The first floor was huge. I found three different stairwells—a center staircase in the main foyer, where we had entered, and off in two separate directions, two different stairwells at either side of the rambling place, one in an ugly pink color, and another in a fleur-de-lis purple. I tried to create a mental map of the place, then realized that it would probably be easier to actually draw one out.
There was a kitchen, empty and foreboding, off the fleur-de-lis stairway with a walk-in deep freeze. A model of a pig carcass hung in the misty dark, its swiney eye staring at me for far too long. I turned and left, locking the freezer behind me, and scoping out the rest of the kitchen. There were some odds and ends stocked in the fridge—mostly fruits, vegetables, easy-to-go packaged stuff. Cans and fancy supperware were in each of the cabinets. I got myself a glass of water. A sign on one wall indicated the dishes procedure for guests who were checking out. I wondered what Vic would do to eat if we had to stay any longer than one night.
Come to think of it, I hadn’t exactly asked Eddie, either. Did they just bring blood capsules with them? Like some coagulated version of Gogurts? Pop and squeeze?
I shook my head to clear the image. This weekend was going to be a lot worse if I didn’t focus on one monster at a time.
There was a dining room adjacent to the kitchen—with a table that seemed to stretch absurdly long, with at least thirteen seats. I dubbed it The Last Supper Room. There was a huge crucifix on one wall, and an open series of windows with drapes that stared out at a magnificent backyard sprawl. It was wide enough to host a dance hall at one point, I was sure.
Out in the darkness, there were all sorts of plants barely illuminated by the moon and some soft glow-in-the-dark lawn baubles. A trickling stone fountain had been turned off for the season, and dead leaves floated in its bottom reservoir. Whoever had been in charge of maintenance here was not the best at it, that was for sure.
I saw movement out by the fountain—it was some kind of figure staring at me for half a second from one edge before it withdrew itself again. I tried not to scream. I had no real tech I knew how to use. I was, for all intents and purposes, an absolute newbie at this ghost-hunting stuff. One of the guys back at the office had given me a rundown of everything I had, but it was hard keeping track of names like X1 and Voxbox. So I nodded like I knew what he was saying.
Truth was. This was for an assignment, but this was more about a getaway. This was more about doing something with Eddie. And again, that sour feeling in my stomach, that knot of loss and confusion, like I wasn’t sure who I was or what I was doing for what was going on in my head for the day.
I turned and left. I couldn’t get the feeling of eyes and faces peering around corners out of my mind.
* * *
I flipped another light switch on. Here was an office. There were lots of plaques on the wall. This was in what I had called the Left Hall, the off-putting hallway that rambled to the left of the main foyer. Right before the Pink Staircase, there was a door with a plaque that read ‘Richard Tremblay’s Personal Office.’
Someone had put a potted ficus in here. An old, massive typewriter sat on one end of a desk—alongside some stationery, and more framed pictures than seemed possible to fit on a wall at eye level. Black and white stills and newspaper articles were cut out and pasted here and there, yellowing with age. I was able to see a little bit of the whole of the history of Mr. Tremblay. He was a stockbroker, an investment agent, and was so wealthy he was a powerhouse at the time of his death. Whoever had murdered him had done so in cold blood—he was a pretty popular philanthropist and had helped Chicago’s men recover in the post-Civil War return to normalcy.
I heard someone clear their throat behind me, and turned, fully expecting to see Vic. Instead, I saw someone’s shoulder turn the corner out of the office. I don’t know how to describe it—maybe translucent, maybe not—maybe it happened so fast I wasn’t sure of what I was seeing. I stepped out of the office and followed in the direction the shoulder had been going, and found myself face to face with an empty hallway.
There was a creak at the far end of this hallway, and the silhouette of someone’s shadow cast against the far left wall. I followed it, turning and finding myself in the Pink Stairwell again, and heard a floorboard groan from the second story. A man in a brown suit, face neutral, was standing, briefly on the second floor, looking down at me, squinting, and then turned and walked further along.
“Hey!” I called. I pounded up the steps, pulling my cellphone camera out and trying to record as I jumped and jogged my way up. “Hello?”
No response. Just more creaking, and a slamming door somewhere in the distance. I followed it, feeling the eyes of every framed painting in the place staring at me, and then banged on the door I was sure was the one.
“Hello?” I asked. “Is there anyone there?”
A hand reached from behind me, grabbing my shoulder. I spun and punched, shrieking—and found Vic grabbing my outstretched fist in his hands, peering at me myopically in the dark.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong? I thought you were checking out the ground floor.”
“I saw the Brown Man,” I said.
His eyes widened.
“Seriously?”
And then the door behind us creaked open, slowly…
“Come in, you two. I’ve been waiting for you.” A curiously familiar voice, ringing out loudly into the gloom.
Vic and I met each other’s eyes uneasily.
“Come on now. We don’t have all night.”
We walked together, slowly, towards the voice…
* * *
Richard Tremblay sat, smoking a fat cigar, behind a desk in a blue room with pinecones as the repeating wallpaper pattern. The cigar smoke was overpowering, and his brown eyes twinkled like stars in the horizon. I could feel the whole of the room buzzing with some kind of latent energy.
“Please, take a seat,” Richard said. “Have you eaten? Shall I call the Chef and send for a meal?”
