Dark Homecoming (28 page)

T
here it was, Thad realized. The seam in the back wall of the closet. How had Thad never discovered it before? He'd been caretaker at Huntington House for a long time. But he did very little work in these mostly unused servants' rooms. He supposed that was why whoever had made this entrance had placed it here, because it was less likely to be discovered.

Now he had to figure out how it opened.

Thad pressed his fingers along the seam, much the way one opened a roll of Pillsbury dough. Harder, harder, he pressed, moving his fingers down toward the floor. And then, just as he expected, the panel popped open just a little bit, making a scraping sound as it moved away from the rest of the wall.

Thad shined his flashlight inside.

He saw nothing but cobwebs. But a little farther down, he spotted a ladder. Rather like a library ladder, flat against the wall. It went up into an opening in the attic and down through another opening into the floor below.

He took a step inside the passageway. Thad was a big man, so it was a tight fit. He could barely turn around; his shoulders touched each side of the corridor. He made his way to the ladder, aiming his flashlight first up and then down. He could see nothing. Which way to go? He decided up, and took the first step, shining his flashlight ahead of him.

The ladder led into the attic, but not the part of the attic he'd been in many times. Thad had always noted the peculiarity of Huntington House's attic. It was a warren of small rooms, which were accessed only by going through one to get to another. There was no central corridor, no open space. Now he understood why.
This was where they met, those witches
, he thought to himself.
This was where they conducted their rituals.

At the top of the ladder, Thad swung his flashlight around. A maze of very narrow corridors led off in various directions. He realized these passageways were the insides of the walls of the attic rooms.

As soon as he took a step forward, he smelled the gardenias.

“I'm not afraid of you, Dominique,” he called out, touching the pendant around his neck.

Thad aimed his flashlight down each of the four passageways that led off in different directions. All he could see were cobwebs. But closer to him he noticed something else: a light switch on the wall. He flicked it up, and a series of bare lightbulbs along the ceiling sputtered into life, casting a dull yellow light down the passageways.

He wasn't sure which way to go. Where did these passages lead? Thad chose the corridor closest to him, where he thought perhaps the smell of gardenias was the strongest. He had taken only a few steps when he caught the scent of something else, something both sweet and sour.

“Hello!” he called, peeling cobwebs from his face.

From outside he could hear the wind starting to beat the house. He had left the windows unfinished. The storm was approaching, and Mrs. Hoffman was going to be angry with him. He should turn around right now, go back down the ladder, and get back to work. But something compelled him to go on. The smell of gardenias was getting stronger, but now it was braided with something else, something foul, something that reminded Thad of the dead mice he'd find in the basement.

At each bend of the corridor Thad noticed more ladders going down through openings into other parts of the house.
The walls are all passageways
, he realized.
Every single wall in the house
.

The stink of dead mice now threatened to overwhelm him. But Thad knew whatever lay putrefying up here was a lot larger than a mouse. The odor had become so thick, so gaseous, that he could nearly taste it on his tongue. He clamped his hand over his mouth and nose. He was just about to beat it the hell out of there and go downstairs and tell Mrs. Hoffman what he'd found when he turned a corner and beheld the source of the stink.

The corridor dead-ended against the wall. And there, propped up in sitting positions, were three corpses. Thad suppressed a scream and forced himself to draw closer to the grisly sight with his flashlight. The corpses were women, he discerned, two of them very decomposed, little more than purple rotting flesh and protruding bones dressed in long gray robes. From the hair on one of them Thad deduced she had been African American, but that was as much as he could tell. The third corpse wasn't nearly as decayed as the other two. Its face was gray and sunken, but its hair was still blond and its facial features still identifiable. Thad noticed the little blue star that was tattooed on the corpse's neck.

He covered his mouth and nose more tightly with his hand, fearful he was going to vomit. The three dead women looked like deflated balloons. Except that, in this case, instead of air, all three appeared to have been drained dry of blood.

“Dear Jesus,” Thad finally muttered, the horror washing over him. He turned, ready to head back down the corridor. Who could have done this? Was this work of Dominique? Could a ghost really do such a thing? Or was Mr. Huntington really a serial killer as the press was suggesting? Three dead women—in the walls of Huntington House! Thad was horrified. How could this have happened here? He was supposed to be the caretaker of the place!

He rounded the corner and started down the passageway. He saw a shadow moving along the wall before he saw who approached.

And suddenly the smell of gardenias was everywhere.

“Oh, Jesus, no!” Thad managed to cry out when he saw the face of his killer. Then he heard the swish of the blade through the air and felt it slice through his throat.

L
iz steered the car as best she could through the streets, which had become more like small rivers now, filling up with rainwater. The windshield wipers of the little rental car struggled to keep up with the torrential downpour. Every once in a while Liz got a clear glimpse through the windshield. Even though it was afternoon, the sky had become almost black. Palm trees bent against the ferocious wind.

But it wasn't the approaching hurricane that frightened her. It was the thought of David being arrested for murder, and the resulting trials she would have to endure.

David was guilty. Liz couldn't deny that anymore. She had married a murderer. Her mother's voice came at her in snatches, rather like the rain that periodically slapped against the car windows:
Impulsive! Foolhardy! You barely know this man you've made your husband!

Mom was right. Liz felt the tears burn again in her eyes. She had allowed herself to believe David was her Prince Charming, and so she had run off and married him, letting her heart rule her head, carried away by the passion and romance of the moment. Finally, she thought she had found someone who loved her—who wanted to be with her—unlike that cruel, terrible Peter Mather, who had used her for a while and dumped her. Finally all the struggle, all the taking care of other people, was over. Somebody was going to take care of her for a change! David had made Liz believe that she was loveable, and she had allowed that deep, craving need of hers to blind her to the truth about him: that he was a manipulative killer.

What else could she believe, after what Roger had told her?

And then there was Roger. Roger . . . who had professed his love to her.

Did she love him in return? Or did she still love David, despite all this horror?

Liz didn't know. She truthfully did not know how she felt. She pulled the car into the driveway of Huntington House, the gate opening at the click of her little remote. At the end of the driveway the remote also opened the garage door for her. She would put Nicki's car inside the garage for the duration of the storm. But when the door had finished ascending Liz was startled to see the garage was full. David's cars were there, of course, and Mrs. Hoffman's and Variola's. But the garage could hold ten cars. And every single stall was filled with cars that Liz didn't recognize. Expensive cars, too. Porsches and Mercedes Benzes and Bentleys.

She left Nicki's little rental in the driveway and hurried up the walk through the rain.

Coming through the back door into the kitchen, Liz was struck by how quiet and still the house was. She saw no one. “Hello?” she called, her voice echoing as she wandered through the dining room into the parlor.

From out of the shadows Mrs. Hoffman suddenly appeared, startling Liz.

“I thought you were upstairs sleeping,” the housekeeper said.

“Whose cars are those in the garage?” Liz asked.

“I allowed some of the servants to park in there given the storm.”

“Since when do our servants drive Bentleys?”

“Your husband pays very generously,” Mrs. Hoffman said.

Liz didn't have time to spar with the old harridan. “Where's Nicki?” she asked.

“I'm not certain. But we may need her help. We're going to need everyone's help to finish the shuttering of the windows. The shutters are heavy. It will take two of us to pull them in. Thad started the job, but it's not finished, and he's nowhere to be found.”

“That's not like Thad. Perhaps he's attending to something else more urgent.”

Mrs. Hoffman shook her head. “The way these winds are blowing, nothing is more urgent than these windows.”

“What time is the storm expected to hit full-force?”

“In about an hour. They've evacuated the coast. It's a wonder we still have power.”

Liz was making her way toward the stairs. “I'll get Nicki and we'll help secure the windows.”

She found her friend in her room, packing.

“We're getting out of here,” Nicki said as soon as Liz entered.

“Nicki, the roads aren't passable. It's a miracle I got back here in one piece. There are National Guardsmen in the streets. Everything's closed down, and it's just going to get worse.”

“I don't care, we've got to find a way.”

“What's gotten you all worked up?”

“Thad.” Nicki drew close to Liz's face. “He said we're in danger here.”

“I suppose he talked about ghosts.”

“Whatever the danger is, Liz, he convinced me it exists.”

Liz frowned. “When did you speak with him?”

“Just a little while ago.”

“Because Mrs. Hoffman can't find him. He was boarding up the windows of the house but left the job unfinished. That's not like him, especially with the storm so close.”

Liz noticed the strange, frightened look that appeared in Nicki's eyes.

“What is it?” she asked her friend.

Nicki shuddered. “He's gone up to that room.”

“What room?”

“The room I found you in. The one where you were attacked by that woman.”

“So you believe me now that I really
was
attacked?”

“Yes, because Thad believed it. I told him about it, and he went up to investigate.”

Liz suddenly shared Nicki's fear. “You're telling me that he went up to that room, and he hasn't come back down?”

All at once, a truck seemed to ram into the side of the house. The whole structure shook under an unbelievably powerful gust of wind. Liz almost lost her footing. Hairbrushes and lipsticks went flying off her dresser. A lamp fell over and crashed.

Seconds later, all the lights in the house went out. The two women were left standing in darkness.

Nicki screamed.

The room filled with the fragrance of gardenias.

V
ariola was coming down the back stairs into the kitchen when she saw Mrs. Hoffman approaching, her stony face even more rigid than usual.

“Where is she?” the housekeeper demanded.

Variola smiled. “Ah, did you go looking for her? Did you find the door wide open and observe that she was gone? Spirited away, so to speak?”

“
Where is she?
” Mrs. Hoffman asked again, more urgently now.

Variola moved across the room and lit several candles. The power appeared to have gone out. The storm was getting stronger.

“She is with me,” Variola said.

“How did you get to her?”

Variola scowled. “Did you really think that you had found a way to lock a door against me? That I was not powerful enough to find my way inside?”

Hoffman folded her arms over her chest. “If you aren't going to help us, then we will have to do things on our own. Tell me where she is before the storm has passed!”

“Oh, yes,” Variola said, teasing her. “We're having a bit of weather, aren't we?”

“What have you done with her?” Hoffman shouted.

Variola snarled. “Only what you would have been incapable of doing without me.”

Variola remembered how clumsy Hoffman had been in the beginning, learning the art of vodou. Dominque had been a quick study, taking to the arcane knowledge with ease. But for Hoffman her abilities had developed slowly, sometimes torturously. She had become quite strong in recent days, Variola acknowledged. It had taken quite a feat of strength to seal Variola off from that room in the attic. Hoffman's accomplishment had both surprised and frightened Variola. If Hoffman were allowed to gain the upper hand, to proceed unobstructed, to do things her way, Variola feared what might happen. There had been so much bloodshed in the past year. And there would be more, much more, if Hoffman were allowed to continue unchecked.

Yet clearly Variola had overestimated her rival's powers, for with a little concentration, she had been able to smash through the barrier Hoffman had erected and enter the room freely. Once again Variola had taken charge. Now, with the hurricane approaching, she knew she could end all this madness right here and now. If she was successful, she could stop the bloodshed.

“I will make a bargain with you, Hoffman,” Variola told her now. “I will conduct the ritual when the storm is at its peak, but you must agree to my terms.”

“I will never recognize you as head of this coven,” Hoffman warned.

“I have no interest in your coven! It was your idea— yours and hers—Dominique's—to bring all these people in, promising them that their greed would be sated.”

“Dominique required followers. That was how her power grew. You know that, Variola. You've been trying to bolster your own standing by recruiting Rita and even little Liz.”

“I have no need of followers, not anymore. I have no wish for power. I am not one who has ever been motivated by greed or money—”

Hoffman laughed softly. “Come now, Variola. Let's not rewrite history at this late date, shall we? You came here and agreed to teach Dominique, and to help her form a coven, because she paid you a great deal of money. You became rich beyond any of your dreams.”

“Every bit of that money has been sent back to my devastated island! And I came here because I was destitute and alone—I had lost everyone! I came here hoping to find a community of like-minded people, who would listen to what I told them, who would heed Papa Ghede's warnings that the power he gives us was never to be wasted on selfishness or revenge . . .”

“I told you once before,” Hoffman snarled. “He's your god, not ours.”

A blast of wind struck the house, throwing open the doors of one cabinet and sending its dishes smashing and clattering across the floor.

“The storm nears,” Variola said. “We have no time to argue. We only have time for you to accept my deal, or not.”

“What is your deal?”

“I will conduct the ceremony. I will do what you ask. But after that—you must leave this house. Go far, far away. Leave us all in peace.”

Hoffman's eyes narrowed. “But what about the coven?”

“Find a new one.” Her eyes locked onto Hoffman's. “She will be restored. She will be strong enough by then to do so.”

“Completely restored?”

“Yes.”

“You have been promising to restore her for a year. Why should I believe you will be successful now?”

“Because the storm is the power we have needed. What you ask—to completely restore her—is not easy. The act requires far greater power than we have been able to muster ourselves.”

“I was having success my way,” Hoffman told her.

Variola spit out a laugh. “Your way? All your way did was create a monster.”

Hoffman was silent. Another gust of wind rattled the house.

“All right,” she said. “Restore her to what she was, and we will leave here.”

“You cannot break this bargain. I will ensure that if you do, anything I accomplish today will be reversed.”

“We will leave Huntington House.”

“I want to be free of you, and of her, do you understand?” Variola asked, her voice rising in anger. “I should have known when I came here that your vanity was the least of your evil. The both of you! Melting off a double chin . . . removing some fine lines around the eyes . . . that was not to be the end of it. Lies and deceptions. . . ending with that terrible day on the yacht.”

“Do not evoke that terrible day,” Hoffman said.

“Except that wasn't the end, was it? The true evil came after . . . I have tried to stop you, Hoffman . . .”

The housekeeper tightened her lips. “But you couldn't, could you? And know this, Variola, if you fail today, I will destroy you . . . and I will restore her my way.”

“But if I succeed,” Variola said, “you will both leave here and never return.”

“That is our bargain.”

They glared at each other, like cats. There was no shaking of hands between them. Their eyes were enough.

“The others have already gathered,” Hoffman said. “They are upstairs. I contacted them and told them I would be conducting the ceremony.”

“Oh, yes, I've seen them. I just came from up there.” Variola smiled. “How excited and eager they all are to participate in a great ceremony they've heard so much about. But how pleased—and relieved—they were to learn that I would be in the driver's seat. They weren't all that keen on watching you bungle things and lead them inadvertently to hell.”

Hoffman didn't take the bait. She refused to respond to the insult. “Just please bring Dominique back,” she said in a small, forceful voice.

“We should begin,” Variola said. “The storm is nearly on top of us now.” She turned toward the stairs, then paused. “Are Liz and her friend secured?”

“I've sent someone on ahead to take care of them.”

Variola's face grew tense. “I do not want them harmed. Do you understand? Just make sure they are safe from the storm, and far enough away not to hear nor interfere with the ceremony.”

“It will be taken care of.”

“I mean it, Hoffman! Harming them could hurt the ceremony.” She drew close to the housekeeper's face. “How many times do I need to tell you that bloodshed is never necessary?”

“The blood is the life,” Hoffman said emotionlessly.

“They are not to be harmed,” Variola told her again.

“Fine.”

They both turned and headed upstairs.