Эллен Шрайбер: The Coffin Club

“I heard you!” the driver shouted back.

The rain had ceased. I hurried up Lennox Hill Road, scurrying through puddles and jumping over slimy but cool earthworms.

Rain-soaked estates lined the street. The pristine grass lawns were drenched and several branches and leaves were scattered in the asphalt driveways.

Then, at the end of the cul-de-sac, plain as a stormy day, sat the monstrous manor house. The gruesome estate appeared to be even more overgrown and unkempt than the last time I’d visited it.

Steam seeped into the air, creating a spooky fog around the palatial home. Moss and wild vines overtook the house like a giant spiderweb. Stone gargoyles sitting upon the jagged wrought-iron gates seemed to smile at me as I approached. Sticking in the half-dead, weed-filled lawn was a Happy Homes sign. I hurried past the broken birdbath and up the cracked rock path. My heart pounded as I reached the familiar arched wooden front door.

The dragon-shaped knocker that had fallen into my hand upon my first visit had not been replaced. Perhaps it was still hidden in the untamed bushes where I’d tossed it.

I knocked on the door.

I waited. And waited.

Jameson didn’t respond. I pounded my hand against the door again. Still no response. Not even a torn curtain rustled.

I turned the rusty doorknob and pushed against the door, but it was bolted shut.

I raced through the soggy grass, past the servants’ door to the back of the house. I darted up the few cracked cement stairs and eyed the back wooden arched door. There wasn’t a bell to ring or a knocker to knock. I pounded my hand on the door. When no one answered, I looked around for another door.

I was becoming concerned that it wasn’t Alexander and Jameson who had rented the place after all. There were no signs of my boyfriend or his butler’s presence. I peeked in a basement window and it appeared to be in the same vacant state.

I spotted the tree I had once climbed to see into Alexander’s room. I might have been able to confirm once again that he was inside, but climbing the rain-soaked tree was not a viable option.

I peered around the backyard to see if I saw Jameson’s Mercedes. The cracked asphalt drive was vacant of cars. I saw a concrete bench and a wrought-iron arched trellis overrun with creeping vines. A circular rock bed where a pond must have once been was now filled with rainwater. I spotted a decaying one-car detached garage that appeared as though it might collapse with a gentle nudge. I headed straight for it. My heart raced as I darted toward the garage. I noticed a lock on the door. It was brand-new.

Though I was an expert at sneak-ins, I was lousy at picking locks. I’d need the help of Billy Boy’s nerd-mate gadget whiz, Henry, but he was obviously miles away. The dilapidated garage was sturdier than it looked. With all my strength, I couldn’t move any of the paint-chipped wooden boards.

I examined the outside of the garage. There wasn’t a window on any side. I did notice a skinny crack between two boards about hip height from the ground on one side. Light from the setting sun illuminated the skinny space. With my best vision, I could barely make out a white sheet covering what must have been an old bike or lawn mower. And next to it, something sparkling in the light. On further inspection I noticed a Mercedes hood ornament.

I raced back to the manor house. I placed a discarded box underneath the kitchen window and stepped on it. I teetered on tiptoe, doing my best to see inside. The window was dusty, so it was almost impossible to see indoors. I tapped the glass pane relentlessly and peered through a hole the size of a quarter.

Suddenly a bulging eyeball gazed back at me.

Startled, I screamed and fell off the box, back onto my bottom in the wet grass.

I heard the sound of locks being unlocked and the door being opened.

I froze. What if I’d been wrong when I’d spotted a Mercedes ornament that I was so certain had belonged to Jameson? I was so excited to see it, I hadn’t even considered my discovery. The stored car could have been any make or model, or white for all I knew. At any moment I would be caught trespassing, thrown in Hipsterville’s juvie jail, or forced to return to Dullsville.

I bit my black lip and held my breath.

Then, at the screen door, Jameson appeared.

Alexander’s butler struggled to see me through the glare of the mesh door.

“Jameson, it’s me, Raven.”

“Miss Raven?” he asked, confused. He opened the door. “It can’t be you. What are you doing here? In the backyard?”

I jumped to my feet, dusted off my miniskirt, and raced up the uneven steps toward the Creepy Man. Jameson wrinkled his pale forehead.

“Miss Raven, I’m surprised to see you here. But pleasantly, I might add,” he said with a skinny-toothed smile.

“I’m visiting my aunt Libby here in town,” I said, relieved to see the bony butler. “I wanted to tell Alexander, but there wasn’t a way to let him know. I seriously think it’s time you and Alexander got cell phones.”

“Please come in. It will be dark soon.”

The smell of sweet potatoes filled the high ceilings of the rustic kitchen. Jameson was preparing dinner, or, in Alexander’s case, breakfast.

“Will you be staying?” he asked in his thick Romanian accent.

“I’d love to, if it’s not a problem.”

“There is always room for you at our dinner table.”

My heart melted at Jameson’s kindness. I was dying to press the bony man for information on what they’d been doing in Hipsterville and why they had rented the manor house, but that would have to wait because there was something of more importance resting somewhere in the estate.

“Can I see Alexander?” I asked anxiously.

Jameson, wearing oversized brown oven mitts, opened the door of the old-fashioned oven and pulled out a tray of aluminum-foil-covered sweet potatoes. Behind him, the dirt-stained window stared at me like a hotel oil painting—poking through intermittent clouds was the setting sun.

“You know Alexander prefers to sleep during the day,” he reminded me.

“Of course…I just thought…”

“Well, it is quite a surprise you have arrived,” he said, politely entertaining me. “I’m sure Alexander will be very pleased you are here.”

“I hope so! How long do you and Alexander plan to stay here?” I asked.

Jameson paused, then appeared distracted. “Did I set the table?” he wondered.

“I am sorry to drop in on you like this,” I apologized. “Can I help you set it?”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Raven. Why don’t you sit and relax in the study. Alexander will come down soon.”

“May I take a quick peek around?”

“Of course, but stay on the first floor. I didn’t have time to clean the other rooms today,” he said.

If the first floor’s appearance was Jameson’s idea of cleaning, I could only imagine what the second floor was like. Dust balls clung to every corner, and cobwebs hung from the antique crystal chandeliers. The estate was far too grand for one creepy man to vacuum. The manor house was at least ten degrees colder than the Mansion and far emptier. The floorboards were uneven and watermarked. I wandered in the hallway; the walls were empty of portraits and the wallpaper was faded and patched with stains. All rooms and walls were bare, including what must have been a parlor and library. The only exception was the dining room, where a long rectangular stone table sat in the middle of the room, antique black velvet chairs at each end.

Jameson had warned me to remain on the first floor as if he were Glinda the good witch telling Dorothy to stay on the yellow brick road. From the foot of the grand staircase, I could only see a royal blue curtained window at the end of the first flight. I wondered what lay past the two flights out of view above me. Figuring I only had a moment before Jameson began setting the table, I crept up the once regal staircase. Like Dorothy, I betrayed the path.