XXVI

If there had ever been a sign, Caff had just seen it. There was no other way to describe that roiling stream of thick, oily shade streaming up and destroying a spiraling staircase. He knew without doubt that Talmadge was somewhere on the upper floors of this House. The ruin of the staircase was bathed by dimmed sunlight falling from a hole in the roof. It looked old. Timbers pale and hollow, bone-like. That old carpet, gone without a trace. For a moment he imagined what that strange breed of shadow would do to his own flesh. It had wreathed and hidden Rupert Wagner and Elijah without issue, but it had been under Wagner's command at the time. That meant something, maybe. Or it didn't. Either way, there was a problem.

The only way of ascending to the upper floors of the Talmadge House had just been destroyed and, thus far, another had yet to be found. Granted, he and Jennie had not done much exploration. For himself, he was not eager to begin. He eyed each of the many doors within reach, here on the ground floor with them, and wondered what fresh hell lay behind each. That one there had a room gills-packed with corpses, each one giddy with hunger for their lives. Two doors down on the left of that: another corpse-thing. A snake this time. Five or six once-living people fused end-to-end by Talmadge's vile ways to slither and crush whoever he pointed it at. Across the hall, behind that door there, that was a bomb. Just a really large, loud bomb. Probably also the corpse-snake was on fire. And bit. “Wonderful,” he complained in a low, sighing way. “just – wonderful.”

Jennie grunted. She probably agreed. Probably was less eager than himself to see what was behind these doors. Probably she had more sense than him. He tried not to dwell overlong on this bitterness, lest anything get any ideas, and started thought on their next move. Jennie stopped him by asking, “Well...now what?”

That was the question. Retreat was right out. There just wasn't enough time. Getting back to town would use up the period of grace Widow Booke had given him. She had promised him mobility for a day, maybe less, after which agony he'd not before known would find him. He could feel it waiting. Just there on the edge of his awareness. She wasn't lying. No, they were staying, which meant they had to find another way up. He ruled out climbing up the outside on account of not trusting those awning to hold more than their own weight.

He looked at the ruin of the staircase again. In a House this size, no way was that the only one. No way. Finding another ran headlong into his disinclination to explore, though. He'd have to deal. He couldn't see another way. “Pick a door,” he answered, “start looking for another way up.”

“Up?” She challenged, turning to him in clear doubt. “Chasing that – whatever it was?” He grunted and she sighed. “Wonderful. Just – that's wonderful.” She turned her eyes to their options and measured their likelihood to lead to their deaths. The hungry corpses, the flaming corpse-snake, or the bomb. “That one,” she decided, choosing the bomb. At least it'd be over fast.

- - -

There was no bomb. He was almost disappointed to learn so. Behind the splintered door was an old parlor, filled with cloth-draped furniture. The once-white shrouds were yellow and insect-eaten. Underneath a boarded up window frame was tucked a loveseat. A long, low couch was pressed against the wall and flanked on either side by the empty, sagging frames of bookshelves, their contents having long ago spilled into a gutted pile at their feet. A cards table leaned precariously to one side across the room. Over everything was a thick, undisturbed layer of dust. As he entered the room the sound of his boots on the old wooden floor was muted, swallowed by the ancient, abandoned stillness of this parlor.

It had not always been this way. The pity was in how easy to imagine this room in its prime. A boozy hollering of card sharps and liars, freely ringing laughter from faces red with good humor and copious drink. A quieter discourse between keen minds on that long, low couch, thoughts ablaze with wonder at the words in those books. At the loveseat, a quiet closeness. A soft thing, warm and gentle, too fragile to bear being parted from.

For just a moment he let himself see this room, this House, as it once was. It helped to remind him that it was this Talmadge, the last Talmadge, who had gone wrong. Entire generations before him had grown and lived here, filling it to the walls with their histories and unaware of what Artemus Talmadge would do to their home. This dim, oozing should-not-be that filled every corner of this House. He shook his head. “Anything?” Jennie asked.

“No,” he answered, “Nothing.”

“Time's wasting,” she reminded, and he realized he had actually managed to forget. Not for long, just for a moment, he hadn't been keenly aware of the ticking clock. That moment was ended, and once more he carried it. Tick-tock, pain's a-coming. Had to be fast and sure which, in his experience, was not possible. Could do one or the other, but not both.

“Yeah,” he said, and perhaps it was the doing of that moment's imagining that had him closing the door behind him as they left it. A gesture of respect that felt odd even as he did it. Oh, this place was still a House of ill intent and meaning. It had not always been, though, and that was why he closed the door behind them.

The next door they tried led to a linens closet. A tangled ball of threads on the floor was all that remained. Everything else was rotted or insect-eaten, with the exception of the ceiling. There, in a neat circle, was a hole through which he could see another room. The erosion around the edge of it reminded of the oily shade's touch on that piece of furniture in the front hall. A way up. “This might do,” he mused. Jennie peered up at and clicked her tongue.

“Maybe,” she hedged, “if one of us could boost the other up.” That had been his thinking, and he said as much. “Well, alright then. Let's go.”

He eyed the edge of the circle and its corroded state. It looked like termites had been at it, and probably had, on top of whatever the shade had done to it. He was not sure it would hold either of them, let alone both. “Hang on,” he said. “I want to see if there's not stairs elsewhere.”

“Why?” she challenged, “Got a perfectly good hole right here. Don't need to keep looking.” Of course, being of impeccable wit and keen mind, she figured it out. “Could fall apart on us, though. Stairs could too.”

“I know,” he acknowledged, “but they might be in better shape. If we can't find any or – or if there's...something else...we'll come back and I'll boost you up.”

She considered for a moment before agreeing. “I'll hold you to that,” she told him, which was fair and expected, before going on, “and please, I'll be boosting you.”

“Oh, will you?” he challenged. They left the linens closet and headed for another door. “And why is that?”

“I'm stronger,” she said bluntly. This was also fair. And true.

- - -

They came across a hallway, long and arrow-straight, and dark. Not with the oily, oozing shade, but ordinary shadow. Wall sconces held rusted, dormant lamps that had long gone dry. Wallpaper peeled and bubbled where it was not stained by water's damage. On the few clean, intact places he could see was the stenciled emblem of a rearing horse. At the hallway's end was a two-way split to left and right. The stairs he wanted would be in one of those directions, or maybe both. If he was lucky. Standing at the threshold of the hallway, he felt lucky. This had been a fortunate find after some ten minutes of fruitless wandering among the House's heavy silence.

There was something in the corners of his eyes. It stayed there, no matter where he turned his gaze nor how quickly he did it. Always there in the corner and always ill-defined. He could not place its shape, or even if it moved, but there was some strangeness about its proportions that stuck in his mind and turned his stomach with an unwelcome swoop. He closed his eyes and it did not help. Bracing himself against the intact frame of the hallway's threshold did. He felt steadier with the smooth, sanded grain of wood beneath his hand.

Stairs were at the other end. He was now certain of it. Despite the certainty and the eagerness that came with it, he still found himself unwilling to take that first step. Something, quiet and deep, held him back, though he did not know what it was. It took more force of will and effort than he had thought to lift his foot and move it into the hall. He paused, comical and off-balance, when a sound behind him drew his attention. Away from the dark, welcoming hall and the stairs that were at the end. It was a wet, gagging wretch of a sound. He wasn't alone. Reluctant, he turned away from the hall and saw a woman barely holding down her rising guts. He knew her. The thought came from someplace deep and quiet. He did.

He put his foot down, still on the threshold. Its smooth, sanded grain was cool and reassuring to the touch. The woman spoke. Well, her mouth moved. He heard nothing. There was some emotion in her eyes, some feeling he could not quite put to name. He wondered why he'd turned away from the hall in the first place. This time, when he went to step in, it was easy. This was the way.

When he was stopped again, rage bubbled in him. He did not understand why this woman had grabbed his arm or why she was trying to pull him away. It was as if she did not understand that the stairs were at the end. Just there, at the end of the hall, was what he was looking for. What he wanted. Her mouth moved again, shaping words he did not hear. If she were to try stopping him once more, he did not think he could bear it. He would have to keep from doing it.

He had a pistol. There, on his belt. It had to be loaded, otherwise he'd have left it behind. Same with the rifle in his other hand. Could shoot her. Sure, she was real strong. Wasn't anyone who was so strong a bullet wouldn't stop them. She would try to stop him. It only made sense. He was fast, though. He knew that.

Only, he did not want to. Not really. The thought came from a place within, a quiet and deep place that cared not at all about the hall or the stairs. He could shoot her. He didn't want to. He just wanted her to let him go.

The hall. The stairs.

They waited for him.

He could not bear it any longer. He had to go. To find what he wanted. He took his hand from the threshold's frame and reached to pry himself free of her grasp. When his fingers circled her wrist something happened. That quiet, deep someplace became loud and shallow real fast. It all came flooding back to him. The warm life of her skin on his just washed away what that dark Place had seeded in his mind. Jennie. Her name was Jennie. “Caff?” It was concern in her eyes. He did not dare look away. He might lose himself again if he did. “You...you okay?”

Each breath was hard and heavy in his chest, like he hadn't drawn a single one the entire time he was lost. His mouth was desert-dry, he realized. He was shaking. What that Place had done to his mind, just through him looking at it, was immense. It had changed him. With a awful certainty he knew that if he had taken one step beyond that threshold he would have walked in that darkness forever, and there would have been no saving him. “I...” he trailed off. His breathing lightened out, slowed, and softened.

“What happened?” she asked. Her concern, her worry, were writ clear across her face. Beneath that he could see glimpses of fear and a rising anger. He wondered what she saw on his face, if it was any clearer than what he felt.

“I – it got into my head,” he rasped, swallowing. She led them away from that Place. The words spilled from him in a babbling tumble of nonsense. “I forgot,” he confessed, “about you an – and all. I just – I couldn't see nothing else.” He forced another deep, calming breath. “A trap. I think it was a trap. Walk in an' you just...you keep walking.”

“You think it was Talmadge?”

He shook his head and answered, “I don't know. Probably.” With distance from that Place, he found his center. He blew out a long sigh before saying, “That was terrible.”

She grunted. “No doubt. Closet, then?”

“Yeah. Let's go.”

They backtracked until they reached the linens closet, still as empty and precarious as they'd left it. He stepped into the stirrup of Jennie's laced fingers and let himself be boosted up without a word. The edges of the circle crumbled beneath his grasp but otherwise held. Jennie leaped up and caught him by the wrist, after which he helped her pull herself up after him. He took stock. They were in a bedroom. Caked in dust with still, still air. They were getting closer. One floor left. Then there would be a reckoning.