Chapter #47What Happens to Bad Boys by: Seuzz   Your knees almost give out as you stare as the monstrosity Grandmother brandishes at you. It hangs limp and loose, like a deflated balloon, but as she turns it this way and that you can't mistake it for anything but what it is: the skin of Frank Durras. It is brown and mottled, and the face is stretched into what looks like a wordless scream; the eyeholes are empty, except where a bit of the back of his head shows.
"What did you do to him?" you hoarsely murmur, and tear your eyes from the ghastly sight.
"Ah kin shew yew, if'n yew want," she says. "Tho' yew won't survive the demonstration."
It takes all your strength just to remain upright, and your heart hammers in your chest. She killed him. Somehow she caught him--despite his talents and strength and training--and she killed him. And she has you entirely at her mercy. "What do you want from me?" you ask thickly.
"Yer home, William," she says. "Home and wi'chyer kin. Act accordin'ly."
Your chest is heavy as you speak. "Whatever you say." You swallow, trying not to vomit. "Grandmother."
"Yer a good boy, William," she jeers. "Or, at least, yer clever enough. Kiss yer grandmother."
You raise your eyes. She leers back: little, black, piggy eyes peering out from under a beetling brow, over thick rolls of rouged, bristly cheeks; a sunken mouth over a weak chin. You suppress a shudder, and step forward. You brush lips over her cheek, and taste something harsh and bitter in the back of your throat.
"Good, William," she says as you step back. "Now. Into the box with ye." She points at the crate.
"What?"
"There are good boys and bad boys. B'fore I shew yew favor, I will shew yew what we do to naughty children. And yew've been very naughty, holding my keepsakes from me. Into the box."
Frank--Shabbleman, under a mask, you now know--grabs you and folds you in half, thrusting you backward into the crate. You land hard on your tailbone. You've just time to see his leering face before he slams the door shut.
You're hunched up, knees under chin, arms behind your back. You have to hunch, for there's no room to straighten up. You shift to your side, trying to find a way to get comfortable, but there's no room. You're wedged in. You vaguely remember watching old movies with your dad where prisoners got put into things like this. Sweat boxes, you think they were called. At least it's not summer. The air is musty, and something in the box stinks, but it's cool.
You blink into the dark. How long will they leave you here? It's going to hurt before long, but if you can just power through, it will be over eventually. It's like when you had to have three teeth pulled on the same day, back when you were twelve. You'd laid back in the chair and reminded yourself that in a little while--
Something rustles behind you. You twist your head, but you can't really turn it, and it's dark. But what could it be? Your bowels loosen. Are they going to put rats in here with you? Oh, God! If they're not just going to shut you up in here--
Something hairy brushes your cheek, and you jerk away, banging your head. But the thing sits on your shoulder, brushing your cheek. It's not a rat. It's long, and bristly, like a snake in a fur coat. You shrink back.
Another hairy thing touches your hands. A third drops over your head. It's climbing over you!
And then, even though you're in a small box, in pitch darkness, you can see it, in your imagination, at least.
It's a monstrous spider. A tarantula, as big as a horse, settling over you. You can even see the gleam in its multiple eyes.
You scream.
* * * * *
How long you were in the box you were never sure. How long the thing crawled around you, caressing you, spreading its stink, pressing its horrible, bloated, body against your face, gagging and suffocating you ... You shut out the memory afterward, as best you could.
And then the snakes came-- The pythons--
Even after the door to the crate opened, and you were hauled out to lay panting on the grass, you could feel the things writhing around you. Your skin felt like it was trying to shake itself off your very frame as you were pulled to your feet and pushed inside the house. The dry air of the house was like bats' wings beating at your head, and the low, dirty sofa rolled beneath you like a living thing. When the cords were finally, blessedly cut from your wrists, you fell onto your side and curled into a ball and shuddered and shuddered and shuddered--
"Drink this," a soft voice says.
You look up.
It's a girl. A young woman, actually. She looks like she's about your age. Her face is rather pretty, with large, grave eyes and pale cheeks with just the lightest flush of roses. Dirty-blonde hair falls in loose ringlets about her face.
She holds out a glass containing a few fingers of a brown liquid. "Drink this," she says again. "You'll feel better."
You could hardly feel worse. Feeling has returned to your hands and arms, and you're able to take it without trembling. The girl watches carefully as you raise it to your lips. The smell is harsh--it's Scotch or whiskey or something--and you gasp and choke as it goes down. But it warms and steadies you. "Thanks," you say as you return the glass to her.
"Grandmother told me to give it to you," she says. She glances nervously over her shoulder. "My name's Rosalie," she says softly.
"I'm Will," you say, and slowly rise to a sitting position. "They put me in--"
"Shh," she says. "I know where they put you. They put everyone there. Just try to--" Again, she looks over her shoulder. "Forget about it," she whispers. She straightens up. "Grandmother wants to see you," she says more loudly and firmly, and holds out a hand. "Come on."
She helps you up--she is stronger than she looks--and guides you along. You seem to be in a parlor, and she leads you into a foyer and past the staircase into the back. Through one doorway you see a dining room and a kitchen beyond, but she takes you around another corner and down a long corridor. At the end is a tall doorway.
Grandmother is standing in it, hunched over her canes. "Feeling better, William?" she asks. "Yew ready to be a good boy again?"
"Yes ma'am," you say dully.
Her lips twist, and her eyes flick between you and the girl. "Such a pretty pair you make," she says. "My other William will have to watch hisself a little more carefully." She regards you appraisingly, then gestures you to follow her into the room. Rosalie closes the door, leaving you alone with the old crone.
Briefly, you wonder if you could overpower her. Beat her brains in.
The room is close, windowless. It's bare of anything but a small bookshelf and a huge chair and a stool and an antique desk. The Libra lays open on the latter. Grandmother points at the stool while settling into the chair with a groan. You sit before her, knees tight together.
"I'm shewing yew great and early favor, William," she says. "I only put yew the box for a little while. And I've brought yew into my study, here--" She gestures proudly at the little room. "Where none may step. Where I keep all my secret treasures."
You glance around. There don't seem to be a lot of treasures. Certainly her library is only a fraction of the size of Blackwell's.
"We've much to discuss, young William," she says, and leans forward. "My other Will, the one you kidnapped--" Her lip curls hard. "He has told me much since recovering hisself. It was good of yew to put him inside a mask, with the faces of people who knew how to use them." Her eyes glitter. "But we must be careful not to share all of our secrets wi'ch'im. He is crafty. And he would put yew in the box and never let you out."
"I'll do whatever you want, Grandmother," you say. The drink has steadied you, but there is no way you will resist her.
"Good. He told me much, as I said. But yew tell me yer story now. All of it." She leans forward eagerly.
You take a deep breath. "It's a long one, ma'am."
"I don't bore easily. Not at the truth, William." There's no mistaking the menace in her tone.
* * * * *
So you tell her everything, as much as you can, from the beginning. Arnholm's. Blackwell. The hex. Your destruction of the magician and your taking his legacy. Catching Frank and Joe, and kidnapping her grandson. She listens intently throughout.
"Yew're most resourceful," she says at the end of it all. "Most talented." She trembles as she opens a desk drawer and takes out four items: two nails, a mask, and a metal band. You catch your breath at the latter: It's one of your anima bands. "I've not studied the old Libra yet," she murmurs. "But I kin reco'nize craftsmanship when I see it. You and I, young William, together--" She gasps, and you can see the hunger--the lust--in her eyes, and shrink back. She doesn't notice. "Your blood, your essence, is what I've been searching for my whole life."
An idea comes to you. You point to the anima band. "If you put that thing on yourself--"
"That won't be happening," she snaps, and for a moment you think you've overplayed your hand. "And I would know why not!" She leans forward, eyes blazing.
"Ma'am?" you squeak, leaning back.
"I tried this mask!" She clutches it in a claw-like hand. "My Will had to pull it from me, for it burned there. The Libra is mine, and young Will sports a mask. But they will not work for me! Why? Tell me!" Her expression is terrible.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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