a decade before. “May God preserve you.”

He hurried out of the room, closing-and locking-the door behind him.

Jeanette looked around the room. A small lamp on the table provided the only light. She sat on the sofa and folded her arms across her chest.

“Well,” she whispered. “If something is going to happen, let it happen soon.”

There was a small rumble of thunder off in the distance.

The rain was hitting the house harder now. A flicker of lightning crackled by the window. Jeanette thought once more of Michael. She would see him again. She was confident of that. If there was anything to these family legends, she’d beat them. She’d end this so-called family curse. She’d do it for her father.

She’d do it for all of them.

A huge thunderclap made her jump.

“If something’s going to happen,” she said defiantly to whoever might be listening, “bring it on! I’m not frightened of you!”

There was another loud peal of thunder, and the lamp went out.

“Damn!” Jeanette said. She didn’t want to face whatever it was in the dark.

She breathed a sigh of relief as the light flickered on again, just as another thunder boom rattled across the sky.

“I should have anticipated this,” she said. There was a small candle on the table as well, and an old book of matches. How many times had this candle been lit by fingers trembling with terror? The candle was little more than a stub. She considered lighting it, but seeing as it was so small, she didn’t want to waste the wax when the electricity was still on. Should the power go out again, she’d light it. She kept the book of matches near her hand so she could find it if the darkness returned.

Her name was Beatrice…

Uncle Howard’s words echoed in her mind.

And one morning when she failed to come up to set the breakfast table, my brother Timothy and I came down here to look for her.

Jeanette’s eyes flickered again to the wall.

I shall never forget what we saw there. Beatrice-impaled to the wall by a long metal pitchfork, driven through her chest. Blood was everywhere. Her eyes were still open, her mouth in anguished fury. It was as if she had died looking at her murderer. Cursing him for all time…