The Legend of Darklore Manor and Other Tales of Terror (6 page)

     On the night of the ritual, Logan was so confident and happy that he slapped Meyer on the back and told the glum accountant several off-color jokes to take his mind off the rite—which would, Logan was sure, consist of the initiates having to draw the diagram of the bridge from memory, like some strange SAT test.
     When the Masters of the Sixteenth Degree blindfolded the three initiates and loaded them into the back of three limousines, however, Logan's exultation quickly faded. When he felt the car climbing higher and higher, advancing up onto what felt like mountain roads, Logan's heart began throbbing in panic.
     As the three men were herded out of the limousines, the icy wind whipped violently at their clothes. Logan chanced a quick peek under his blindfold and was horrified to see that they were at the edge of a cliff that dropped nearly two hundred feet to a roaring, twisting, boulder-strewn river below. A dilapidated bridge stretched nearly a hundred yards across the chasm, with many of the planks missing. The screaming wind rocked the bridge back and forth like a hammock.
     Logan felt like he was going to throw up.
     "In the Year of Our Lord 1322," said one of the Sixteenth Degree Masters, raising his voice to be heard over the winter gale, "our founder, Henri le Dechambeau, was chased by the Church's armed militia across a bridge in Amiens, a bridge which miraculously held steady for him but disintegrated under the feet of his pursuers."
     Logan could feel one of the Masters take his elbow and guide him to the entrance to the footbridge. He could hear the bridge rattle and creak.
     "Initiates into the Sixteenth Degree of the Brotherhood of Shadows and Light," said another Master, "your task tonight as honest Brothers and Knights of Perfect Truth is to answer a question I will put forth to you. Mr. Meyer, please step forward."
     Logan could hear the scrape of Meyer's reluctant footsteps.
     "Mr. Meyer, Accomplished Master of the Fifteenth Degree, do you wish to replicate our founder's crossing on that fateful night in 1322?"
     Meyer cleared his throat and said hoarsely, "Yes. I will."
     "Then step onto the bridge, dear Brother, and may the Universal Power deliver you safely to the other side."
     Logan didn't risk another peek under his blindfold, but he heard it all. He heard Meyer's frightened panting, the creak of the bridge, the scream of the wind, and the halting, erratic clop-clop of Meyer's shoes groping for purchase on the planks. Logan heard Meyer's gasping yelp as he stumbled and nearly dropped through one of the gaps in the planking. Logan's heart raced as if he were the one on the bridge. When he heard Meyer's sobbing cries, Logan himself wanted to cry. Eventually the shriek of the wind drowned out Meyer's voice, but Logan remembered hearing the man stumble again. Logan heard what sounded like a man's hands grappling for handholds on the planks, then, a moment later, Logan heard the distinct splash in the rough waters below.
     Logan fell to his knees and vomited. One of the Masters helped him back to his feet.
     The Master asked him softly, "Mr. Logan, Accomplished Master of the Fifteenth Degree, do you wish to replicate our founder's crossing on that fateful night in 1322?"
     "Yes," he found himself saying in an unsteady voice, "I will."
     The Master tightened Logan's blindfold and pushed him gently onto the bridge. He made his first few steps with agonizing slowness, humming the Brotherhood's anthem under his breath.
     In the darkest hour, there is light—
     The light of holy truth—
     He did not stumble. With every dreaded whole note, he stopped before the four missing boards and braced himself. Then he leapt, nearly weeping with relief when his feet touched down on solid wood again. The wind roared like a raging lion and his hands were nearly frostbitten as they gripped the frayed rope handrails for support. Seventy-five yards… fifty yards… thirty… and then, toward the end of the first verse, a measure with two consecutive whole notes. That translated into eight missing boards. Since each plank seemed to feel a little less than a foot wide, that meant he was facing nearly an eight-foot jump.
     If he got even a slight running start, he could do it. He gingerly backed up a few feet, mindful of the one missing plank behind him, then took a deep breath. The wind rocked the bridge. I can do this, he thought. He hummed the song, thinking of nothing but the Secret, which was that much closer now. He could do this.
     We know that truth will triumph
     In the hour of darkest night…
     He bit his lip and leapt. That was when his luck seemed to run out. The wind shook the bridge yet again, making it groan and undulate like a boa constrictor. He was airborne but the sudden movement of the bridge meant he had no way of knowing if his landing spot would still be there.
     Please, God, please.
     He landed awkwardly on the planks, and he pitched to the side, nearly spilling over the edge into the icy water. Logan grabbed the rope handrails and hauled himself to his feet again, gasping. He had done it. He screamed in triumph. There was only a short section left to traverse, and adrenaline and confidence propelled him easily to the other side. The feel of the solid earth and brittle, frozen grass made him cry out again in ecstasy. He tore off the blindfold and saw the Masters on the other side applauding him.
     "I did it!" Logan cried. He was so happy that he forgot about Meyer. Logan felt so good that he rushed back across the bridge to his Brothers. It was much easier now that he could see the gaps in the planking illuminated by the half moon.
     Back safely on the other side, the Masters congratulated him and welcomed him to the Sixteenth Degree.
     Then it was Newsome's turn.
     One of the Masters solemnly asked Newsome the ritualistic question: did he wish to replicate the Brotherhood's crossing on the fateful night in 1322?
     To Logan's surprise, he heard Newsome chuckle and say, "No, not really."
     Newsome's answer was not nearly as surprising as what the Master said next.
     "Congratulations, Brother Newsome, and welcome to the Sixteenth Degree."
     Before everyone went back to the waiting limousines, Logan took aside one of the Masters. "I don't understand. How could he be admitted to this level? He didn't make the crossing like I did."
     The Master blinked at him. "You could have said no."
     Logan stared at him, not comprehending.
     "You weren't paying close enough attention," the Master said. "Your task was not to make the crossing but merely to tell us if you wanted to cross. That was all."
     Stunned, Logan looked behind him at the bridge writhing and rattling in the unforgiving wind. "Meyer," he said. "He's dead, isn't he? You let him die."
     The Master's eyebrows rose. "Mr. Logan, the Brotherhood never harms its Brothers."
     "He fell. He drowned. Or he was killed on the rocks. We all heard him —"
     The Master smiled. "You heard something. But have you ever stopped to consider that it might have been a bit of misdirection? That Mr. Meyer was actually a plant we placed here tonight to keep you and Mr. Newsome a bit off balance? In your excitement at crossing the bridge, did you stop to count the number of Brothers on this side?"
     Logan peered into the darkness at the retreating Masters, most of whom were already ensconced in the waiting limousines. "I know what I heard," Logan said weakly.
     The Master squeezed Logan's shoulder. "You trust too much in your senses, in your instincts. Sometimes they can be wrong."
And sometimes, Logan thought, laying in the warm blackness of the ritual coffin, they can be right. His instincts kept him in the Brotherhood even though there was much about the group that confused him and made him uncomfortable. His instincts told him that these men, despite their quietness and their shunning of the spotlight, possessed a power that elevated them above the rest of humanity. And at long last, Logan held that power, that Final Secret, in his hands.
     Lie still and remember that you already know the Secret.
     But he couldn't do that. In one hour the Masters would come and they would take the Secret away from him. He pressed upward on the heavy lid to test its weight but even putting all his strength into the effort he could not budge it. Out of breath, Logan thought about the knight carved on the lid. Was the warrior meant to be sleeping, or was he dead?
     Sleeping, you idiot. Dechambeau had been rescued by his Brothers. Logan mustn't start scaring himself.
     Breathing heavily in the muggy, close air, he undid the black ribbon and unrolled the scroll. He groped for one of the matchbooks in his suit pocket. It was hard to maneuver in the coffin but he clumsily managed to strike a match. The brief, flickering fire showed him a tantalizing glimpse of the Secret: a circle of dozens of indecipherable symbols on an otherwise empty piece of canvas. The stream of symbols spiraled inward to the center of the scroll like a serpent's tail.
     The match burned down close to his fingertips and he shook it out. In those few seconds, however, Logan saw the carved symbols on the underside of the sarcophagus' lid. He struck another match and peered at them more closely, running his fingers over the strange sigils. They comprised the familiar pictographic code that Dechambeau and his early followers used to communicate with one another without the Church learning their secrets. The symbols were arranged in neat rows, with English equivalents next to each character. The coffin's lid had been imprinted with a miniature dictionary of complete words—like air, fire, water and earth—while the sides of the sarcophagus had been chiseled with translations of individual letters and numbers. Although the stuffy air and lack of ventilation had made Logan sodden with perspiration, he smiled. He had been an attentive student of the Brotherhood's history and knew many parts of the code by heart. But time was running out; he estimated that he had about forty-five minutes before the Masters of the Seventeenth Degree fetched him.
     Using a pencil stub he dug out of another jacket pocket, he jotted down the translation of the spiral of symbols on the interior of one of the matchbooks. Logan was a methodical, consistent man; he would begin at the beginning and work his way toward the center of the spiral. The matches, however, were a source of frustration. They burned only for a few seconds, a painfully short window for him to scan the interior of the stone casket.
     Those who crave… His sweaty fingers were trembling, and sweat stung his eyes as he wrote the words. He mustn't lose his head. Each matchbook contained about twenty matches. He couldn't afford to waste their light. Logan had to make sure each burst of flame allowed him to translate some portion of the Secret. But his breathing was becoming more and more labored and he felt dizzy. One of the matches became so moist with sweat that he was unable to light it. When he finally got another flame going, his bleary eyes had difficulty focusing and the fire burned out before he could translate the next chunk of the message.
     Get control of yourself, he told himself. Solve the problem.
     He took in a deep, gasping breath and carefully struck another match. Instead of translating the message in order and risk being stumped on a word or letter, he decided to simply translate whatever section of the Secret seemed easiest, so long as he made progress with every matchstrike.
     Those who crave… deserve… forty… air… here… accomplished master…
     Coughing and trying to shake off an ever-strengthening wave of fatigue that was tugging at him, Logan nevertheless couldn't keep himself from smiling. Much of the message was falling into place. He might actually translate the entire Secret before the Masters came.
     … power the most… least… cubic… slightly more than sixty…
     His heart felt a surge of adrenaline. The numbers could signify longitude and latitude—perhaps the location of some artifact, some treasure? The lower degrees of the Brotherhood were awash with rumors about some unimaginably enormous hidden source of wealth.
     Those who crave power the most… lies…degree…
     Logan coughed, striking another match. He translated a few more pieces of the puzzle: every… minute… The flame burned down to his fingertips and he shook it out. He was in darkness again. The air in the sarcophagus was as muggy as a sauna. He undid the top button of his shirt. He went to tear another match from the matchbook but it was empty. He had one matchbook left.
     Logan flexed his fingers and carefully lit another match. His ears were ringing and his ragged breath sounded like a sluggish breeze passing over dead leaves. Some of the symbols were not entire words but strings of individual letters. A… R… R… I… L… O… N…
     Another match sizzled to life, and Logan jotted down a few more letters. Then he blinked. As the flame guttered and died, he realized he was staring at his own name. Harris Logan.
     What's going on?
     His fingers were cramping from lighting so many matches, but he forced himself to continue. His heart thundered in his chest. Flames burst to life and then died, and the words fell into place on the inside of the sweat-stained matchbook. And then suddenly it was over. He had translated the entire Secret.
Those who crave power the most deserve it the least. The coffin contains thirty cubic feet of air, enough for slightly more than sixty minutes of sustainable life. Every match consumes nearly a minute's worth of this air. May the Universal Power grant you deliverance from the bonds of this world. Here lies Harris Logan, Accomplished Master of the Sixteenth Degree.
     The light went out and Logan found himself in darkness again, lying amid more than thirty spent matches. With his shoulder, he strained against the sarcophagus' lid, but it refused to budge. He pounded on it, screaming. "Can anyone hear me? Hello? Let me out!" His voice ricocheted against the stone walls of the coffin.
     The Brotherhood never harms its Brothers, the Master had told him at the bridge. Of course they didn't—they just let the Brothers do it to themselves. Logan laughed miserably, finally dissolving into painful, gasping sobs. He began screaming again, screaming until he was hoarse, until he had no voice left.

by Joseph Vargo

T
he hollow was deathly still as the three teens sat around the sinister glow of the Jack-o-lantern, telling ghost stories on Halloween night. The flickering candle cast eerie shadows from the middle of the fire pit, causing strange shapes to writhe and slither across the boys faces. Rob had just finished telling his story about the escaped serial killer with a hook for a hand. He ended the tale with a dramatic yell as he lunged toward Kevin, making him scream and topple backward off the log he was sitting on. The third boy, Greg, burst into laughter, then helped his friend up off the ground. As the three boys joked amongst themselves, another figure emerged from the forest path and stood in the shadows just beyond the Jack-o-lantern's flickering light. A bitter chill swept through the air, and the midnight tolling of the distant church bell seemed to announce the silent stranger's presence.
     The dark figure was tall and completely shrouded by a long black cloak that wavered in the cool autumn breeze. His face was covered by a ghoulish mask that resembled a crudely carved pumpkin. The black sockets of the mask's eyes could not be penetrated by the meager glow of the dim candlelight.
     "Who's there?" Greg asked, lowering his voice in an attempt to sound intimidating.
     The figure spoke in a deep whisper, "Telling ghost stories during the witching hour on Halloween night? How quaint. Would you mind if I rested these old bones and shared a tale of my own?"
     No one said a word in protest as the figure approached the fire pit and seated himself on a tree stump directly behind the Jack-o-lantern's leering face.
     "Some legends say that Jack-o-lanterns can ward off evil spirits," the masked stranger croaked, "while others say that it acts like a beacon for wayward souls, attracting restless ghosts with its glow." He paused to look around him, then said " The native Algonquin tribes named this place the Manitoa Forest. They believed that it was the hunting grounds for an ancient deity named Malsumis, the shadow god who put thorns on trees. There are those who believe these woods are filled with dark spirits that have roamed the earth for centuries."
     The boys laughed nervously at his comments and the stranger settled back to begin his tale. "My story took place many years ago, not far from here, in a small town called Parson's Crossing." As he spoke, his raspy voice gave the impression that he had just risen from the grave. "Two boys disappeared on Halloween night in these very woods."
     "I've heard that story," Greg interrupted. "Its about that kid, Jonah Trask, who killed his friend and chopped him up with an axe. He supposedly got sent to a mental asylum for the rest of his life."
     "That story isn't true," Rob said, smirking and shaking his head. "It's just an urban legend. It didn't really happen."
     "Indeed, it did happen," the masked figure replied, "but not the way most people tell it. No one knows the real story—no one, that is, but me." The gravelly throated stranger paused, then asked, "May I continue?"
     Rob nodded for him to proceed.
     "Their names were Jonah Trask and Todd Garrison. They entered the forest shortly before sundown and lost their sense of direction as night descended. They wandered deeper and deeper into the dense woods until they became hopelessly lost.
     "Eventually they heard faint voices in the distance—voices that sounded like someone whispering their names. They followed the sounds to a clearing in the middle of the forest. A ghostly fog shrouded the ground, and moonlight illuminated an old stone well that stood at the center of the hollow.
     "The boys slowly crept toward the ancient structure, drawn closer by the hypnotic call from somewhere within. Primitive symbols and carvings of unknown beasts were chiseled into the stones around the well's perimeter. Jonah picked up a loose rock and dropped it into the pit to assess the well's depth, but no sound returned from the darkness below. As the boys peered over the edge of crumbling bricks and down into the gaping maw, a putrid smell of decay rose to meet them.
     "The light of the harvest moon glistened upon the wet, mossy stones that led down into the dark recesses of the earth, and as they stared into the depths of the pit, the boys began to discern shapes rising from the shadows. At first they appeared to be no more than tendrils of smoke, reaching upward from the darkness below, but then the mist began to take on more menacing forms. Skeletal arms and writhing black tentacles stretched upward and out of the well, ensnaring the boys in their clutches.
     "With a firm hold on both boys, the black limbs began pulling them over the edge and into the well. Todd caught hold of a root with one arm and grabbed his friend with the other, pulling him free from the shadow creatures' grip. Jonah watched in horror as a bony hand dug its black talons into Todd's throat, tearing open his neck, drenching Jonah in a torrent of his friend's blood. Todd's grip relinquished and his body fell limp. Within seconds, he was covered in a mass of constricting tentacles and thorn-like claws that pulled him down into the hellish pit.
     "Filled with mortal terror, Jonah fled the grisly scene with all his speed and never looked back."
     The masked storyteller paused for a long moment, then continued his tale. "Two days later, Jonah stumbled out of the woods, covered in Todd Garrison's blood. He told the police his wild story of the old well and the shadow creatures that took his friend, but his unbelievable tale only cast a dark cloud of suspicion upon him.
     "The authorities searched the woods, but they never found the well or the boy's body. Nobody believed Jonah Trask's horrific account of what happened and he was locked away in the Northcliff Institution for the Criminally Insane."
     "Most people believe that Jonah was insane and that he killed Todd and disposed of his body where no one would ever find it. But in all the years that have passed since that fateful night, Jonah never changed his story.
     "Some say that Todd's spirit still roams these woods on Halloween night, searching for his friend who deserted him. They say that he lurks in the darkness and shuns the light and that he will only come near it if he's invited by the living. They warn that if you see him wandering in the dead of night, you should run the other way, or he'll drag you into the dark woods and down into his well where the shadows will feast upon your blood."
     "That's some pretty spooky stuff," Greg said, "but I don't believe a word of it."
     "No?" the stranger cackled, "but you've heard the tale before. You said so yourselves."
     "Yeah," Rob chuckled, "well, that's just a ghost story, and I don't believe in ghosts, or killer shadows, or monsters that prowl the night."
     "I see," the storyteller hissed. "Then perhaps you will indulge me with a test of your courage to prove the merit of your words. It's very simple, unless you are afraid of the dark." The masked figure leaned closer and whispered "All you have to do is blow out the candle."
     The three boys sat motionless, exchanging timid glances at one another for several moments as the storyteller's words echoed in their heads. Finally Rob leaned in over the top of the Jack-o-lantern and said, "I don't know who you are mister, but I'm not afraid of you... and I'm not afraid of the dark."
     Before anyone could stop him, Rob took a deep breath and blew out the flickering candle, instantly plunging them into pitch blackness.
When the police found the boy's blood-spattered campsite the following day, they suspected the worst. The withered husk of a Jack-o-lantern stared at them from the center of the fire pit—its face frozen in a mocking expression of howling laughter. Drag marks on the ground led into the forest, but the trail went cold after a few hundred feet. Search parties scoured the woods for the boy's bodies, but no traces of any of them was ever found. The news that Jonah Trask had escaped from the Northcliff Institution for the Criminally Insane on Halloween night left the authorities with little hope of ever finding the boys alive.
     Tales of dark things prowling the shadows of the Manitoa Forest are still told around campfires, and to this day no one dares to venture into those haunted woods after sundown, especially on Halloween night. Perhaps it is a superstitious fear of the dark itself that keeps them away, or perhaps it is a very real fear of the darkness that lurks within the deepest recesses of the human soul.