The leading story is still about the protests, but the accompanying photo is from a bird’s-eye view. Likely taken from a helicopter, the picture shows thousands of people filling the streets. Thousands of peopleblockingthe streets.
Taxis won’t be running. Not when they can’t drive anywhere.
Copying the French text, I open up a translation site. I read the English version, and the news is bad. What started as a transportation strike is now also a labor strike involving all manner of businesses. Including hotels.
Plopping back in the chair, I swivel in a circle and consider my prospects. How long can a protest of this magnitude really last? Surely, it’s close to a breaking point.
I spin for a minute and then finally accept the reality. I’m not going anywhere, at least not today.
Huffing out my frustration, I take the laptop and tray over to the sofa. The first drops of rain hit the window, and I consider building a nice, warm fire.
After a bite of cheese toast, I log in to check my email. The usual correspondence fills my inbox—newsletters, blogs, ads, junk. I’m halfway through the list when a subject line jumps out at me.
Approval to join theTour the Darkforum.
My fingers freeze on the touchpad. The dark tourism site. I completely forgot.
Closing my eyes, I try to return to the state of mind from five minutes ago. When I had decided on a new perspective.
One that doesn’t include the gruesome events surrounding this mansion.
I look again at the screen. What will it hurt? Most of the questions I had about Maison Marteau have been answered. A murder-suicide happened here many years ago, and a child died in a tragic accident. I know why Luci lied. The vampire talk is based on a man’s mental illness. And Rose likely left of her own free will.
Yes, I’m stuck here for a little while longer, but all the bumps in the night won’t be as scary. Now that my previous worries have been laid to rest.
And I make sure never to be alone with Ric.
Then why the itch of curiosity in the base of my brain? What more can I discover?
The green skull from a T-shirt floats behind my eyes. Like a creepy, neon harbinger of doom.
But what was done to her body.
Forging ahead, I click the link and confirm my account. I enter the username and password I previously submitted, then the screen blinks, and I’m in the forum.
I scan the page and find my name. A small triangle points to the wordsMy posts. I click and am shocked to see paragraphs of discussion, a back-and-forth chat about my original question.
Scrolling to the bottom, I read what I wrote first and then the responses. The initial comments are aboutLa Danse des Monstres, because that’s the reason I found this site in the first place. I skim most of this topic, because I’m now familiar with Grégoire Marteau and his Renfield Syndrome, but one topic bleeds into another.
I slow down when I find dialogue about death and murder.
As expected, the man who killed his wife and then himself is mentioned. One user extolls the history of the mansion, praising the building for its many sordid tragedies. Practically gushing over the myriad deaths linked to Maison Marteau.
A dark tourism super-fan.
A green light glows next to his username. He’s online.
I click on his name, GraveDanger, and a pop-up gives me the option of sending a message.
My first question is short. I want to grab his attention before he logs off.
Can we talk Maison Marteau?
I wait less than thirty seconds before I get a reply.
Always.
Flexing my fingers, I think of what to write.
