Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee Read online

  Half-aced, she realized. She believed in divination and had used it successfully many times, but she knew she still hadn't acquired the right frame of mind. I'm not taking it seriously.

  She stood up and tapped another egg with the countersink-like nail of sandstone. Then she thought about ...

  Sex.

  She closed her eyes and filled her mind with it, imagined herself naked and sweating and mad with lust as some faceless man pushed her knees back to her shoulders and penetrated her right here in the woods, her bare rump grinding in the dirt. She imagined his weight pressing down, his skin sliding against hers. The simple image excited her in seconds; she felt her nipples tingle as if tweezed by hard fingers. She began to feel flush. Sexuality was her charge-it stoked her predispositions. It solicited the spirits.

  Sweating and short of breath now from all the lust in her head, she kept her eyes closed and blew the insides out of the egg, aiming toward Hildreth's grave.

  When she looked, she couldn't believe it.

  The viscid plume had flown wildly to her right, au iy from the grave.

  "Okay, okay," she whispered to herself. "Time to try an alomance." She stood up, looked without much concern toward the pass which led to the graveyard. She saw no one.

  Then she pushed off her shoulder straps and let the sundress fall to the ground, totally naked beneath. Her innerself felt something stir at once, something beyond her. Seikthas or lieppya,-benevolent spirits which inhabited trees or congregated near graves-or simple curious wraiths attracted to her sudden nudity. Ghosts, or even buoyed souls. It didn't matter what; she knew something was there because she could feel it in her blood.

  From her bag she withdrew three more things: a cigarette lighter, a two-by-two-inch square of aluminum foil, and a small baggie containing some sea salt.

  "Damn," she was caught by surprise. A sudden breeze blew the piece of foil away. It landed ten feet from her.

  Without even thinking, she looked at it, held her breath for a moment, and willed it back. As if blown by an identical reverse breeze, the foil sailed back into her hand.

  It was easy. It wasn't even something she gave much thought to anymore.

  All right ...

  She formed the foil into a crude cup, then sprinkled a pinch of the salt into it. She cleared her mind of distractions, walked slowly around the cemetery grounds. She thought only of physical desire, and spirits. She was beseeching them, drawing them out. Her feet crunched quietly over the underbrush. Her skin shone in a mist of sweat, and she felt her heartbeat pick up, and as she walked she brushed the tips of her fingers up her thighs. Over her stomach ...

  She returned to the foot of the grave, focused, pin-point. Her bare breasts rose and fell with her quickened breaths. Envisioning herself on the supplication platform of the highest ziggurat, she whispered a prayer to Ea, the god of the sky and of forests, then held the lighter flame beneath the foil cup of salt.

  The salt crackled minutely, began to sputter and burn. Great Ea, she thought. Hear me ... When a pale tendril of smoke rose from the cup, Cathleen inclined her head and inhaled it.

  She fought not to cough, held it in. But before she could search her mind for a portent-

  Something grabbed her. Not hands, not a person, but something only semi-palpable, as if she'd been seized by the air. When she snapped her eyes open, she saw only a tullelike veil of black. Mesoplasm? she wondered, not afraid yet. She'd be afraid in another moment. Whatever it was, it lacked luminosity so it couldn't be spirit-based. What is that? she thought peering into it.

  Then she could see nothing; her eyes seemed to close on their own, that or something like a hand slipped over them. Chuckling tittered about her head, dark, throaty noises of glee, but they were muffled as if through closed mouths. Then, blind, she was jerked off her feet, back arched, tousled around. Now she was afraid. She tried to scream and release the salt-fumes in the same action but-

  Not fast enough.

  Something slammed her chin up, something else pinched her lips closed, then something like an awful mouth full of dead breath but totally lacking substance sealed over her nose and sucked all the fumes out of her.

  More guttering laughter flitted around her and the ghostmouth sucked and sucked, stealing all that was left of her breath and everything that breath contained, harder and harder until she grew numb and the reversed pressure threatened to collapse her lungs.

  When it was finally released, she was slammed down hard on her bare back. Had she been hovering in mid-air? The back of her head hit the ground so hard her consciousness drained. She still could see only blackness, but then that blackness grew even darker. She felt things feeling her, pinching her nipples, plying her breasts and buttocks like dough. Some intricate force yanked her naked legs out straight by the ankles and wishboned her quivering legs, and then more things began to play with her sex, and that's when she passed out.

  When Cathleen awoke, she found herself sprawled on her side, arms disarrayed, one leg kicked forward. Bits of leaves and twig fragments flecked her blonde hair. As her consciousness rekindled, she had the sense of rising rapidly from an abyss full of hot, black water.

  Oh ... shit ...

  She lay still for a moment, catching her breath, exhausted. When she glimpsed a ladybug crawling up one breast, she flicked it off and then noticed the faintest bruises, fingermarks, but they seemed much longer than any conceivable fingers. Trace bitemarks on her abdomen and thighs, and one nipple had a threadlike black and blue ring, but again, the mark seemed a much wider oval than human dentation. She knew instantly what had happened:

  Para planar rape ...

  She maintained her objectivity, though; she'd seen all this before, and had even experienced it a few times, her excessive sexuality seeming to taunt wayward spirits more than most. The only thing that bothered her, though, was the emotional aftereffect. She didn't feel raped or exploited or victimized.

  Jesus, I'm so screwed up in the head ...

  She felt satisfied, her rampant yearnings for ecstacy and release fully satiated. Then she thought:

  Hildreth.

  It had to be. It had all happened right at the foot of his newly dug grave.

  Or so she thought.

  When she sat upright to brush the forest debris from her bare skin, she expected to find herself facing Hildreth's black gravestone. Instead she found herself outside of the cemetery altogether, ten feet at least past the iron fence.

  To the extreme right of the grave.

  Part Two

  Carnal House

  Chapter Six

  I

  "Poor Mack's probably getting sick of being the tour guide," Karen said amusedly. "You're the fifth person he's had to show around today."

  "Oh, it's no trouble," Mack said, showing them down the windowless Buguet Walk. "I like showing people around ... as long as I don't think too much about what happened here."

  Westmore followed them in an awed daze through the museum-like mansion. Mack Colmes had been the first one that Karen had introduced him to: young, enthusiastic. Seemed like a perfectly nice guy. Mack stopped a moment and repeated his instructions on how to use the videocoms and house map, which set well with Westmore because he couldn't see himself not getting lost in this immense, dark place. Next, they pushed open the door to the South Atrium, a huge chamber full of odd brightness and a sickly green-velour wallpaper. He looked at the room's structure, its frieze-work, carved wall moldings and paneling, and spire-like medieval bookcases and thought, Yeah, this place has the wrond Gothic nailed. Then he squinted at the obviously out-of-place office cubicles situated about the room's nexus. And more peculiarity: a mousy but not unattractive woman lay asleep on an antique couch watching what appeared to be Emeril Live.

  "That's Adrianne," Mack pointed to her. "She's out of it right now, as you can tell. Sleeps a lot. And that's Nyvysk ... "

  A large bearded man with hair longer than Westmore's had just exited one of the cubicles, walked right up
with a preoccupied smile. "You must be the writer," he presumed and shook hands. "I'm Nyvysk, the technician of the group."

  The man shadowed Westmore. "Westmore. Pleased to meet you." Seems pretty squared away, he thought.

  "Nyvysk is also a demonologist," Karen said.

  Westmore was about to laugh at the joke but he could see by the bigger man's face that it was no joking matter. "Wow, there's a loaded one."

  "Let me hazard a guess," Nyvysk said, his smile more puzzling now "You're a journalist and therefore an atheist. You don't believe in demons"

  Now Westmore did laugh. "I have no idea how to answer that!,

  "Good. Perhaps you'll find some answers, during your stay here. I see you've brought some things. Ready to check into your bedroom suite?"

  "Sure," Westmore said. He was about to turn for the doors, presuming the bedrooms would be upstairs, but Nyvysk, with his maintained smile, intervened, "Right over here."

  He took him to one of the makeshift cubicles. "Looks like my office at the Times," Westmore observed. "This is the bedroom?"

  "We'll all be sleeping here, in this atrium. Safety in numbers."

  Westmore looked past the curtain of his "suite." A single bed and a locker. He set his bags down. He sighed, imagining a plush Gothic bedchamber with drape-canopies, thick carpets, and curtains billowing from opened veranda doors. "I guess this'll do."

  "Charges change at night," Nyvysk said, "especially in a house full of people who attract charges. Exterior forces are more eager to be active when such people are separated and in their most vulnerable state: sleep."

  Westmore hadn't a clue. "Charges?"

  "Have you ever been to a charged location?"

  Westmore came back out of the cubicle. "Well, I've been overcharged on my Visa at certain locations, particularly when I've been drunk, but beyond that I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Certain places have a charge, Mr. Westmore. Positive, negative, grounded, and ... other. We believe that the Hildreth Mansion is probably one such location."

  "Actually, Nyvysk, we do not necessarily believe anything of the sort." It was the woman on the couch, Adrianne, who'd just roused from her sleep. She introduced herself to Westmore with a meek smile and nod, then furthered her complaint. "We don't know anything about this house yet; we've made no conclusions. Don't delude this man right off the bat." She looked at Westmore, then very strangely asked, "So you're not a Christian?"

  "I never said I was an atheist," Westmore answered.

  "Well, hypothetically," Nyvysk said, "if this mansion is charged, the exterior forces I mentioned earlier have a ten dency to manipulate agnostics and atheists. Faith can be a weapon. Lack of faith can affect the opposite. Adrianne and I, for instance, are the only true Christians. The other paranormalists here are multi-denominational. So, if in fact you don't have any religious beliefs ... I suspect you will by the time you leave this house."

  Adrianne rolled her drooping eyes. "Oh, would you stop! He's so overdramatic. He's supposed to be a scientist but he's always pushing people his way."

  "We'll see."

  Westmore was at a confusing loss. "So there are two other, uh-"

  "Paranormalists," Nyvysk said. "You'll meet them by dinner time. Cathleen's exploring the grounds, which, by the way, I'd recommend that you avoid after dark."

  "There he goes again," Adrianne complained, then settled back to the scroll couch. She was hugging a velvet pillow.

  Karen grabbed his arm. "I second that motion. Don't go outside after dark."

  "I'm not saying I'm an atheist, but I am saying that I don't believe in ghosts," Westmore asserted. "As far as I'm concerned, this place is just a big, overdone house."

  Karen had wandered to the TV, not listening, while Adrianne remained dull-eyed on the couch. Nyvysk just kept smiling.

  "As for the accommodations; the bearded man continued, "we only ask that you sleep in this room with the rest of us. I noticed your laptop, so feel free to choose any other room in the house for an office. The rest of us will base ourselves in here for the most part. Anytime I'm not here, you'll probably be able to find me in the security and communications room upstairs."

  "Works for me," Westmore said. He turned to Mack. "Any objections if I just kind of snoop around, check the place out?"

  "Feel free," Mack invited. "And there's a big bathroom and shower next to the kitchen any time you want to get cleaned up, or use any bathroom you want-they're all over the place."

  "Just not at night," Nyvysk insisted.

  Westmore smiled. "Understood. See you all later."

  As he was heading out, hard-pressed not to shake his head, he heard Karen say, "Where's Willis?"

  "He said he was going to the room where the prostitutes were murdered, didn't he?" Nyvysk said.

  "Yeah, a couple hours ago," Adrianne said.

  Westmore pushed through the palatial double doors back to the main hall, and he could hear Nyvysk saying into the videocom: "Willis? Willis? Where are you?"

  II

  Willis was on his knees, dry-heaving, in the jean Brohou Parlor on the second floor, blind from his visions and sickened unto death. He was too insensible by what he'd seen to register anything in his mind that might even be considered rational or reactive. Just Get out ... Got to get out of this mom ... He heard a long, ear-rupturing scream, then a sound like something cutting through gristle.

  Then a splattering gush of some thick liquid.

  He couldn't breathe; instead he gasped, knees and palms squishing through thick, drenched carpets, death-rattles gurgling behind him. He'd thrown up spontaneously upon entering and now, as his stomach continued to spasm, there was nothing left to come out. Escape was his only instinct but he'd mistakenly closed the door when he'd come in. He reached up, gagging, fingers desperate for the brass doorlatch, and for a moment he thought he might actually die before he could open it.

  Dark, amorphous things looked down on him, leaning closer. When he reached out to push them back, his hand pushed into something that wasn't solid flesh; it was only semi-palpable, like a gas so thick with soot one could feel something. He noticed facial features-or the lack thereof-no noses, eyes, or ears, just great wet mouths full of roving tongues ...

  When he finally did manage to touch the latch, he shuddered and saw another man's hand open the door, a naked short-haired man with streaks of blood on his arms and legs. He carried a bucket out of the room, and a second nude man carried two such buckets. Then a third man left, just as naked, who paused at the open door and looked down at the helpless Willis with a grin.

  Willis knew that the man was Reginald Hildreth.

  When he fell over, his hand shot out to break his fall and landed on a woman's severed head. Was the mouth still moving? Willis didn't want to know

  Then he vaulted forward and tumbled out of the parlor.

  A man in the hall ran forward: "Shit! Are you okay?"

  Willis reeled, disoriented and still sick. He wasn't in control of what he was saying-"Jesus, don't go in there, don't go in there!"-and then he yelled and shrugged away when the other man grabbed him in an attempt to help him up: "Don't touch me!"

  "All right, all right ... " The man stood aside. He looked late-30s, had long and rather straggly dark hair. Willis struggled to regain his breath and recompose but he wasn't quite there yet.

  "What happened?" the other man asked.

  The images still flooded Willis' mind. "Heads, bodies. Blood all o v e r the place ... "

  The other man looked in the room, then came back out. "Man, there's nothing in there except a bunch of great furniture and an expensive carpet that looks thrown up on."

  Calm down, calm ... Willis took more breaths. Passive revenantial activity. It's nothing. But it had been so strong. And now that he thought of it he had to consider that maybe the images had been active rather than passive. That last man leaving-Hildreth-had looked down at him.

  "Want me to call Mack? Maybe you need a doctor."


  "No, no." Oh, shit. What did I say?

  "What were you saying? Something about bodies, blood?"

  Willis only needed another minute before he'd regain coherence. A few more breaths, then, and a sigh. "I'm all right. Forget about anything I said. I was-I was in what you can think of as a state of shock."

  "Here, lemme help you up."

  Willis pulled his gloves out of his back pocket and slipped them on, then stuck out his hand. The other man helped him to his feet, whereupon he leaned against the banister.

  "I'm Richard Westmore. You're Willis?"

  Willis nodded.

  "Why the gloves? You a germiphobe, something like that?"

  Willis smiled, wiped his mouth and brow with a handkerchief. "Long story, I'll tell you later. I guess you're the fifth member of the actual assignment. The writer?"

  "Yeah. Downstairs, they told me we'd all be sleeping in the atrium, but Nyvysk said I could pick my own work„ room.

  "Whatever you do, don't choose that room," Willis advised, pointing wearily to the jean Brohou Parlor.

  Westmore laughed. "It's a damn nice room, but since you threw up in it, I guess it's ruled out."

  "There are several studies in the house, and a big library on the first floor. I'm sure one of those would work better for you."

  Westmore leaned back, then jerked a thumb toward the parlor door. "What did you really see in there?"

  "Nothing that you can see ... "

  "Psychic stuff, huh?"

  "It's much more complicated than that. You'll figure it out as we go along."

  Westmore seemed to catch on that it was a bad topic for the moment. "So what's with all the names?" He looked at the parlor's brass plaque. "Who's Jean Brohou?"