Chapter #46A Prisoner in Cuthbert by: Seuzz   Your head swims as you look between your captors. You can only gasp one word: "Frank?"
"That's me," he smirks back.
"What--?"
But the old woman interrupts. "I'll be leaving yew alone wich'er thoughts, William," she says, and with much creaking and groaning gets to her feet. "Be comfortable, as much as yew can. Thankee, boy," she says to Frank as he helps her up. "Yew did well, very well, and I'll keep account of it."
"Thank you, Grandmother," he murmurs, and helps her hobble through the doorway. He shoots you one last, malicious glance before shutting you in.
You twist around to get a better look at your prison. It's a small room, very dingy, with a single window. There's a wardrobe and small shelf covered in porcelain knickknacks; the floor is hardwood. You're laying on a bed covered with a thin, floral-patterned comforter. An old lady's room, you think to yourself.
You lay back, trying to get as comfortable as you can, considering that your arms are bound behind you. You search back for memories. You only have your own--and the very dim memories associated with your various guises and disguises--which means you're in your own body. That mask Frank had: it must be your mask. But how did he get it off you? The nail should have--
You groan. In your hurry to get back into Monique, you hadn't nailed the mask to your face after putting it back on. So that's how Frank got it off you.
The more important question, of course, is why he took it off you, and why he's cooperating with--
The old woman. She seems very familiar, but you can't quite place her.
Think, you moron, think!
Okay, Frank went up to Cuthbert this morning--
Cuthbert. Will Shabbleman. It's been several days since you were inside your cousin's head, and you don't really remember anything from the short time you were there. But that clicks. Frank mentioned an old woman in Cuthbert, and talked about "Grandmother." That must be her.
You don't like thinking about her. She was huge, malignant, ugly as mortal sin. Frank had also seen signs of "witchery" in Cuthbert on his first trip. Did the old woman somehow get Frank's mask off him, and enchant him into becoming a slave?
Or--your throat constricts--has the "Will Prescott" that controls Frank switched sides, and chosen to work with her for his own selfish purposes?
That would be terrifying, but either that was your erstwhile alter ego you saw, or it's the golem that has Will Shabbleman underneath.
But the golem wouldn't have been able to get a mask off you; golems can't do magic.
So that's got to be the real Frank. Either he only pretended to go to Cuthbert, or he drove back to get you while you were diddling around inside Monique.
And if Frank is now working for the old woman, presumably he would have told her everything, including everything about the Libra.
You feel your cheeks pale. If Frank found you in Joe's bedroom, he would have also found the Libra there. It's a terrible thought, the Libra in the hands of that hideous old woman. Almost as bad as the thought that one of your partners--someone who is, in a sense, you--is a traitor.
There's got to be another explanation. Maybe "Frank" isn't Frank, maybe it's actually the golem. Maybe Grandmother got control of it, and sent it back to Saratoga Falls, and she was the one who pulled the mask from you. After all, the Libra used to belong to the Shabbleman clan, and maybe they still know how to use it.
But how would she know anything about the golem, so as to get control of it long-distance?
You close your eyes again and think about Grandmother and Will Shabbleman. What do you know about them? Not much. There was that thing she put on him, that cock ring--
The cock ring. You didn't get a good look at the sigil that dissolved when you took it off him, but you do remember the feeling of unease you had around the fake Frank. And there was that moment--you'd almost forgotten--when you'd felt something pressing at the door of Joe's bedroom.
There are ways of spying on people at a distance. Blackwell knew how to make them up. You never used them--there was no need--so you never studied that kind of spell. But now you wonder if that cock ring wasn't a "watcher" set on Will Shabbleman. It would make sense that an old witch would spy on one of her kin while sending him out to spy for her. Maybe that was the reason she let him go: so she could spy directly on those who had sought her out. If so, then she would have seen, even heard, everything that was done in the presence of golem-Frank. Then she would have known almost from the start that her grandson had been captured and replaced.
She called him, Frank had said. She wanted him to return to Cuthbert. Maybe she trapped Frank. Maybe she killed him. That would have broken his control over the golem, resurrecting Will Shabbleman and giving him control of the "Frank" mask you had put on him.
Dread and horror overwhelm you. Which is worse: that Frank might be a traitor, or that he is dead?
You fight the bonds, but they are cruelly tight.
* * * * *
A very long time passes, and you grow chillier and sweatier. You flinch at each footstep outside the door. Your only hope is Joe, and he doesn't know what has happened.
You twist and turn, and as exhausted as you are you cannot even fall into a stupor, let alone sleep, for fear and dread.
How many hours pass, you can't tell; and with the light burning in the ceiling you can't even tell if it's morning through the window.
But they haven't forgotten you. After many hours, the doorknob rattles, and you turn stiffly as the door opens.
Someone who looks just like you comes into the room. "How you doin', buddy," he asks in a nasal whine. "Get any sleep? I didn't either, but I bet I was more comfortable than you."
You say nothing.
He smirks and wipes at his face. His too-large clothes tighten as he frame swells. "These masks are da bomb," Joe Durras says. "I haven't figured out which face I like best--" Another wipe. "I'm not fond of this one," Aubrey Blackwell grimaces as his clothes tighten around his bulk, threatening to burst. "Or this one," says Melody Weiss. "My Rosalie doesn't like me looking like this," says Will Shabbleman. "So I think I'll stick to this look," concludes Frank Durras. "Be easier to manage you, too."
This display, of course, tells you nothing about who this asshole is.
He brandishes a scary-looking knife, and grins nastily before bending over to slice away the cords at your ankles. "Get up. Grandmother has business with you."
"Where am I?" you croak. Your mouth and throat are now very dry. You are very stiff as you swing to your feet.
"Nowhere you want to be," says Frank. "And that's exactly where we want you."
He pushes you roughly toward the door, and you stumble to one knee. He hauls you up rudely and pushes you into a hallway. An ornate stairway leads up to a second floor. A bony, middle-aged woman peers out through a doorway before hurriedly withdrawing. Frank grasps you by the back of the pants and hustles you through a foyer and outside.
It is morning--very early by the look of the light and the feel of the cold air--and the grass squelches wetly under your feet. You glance around. There are a few ramshackle houses across the street; your prison was a large, two-story house. Frank shoves you along around the corner.
There's a huge wooden crate here, looking and smelling very foul. The front is hinged and has been opened up. Grandmother, leaning against two canes, looms beside it. "Good morning, young William," she says. "Yew rest well?"
"Where am I?" you ask again.
Frank laughs. "Yeah, he's as stupid as he looks."
"Don't underestimate him, boy," the old woman says sharply. "Your cousin has many hidden talents." Her eyes shift to you. "I would prefer not to have to ... extract them."
You swallow hard.
She leans forward, like a fat, gouty old crow. "Yew're in Cuthbert, William," she says. "Yew remember Cuthbert?" You nod. "We don't like strangers in Cuthbert. But yew're not a stranger, are ye, William? Yew're kin. Yewr mother was a Martin, and yewr grandmother was a Stewart, and yewr great-grandmother was a Shabbleman. Same as me. We're cousins at some degrees removed, young William, but yew can call me 'Grandmother'. Ev'yone does." She twists the canes.
You say nothing. Her expression darkens.
"Yew're kin, William," she says. "Wi'ch is why I'm willin' to bargain wi'chyew. We don't bargain with lowlanders in Cuthbert. We take what we want from 'em. An' I've taken what I've long wanted." Behind you, Frank laughs harshly. "Aye," Grandmother continues. "I have it now, an old heirloom. I will have yew too, by one means or another. In my generosity, I leave the choice to yew."
She fumbles at a handbag hanging on the crook of her arm, and from it draws something wrinkled that has a shaggy black wad of hair at the end. She pulls it free and shakes it out. It looks like a costume of some kind. She holds it up. "Shall I have yew, or only yer skin," she leers.
And then you recognize the deflated, baggy thing in her hand. It's Frank Durras.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
| Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author