H. Mallory - Ghouls Rush In

The first responses were mainly real estate–related sites offering house values and the like. Once I noticed a link purporting to be a listing of public property records, I clicked on it. The first line item referenced my taking over ownership of the house but previous to that, it appeared the house had only changed hands once before—in 1969, when it appeared Myra took over ownership from Sarah. But prior to that, there wasn’t any other information. I figured it was because the information predated the available public records. It was something that would probably require a trip to the courthouse.

Instead, I returned to Ancestry.com and continued researching Sarah Laumann, learning that she died in 1969 at the age of sixty-nine. When my head started to ache from information overload, I turned the computer off and decided to give myself and my research a rest for the time being. What I really needed to do now was establish the connection between Drake and Sarah, and the easiest way to do that was to discuss the subject with Drake himself. But, of course, that would have to wait until later tonight when I went back to my house and went to sleep. Something that didn’t exactly fill me with the warm and fuzzies.

“Drake!” I yelled his name as soon as I recognized my surroundings. I was in the dining room, only it was the way it had looked in 1919. I found myself alone and seated at the end of a long, rectangular wooden table. I immediately stood and started for the hallway, barely even registering the pain when I rammed my hip against one of the chair backs.

The hallway was empty. An errant breeze fluttered the white gauze curtain that hung alongside the window at the end of the hall, exposing the pristine gardens below. But I wasn’t interested in any bygone view. I needed to find Drake.

I sailed down the hallway, feeling as if I were flying rather than running. The impact of my footsteps on the hardwood floors was loud and echoed through the house, reminding me that I was the only one in it. The first doorway I reached was the kitchen. Peering in, I saw it was empty, so I continued down the hall until I reached the next door. Pushing it open, I found a room full of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, stocked neatly with leather-bound volumes of what I assumed were the classics. In modern times, this was my laundry room. Somehow, I preferred it as a library.

A lone ladder was attached to the bookshelf and stood at the far corner of the room. There was a fire blazing in the hearth, the smell of wood smoke and warm leather somehow comforting.

“Bonjour, ma minette,” Drake said from where he reclined on a brown leather settee in the middle of the room. His voice sounded as stricken and exhausted as he looked. His head was propped up on a pillow and a dark-brown blanket covered the lower half of his legs, which were motionless. Blue plaid pajama pants peeked out from underneath a blanket that matched the navy blue of his loose-fitting robe. It did little to cover what I could see of a very well-defined chest, lightly peppered with dark-brown hair. When my wandering eyes returned to his face, I noticed he appeared to be suffering from the flu or something. But I was acutely aware that the reality was far worse than just a simple virus. As ridiculous as it sounded, his soul was in jeopardy, not his life.

“Drake,” I said, choking on his name as I approached him. I kneeled down so our faces were level. “What’s happening to you?”

He cleared his throat before taking a deep breath, which seemed to sap all his energy. “ Je perds . I am losing,” he responded quickly, shaking his head as if he were angry over it.

I reached for his hand, which felt ice-cold when I touched it. I massaged his fingers and smiled at him, hoping I could invigorate him and breathe some warmth back into his bluish countenance. “I won’t let this thing beat you,” I said with steely resolve, feeling my words echoing through me.

Drake shook his head like he appreciated my enthusiasm but wasn’t buying it. Then he gave me a quick but pained smile before he eyed the ceiling and seemed to zone out. It was another few seconds before he spoke. “I still cannot see what this being, or thing, is,” he said slowly, but I could see the confusion in his eyes just as clearly as I heard it in his tone. “But it feels as if it grows stronger with each passing second.” He took another deep breath and fell silent for a few more seconds as if speaking took everything out of him. “And with each moment, I grow wearier, plus faible… weaker.”

He turned toward me and smiled sadly again, his eyes empty orbs and his skin sallow and lifeless. His ordinarily thick, full head of hair took on a grayish hue except where it was wet from the sweat that beaded along his hairline. He seemed weak, frail, and small—nothing like the handsome, charismatic, and robust man I recognized from my dreams. I felt like I wanted to cry but held my tears in check, knowing they wouldn’t do either of us any good. Drake needed my strength, not my sadness.

Even more alarming than Drake’s current condition was the time it had taken for him to get there. I just couldn’t understand how it happened so quickly! One night had passed since the last time I’d seen him, and even though he’d seemed tired, his condition in no way resembled the broken man lying before me now.

“Everything is going to be okay,” I said, even though we both remained unconvinced. It just seemed a stupid thing to even think when everything was so far from being okay. “I found someone to cleanse the house,” I added quickly, hoping to imply the situation wasn’t exactly as bad as it seemed. And while Christopher the warlock never exactly agreed to cleanse the house and, actually, hadn’t agreed to do much of anything at all, I didn’t want Drake to know that. Besides, I had no one else but Christopher. He was my golden ticket, the only arrow in my quiver that could possibly defeat whatever this entity was. So, despite any reluctance on his part, Christopher would cleanse the house, as far as I was concerned.

“ Le sorcier …the warlock,” Drake said, breathing out shallowly. He nodded, and his eyes revealed some recognition. “He visited me, but I was too weak to interact with him.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head. “Did you see him?”

Drake shook his head while recalling the event. “He existed merely as a strange voice, disembodied. Our connection was spotty at best so I couldn’t understand what he said or what his intentions were.”

“We asked him here to determine what the entity is,” I answered. “I think he can help us, Drake,” I finished with a heartfelt smile. I began stroking his hair and wiping the sweat from his forehead with the cuff of my shirt. “He’s not a voodoo priestess, but I bet he’s just as powerful. He’s a necromancer. He said I can help bring you back to health again.”

Drake didn’t say anything and his expression was unreadable. “Was he able to connect with the entity?” he asked, turning to face me with sudden interest. “Could he see it? Did he know what it was?”

I shook my head. “He said it was too dangerous for him to attempt reaching out to it. But he recognized its malevolence immediately.”

“Does he know why it’s here or what it wants?” he continued, his interest obviously piqued.

I cleared my throat because I knew Drake wouldn’t take my answer well. Even I still wasn’t taking it very well. “He says the entity wants me,” I finished, my voice dropping lower with resignation.