John Manning - The Killing Room

Again, Douglas tried to focus on the materials Carolyn had left for him to peruse. So apparently reassured were his cousins that they evinced no interest in reading any of the accounts that had been compiled about the room. They had no desire to help find the solution. They simply went on kissing Uncle Howie’s ass. Maybe, Douglas thought, their nonchalance stemmed from the fact that their side of the family had been largely spared any of the tragedies. The luck of the draw had always seemed to favor them. While Douglas’s father had died horrifically in that room, their father had survived, decade after decade. Maybe they were counting on that luck to continue.

“Uncle Howard,” Ryan was saying, “what do you say about you and I taking a little spin on the yacht? It’s still rigged up, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the old man said. “It’s down at the marina. But I’m afraid I get awfully tired these days…”

“Come on, Uncle Howie,” Ryan said, appropriating the nickname Douglas always used. “Just you and I. I’ve got some girl troubles I thought you might be able to counsel me on.” He shot a glance in Douglas’s direction. “Rest assured, I’ll be popping the question to a very desirable candidate very soon.”

Douglas groaned and sat up on the couch.

“Oh, Douglas,” Ryan said. “I wasn’t aware you were still here.”

“I’m heading out,” he said, standing. “The air’s getting a little soupy in here.”

“Will you be back for dinner, Douglas?” Uncle Howard asked.

He nodded. “Sure. I’m just going to take a little walk around the grounds.”

There was no way he could concentrate in there. In fact, what he needed to do was take a good long walk and clear his head. It wasn’t just his cousins’ rapacity that irked him. It was also the growing sense that time was slipping away from them and that they were still no closer to finding any kind of solution. Unless they discovered something, the lottery would have to be held exactly two weeks from now. One of them-possibly Douglas himself-would have to spend a night in that room.

Heading outside onto the great lawn, Douglas looked up at the sun, enjoying its warmth on his cheeks. He tried not to feel despair. They’d discovered quite a bit already; they could still discover more. Carolyn had returned to New York to meet with a couple of psychics with whom she’d worked in the past. There was talk of another séance when she returned, possibly conducted by one of her experts. Also being considered was a more powerful exorcism than the one Kip attempted. But Douglas couldn’t shake the feeling that they were just repeating the same steps, going through the same motions that had been tried by so many before. And none of them had ever succeeded.

The strangest sensation of all, however, was how much he missed Carolyn. In the last few days before she headed back to New York, they had spent a great deal of time together. On the night before she left, sitting on the stone bench out near the cliff, she had shared with Douglas the pain of her mother’s death. He’d learned of Carolyn’s sister, living in a home, and Carolyn’s deep sense of responsibility for her. But most significant was hearing about the horrible relationship Carolyn had endured. To think she had been sleeping next to a murderer. Douglas had been unable to restrain himself. He had reached over and placed his arms around Carolyn. She had seemed grateful for his embrace. Slowly, tenderly, he took her chin in his hand and moved his lips to kiss her…

But then a twig had snapped, and they had looked around. Chelsea and Ryan were heading toward them. They had separated quickly, moving apart on the bench. Douglas’s cousins were rattling on with questions about whether the curse would end if the house was razed. “I doubt it,” Carolyn told them. “Your uncle said he believes that if that were to happen, it would simply cause the kind of slaughter we’ve seen when periodically the strict rules of the lottery weren’t followed to the letter.”

“Well,” Chelsea said, impatiently, in a tone of voice she never used around Uncle Howard, “eventually, when our dear uncle is gone, someone will have to decide what to do with this house. I wouldn’t want it. So many horrific things have happened here.”

Douglas thought she spoke as if she had no fears at all about being chosen to enter that room. All she was concerned about was what happened after. As if she knew she’d come out just fine.

The worst part was that he and Carolyn never got to finish what they started. The next morning she was packed and heading out to the airport, being driven by one of Uncle Howie’s chauffeurs to the airport. Douglas had offered to take her on his bike, knowing how much she had enjoyed the ride before, but she declined briskly with a smile, saying her bag was too heavy. She seemed cool, a little distant, though she gave him her files to read while she was gone. They barely said good-bye. Uncle Howie was there, so Douglas couldn’t say what he wanted to say to her.

That he thought he might be falling in love with her.

It’s crazy, he thought as he walked across the grass now. I’ve known her for just a couple of weeks. But her strength, her confidence, her will in the face of all this had made a huge impression on him. Never before had he met a woman like Carolyn.

“Terrific,” he said out loud. “I finally meet someone I think I could really fall for, and I might have to lose my life to a pitchfork-wielding ghost.”

He realized he had walked to the place where the woods began intruding onto the well-manicured lawn. Just ahead lay the path that wound its way down the steep side of the hill into the village.

An enormous black crow high in the tall oak tree in front of him let out a cry, startling Douglas. The bird flapped its wings, then took off soaring down the side of the hill. Douglas kept his eyes on it, listening to the cries it made.

That was the moment he realized he wasn’t alone.

He turned his head, and Beatrice stood in the brilliant sunshine not three feet away from him.

“You’ve got to help us,” Douglas said instinctively. “You don’t want this killing to go on, do you? It’s not you doing it. I know that. So please help us!”

She looked at him with pitiful eyes. She seemed to Douglas the manifestation of sadness, what sadness would look like if it took human form. She cocked her head at him, as if looking for something there. Then she turned and walked away, toward the path.

“Wait!” Douglas called after her.

But she kept walking, the breeze moving her flowing white dress. Douglas realized she was leading him somewhere.

And he thought he knew the destination.

Beatrice disappeared into the trees. Douglas followed, certain that he knew where he’d find her. And he was right. Rushing along the path, skillfully jumping over the protruding roots of trees, he emerged into the old Young family cemetery. And there stood Beatrice, forlornly gazing down upon a patch of tall yellow grass.

Douglas hurried over to her. But even as he approached her, she vanished into the light, a flickering static of incandescence.

He reached the spot where she had been standing. Why here? There was nothing here. The nearest stone was a good three yards away. This was just a stretch of empty ground, covered with grass and the occasional black-eyed Susan.

But then he felt something underfoot.

He bent down, pushing aside the grass.

A sparkle of granite.

There was a stone embedded in the earth. A flat stone overgrown with grass and weeds and moss. He scraped at the moss, peeling it back like a moldy carpet. He saw what was inscribed on the stone.

Just the letter M.

And above it, a carving of a small cherub.