Entry 11, The Case of the Man-Eating House (Part 1 of 2)
Yay! Time to post the big one! (And I have the days set to finish up the short pieces, too.) This went waaaay over the minimum word limit, and LJ's word limit, so two posts will be necessary to get it all in.
Title: The Case of the Man-Eating House
Entry Number: 11
Author: insaneladybug/Lucky_Ladybug
Fandom: Perry Mason
Rating: T/PG-13 (overall creepiness, evil houses and malignant spirits, scary situations)
Genre: Supernatural/Horror
Spoiler Warnings: None
Word Count: 16,076 overall. For this half, 9,824.
Perry Mason
The Case of the Man-Eating House
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! I leave my usual notation that the time period is the present day, since time period is not critical to the series and I prefer it this way. This is my Halloween piece for 2012, inspired by dreams, Halloween merchandise, and the Livejournal community OctoberWriting. Also involved is the 2012 theme at OctoberWriting, Film Noir. The story title is based on an episode of The Wild Wild West (which guest-starred William Talman, by the way!), and I've included several in-jokes to the episode in the story. The house is a combination of two different re-envisionings of our house that I've dreamed about repeatedly and strangely, complete with many of the bizarre and eerie feelings and happenings that occur in said dreams (and a little extra, for story purposes). I leave a disclaimer that, thankfully, our much smaller house in reality does not feature any of the eerie feelings and happenings! . . . Well, except for lights occasionally flipping on when no one's around to turn them on. Hmm.
In a city as large as Los Angeles, there were, of course, many ghost stories. The kids in each neighborhood and subdivision had their own collection of spooky, scary, macabre tales. Throughout the year, but especially as Autumn rolled around, they dared each other to enter assorted haunted houses and other buildings. These ventures were met with varying levels of success and terror.
One mansion that everyone seemed to avoid with collective fright was the Twilight House, which had once belonged to a glamorous actress of the classic film noir era. As if it wasn't unsettling enough for it to be the one home left on a street of vacant properties, rumors had started to circulate that anyone who journeyed into its long-vacant halls never came out. After all, the kids insisted, the last known owner of the house had become a recluse and never emerged in the last years of his life.
It only fueled the stories when it was learned that said last owner was an axe murderer.
Naturally, Della had never believed the silly stories. But she was also not about to find the thought of trouping through an old and unsafe house a good thing. And when the Twilight House became part of a current case, and she found herself and Perry pulling up in front of it on the night before Halloween, she was most displeased.
"Perry, what are we doing here?" she exclaimed.
Perry just smiled and shut off the car's engine. "Oh, I thought we could just stop and have a look, as long as we're out this way. I thought you might be curious about this house, Della, since Anabeth Frasier once lived here."
"I'll admit, I have been curious. I love catching her films on the classic movie channels on television, the rare nights I'm home and not at the office. But that's not why we're here. You're really hoping we might run into Martin Rand and you can convince him to give himself up," Della deduced.
"Is that so terrible?" Perry returned.
"No. . . ."
Perry instantly picked up on the hesitancy in his secretary's voice. "What's the matter, Della?" he queried. "Afraid we won't get out again?"
"Well . . ." Della gave him a coy smile. "We really might not. The floor might be completely rotted through."
"I'll test it before I go in," Perry promised. "It might be better for you to wait out here."
Della just gave him a Look. "Stay out here in the dark, with no one else around? Ohh no."
Perry considered that. "Maybe it would be better if we stayed together," he agreed. "This hasn't been a neighborhood filled with crimes, but it isn't the most pleasant part of the Valley."
Della shivered. "That's an understatement."
Perry climbed out of the car. "Remember, Della-this is just an old, vacant house in the middle of Los Angeles County, just like countless other old, vacant houses."
"Except that this old, vacant house ties in with a murder case," Della said.
Martin Rand, the suspect and Perry's possible client, was supposed to have vanished somewhere inside. But when the police had come to investigate, it had been tightly sealed from the outside. No one could have gotten through. They had not been able to gain entry themselves, no matter how hard they had tried. And no matter what they believed, to some degree they were all disturbed by that fact.
Perry started up the walk but soon ground to a halt. "Della," he frowned. "Look."
Della looked. A dark car was parked in the driveway. "What is it?" she wondered in surprise.
"I don't know. My guess is an undercover police car." Perry gently prodded Della forward with a hand on her back. "They're probably around back. You can see the lock is still on the front door."
"Replaced after the police destroyed the old one and still couldn't get in," Della said.
"That was strange," Perry acknowledged.
Even stranger was what happened as they drew near to the porch. As they both watched, stunned and in disbelief, the chain slipped from around the door and the padlock clicked open. The door creaked open on groaning hinges, as though beckoning them to the darkened interior.
Della became aware that she was clutching Perry's upper arm. "Perry!" she hissed in horror.
Perry was frowning at the display. "Maybe you're right, Della," he said. "Maybe this isn't any place for us." He paused. "Although I suppose the lock and chain could have simply been loose. But that wouldn't explain the door."
"No, it wouldn't!" Della exclaimed. "Let's go around to the back and find whoever's here. We can all leave together and never come back."
Perry opened his mouth to respond when a blood-curdling scream cut him off. Again he and Della stared. "That came from inside!" Perry declared.
Now he ran up to the porch, Della right at his heels. "Hello?!" he called. "Hello? Who's there?!"
Della tried to keep her fingers steady as she searched for her phone. "The police must have heard that!" she cried. "But they aren't coming."
Perry stepped into the entryway with Della, beaming his flashlight around the low-hanging cobwebs and blue chandelier. There was nothing at all, no sign that anyone had been there a moment ago. But the scream was still ringing in their ears.
"Della, you go around back and get the police," Perry directed. "Tell them what's happening."
"I can't leave you in this awful place!" Della declared in alarm.
"It'll just be for a few minutes," Perry said. "I'll leave the door open."
The door had other ideas. It swung shut with a wail of finality, locking the two hapless rescuers into their new prison.
Della ran to the door, knocking and banging. "Help!" she screamed. "Let us out of here! We're trapped!"
The only sound was that of the padlock and chain replacing themselves. Della swallowed hard, turning to look at Perry in sickened horror. Perry, frowning deeply, was going to the window.
"Is anyone out there?" Della asked without much hope.
"No," Perry said. "By all appearances, the chain and lock reaffixed themselves. Which is impossible." He stepped away from the window. "The only other possibility is that something else took them away and put them back. Something we can't see."
Della gazed at their vast and eerie surroundings, her stomach only dropping further with each sweep of the old entryway. ". . . You mean this house really might be . . . haunted?" she whispered.
"I'd certainly rather not think it," Perry said. "But it would only be foolish to completely discount the idea. Especially after all we've seen in the past few months."
Della took a few steps forward. "I suppose ghosts should seem mild compared to the rest," she said. "But there's something about this house, Perry. I can't really explain it. It feels so dark and cold and . . ." She shook her head. "Not evil, exactly, but certainly not friendly or welcoming."
Perry looked back to the window, thrusting his flashlight at the glass. It did not so much as budge or even crack, no matter how often he struck it. Frowning, he moved away again. "Well, there's obviously nothing we can do for the moment. Whatever's here has the advantage of us."
He moved over to Della. "Does your phone work in here? Try calling the police and then we'll investigate that horrible scream."
Della took the phone out of her purse and flipped it open. "It says No Signal," she said. Really, she had half-expected it.
"So does mine," Perry remarked. "Alright, let's go. Unless that scream was a trick, someone might need our help."
Della was convinced of it. She walked with Perry down the corridor, looking into each room they passed. Contrary to feeling that they were alone, the house was vibrant and very much alive. Something was watching them. And, it seemed, other living people were there too, possibly allies.
It was strange and unsettling, to feel such sensations. She did not have ESP. She was not psychic. She did not even study a great deal about the paranormal, as Mignon Germaine did. But the house was simply pulsating with energy. As far as she was concerned, there was no possible way to not feel it.
A flashlight suddenly beamed in her eyes. "Della? . . . Perry?"
Della rocked back, stunned. "Lieutenant Tragg?" she asked, shielding her eyes.
The beam was quickly withdrawn. Lieutenant Tragg, accompanied by Hamilton Burger and Sergeant Brice, stepped out of the shadows of a heavy pine-green drape. They looked as surprised to see Perry and Della as Della felt about seeing them.
"Well, when we saw a police car in the driveway, I should have figured it was yours, Lieutenant," Perry said. If he was surprised, he was not showing it.
"And we should have figured that you'd show up sooner or later," Tragg said. "But Perry, I'm surprised at you. This is no place for Della."
"I don't think it's a good place for any of us," Perry returned.
"Are all of you alright?" Della exclaimed. "We came in because we heard some horrible scream."
"We're fine," Hamilton said. "We heard the scream too. We haven't been able to figure out where it came from yet." He frowned. "How did you get in? Someone locked us in and we couldn't even break a window."
"Same here," Perry said. "Something unlocked the door for us, apparently just to entice us inside. Then it locked up after us."
"Why do you say ‘something', Perry?" Tragg asked.
"Because we didn't see anyone," Perry said. "And I was looking out the window when the door was being locked."
"Oh, that's preposterous," Tragg retorted. "Don't tell me you're trying to say the ghost of the house locked us all in."
"Right now, Tragg, I'm not saying anything," Perry said. "Only that I hope you and Hamilton aren't completely opposed to the idea of a ghost."
". . . I suppose ghosts really exist," Hamilton said grudgingly. "Or spirits or something like that. And a year ago you never could have got me to say it. But that doesn't mean they're the explanation for everything strange that happens."
"No, it doesn't," Perry agreed. He looked from Hamilton to the others. "But we'd better consider that for this time at least, it could be a strong possibility."
****
Paul hung up in frustration. "Nothing," he announced. "From either of them."
Steve sighed, easing himself off of his desk. "We haven't been able to get in touch with Lieutenant Tragg and Mr. Burger, either," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, they've been gone too long for comfort. Andy and I are going after them."
"I'll come with you," Paul instantly declared.
"I had a feeling you would," Steve remarked. "But Paul, please don't do anything unnecessarily rash. Leave the crime-fighting to the police."
"I'd be glad to," Paul said. "Unless something unavoidable comes up."
Steve gave a weary nod. "Unless that happens," he agreed.
Paul followed him to the door. "Steve . . ." He hesitated. "You don't really believe those crazy rumors flying around about the place, do you? About the axe murderer and the ghost and people disappearing?"
"Me? Come on, Paul." Steve regarded him in amused amazement.
"I knew it wouldn't sound like you," Paul said.
They stepped into the hall, Steve glancing around for Lieutenant Anderson. Seeing the hall vacant, he continued, "But just because I don't believe in ghosts doesn't mean that someone couldn't be milking the story for all it's worth."
"They must be," Andy said as he abruptly appeared from his office. "Or several someones. It would take more than one person to subdue Lieutenant Tragg and Sergeant Brice and Mr. Burger. And Perry and Della, if they're along for the ride."
Paul blew out his breath in exasperation. "Well, let's get started then. It's probably going to be a long night."
He glanced back at Steve's desk in the office. "Does anyone know where we're going?" he asked, somewhat uneasily. "You know, so that if we don't come back, someone will be around to come looking for us?"
"Sergeant Nichols knows," Steve said, further amused now. "Paul, you really do believe this nonsense."
Paul went red. "I just know that the creep you're after could be holed up there," he said.
"He's just one man," Steve returned. "He couldn't subdue so many people."
". . . Yeah," Paul consented. "You're right, Steve."
"And you call him a ‘creep'," Steve noted. "Does that mean you don't share Mr. Mason's idea that Martin Rand is innocent?"
"I think a lot of his clients are guilty," Paul said. "But Perry doesn't and Perry's usually proven right." He sighed. "I wish I was even half as good with my judgment."
". . . Jimmy knows where we're going too," Andy said as they headed for the exit. "And I can't say he's thrilled about it. Not so much because of the missing person of interest, either. I can't help remembering what you told me about that fake psychic, Lieutenant. The one who said that everyone believes, even just a little."
"He was probably right, too," Steve said, shooting a sideways glance at Paul, who rolled his eyes.
"The stories about that place are just rumors," Paul said. "They have been for years. I don't even know if they ever had any truth to them. I don't think anyone else knows, either."
"One thing I do know is that there's an old cemetery in back of the house," Steve said.
Paul blanched. "It's not just part of the made-up stuff?!"
Steve shook his head. "It belonged to the first owners of the house. It ended up including some of their extended family as well as friends."
". . . And the axe murderer's victims?" Paul asked, his stomach dropping.
"Possibly," Steve admitted. "At least the ones who were never found."
Paul could not refrain from an audible groan. "And Perry and Della and the others are stuck in a place like that? Oh brother."
Steve gave him an entertained look. "There's really nothing to worry about, Paul. Except for one escaped murder suspect."
"And the ghosts, if you believe in them," Andy added.
"Even though I don't, why take chances?" Paul retorted.
Steve chuckled.
"Why, indeed," Andy said.
****
Della was becoming increasingly anxious as she and the others wandered through the extensive ground level of the mansion. The feeling that something unwelcoming was there seemed to grow stronger the longer they lingered, but since they were trapped there was little they could do to appease it.
If not for that sensation, the house would really be quite pleasant. It had been heavily renovated since its early days; although it still bore some resemblance on the inside to the Victorian design on the outside, many rooms had been given a more modern touch. There were even electric lights, despite of course not still being hooked up.
The large kitchen was probably Della's favorite room, with its smooth oak cupboards and island countertop. As soon as they entered, she went to the counter in awe, running her hands over the finished wood.
"Oh, isn't this beautiful?" she exclaimed. "I wouldn't mind having a kitchen like this. In a different house, of course," she hastened to add.
"Of course," Perry smiled.
Hamilton wandered ahead. At the other end of the kitchen was a second door, the kind that could swing on its hinges in either direction. He pushed it open, beaming his flashlight into the back hallway that stretched into the darkness.
"There's another corridor over here," he announced.
Without warning, the room and the hallway were flooded with light. Everyone froze.
"Well," Tragg said at last, being the first to recover, "it seems the electricity was still hooked up after all."
"But we knew it was disconnected, Lieutenant," Sergeant Brice exclaimed. "We looked into all of that information before we came out here."
Tragg sobered. "Yeah. I know."
Della stepped away from the counter and closer to Perry. "What could have caused it to come back on?" she wondered, her voice hushed.
"It could just be that our missing suspect is a skilled electrician and has a generator," Tragg said. "He could have plugged it in just now to give himself some light. And maybe to tease and torment his guests a bit at the same time." He glanced to the back hallway. "Let's not let our imaginations run away with us. Come on; we'll see what's back there."
"I just noticed something, now that we can see properly," Perry spoke, keeping a protective hand on Della's back. "There aren't any cobwebs in here."
Della's eyes widened. "Perry, you're right," she gasped. "The kitchen is spotless!"
Hamilton stared. ". . . Well, obviously Rand must have been out here and doesn't like cobwebs, so he got rid of them." He hurried back to look out at the front hall and the main entrance. "There's still cobwebs in the parlor, Perry. They didn't magically disappear, if that's what you were trying to insinuate."
Perry nodded. "I'm sure you're right, Hamilton." He and Della moved forward to join Tragg and Brice at the back door. "After all, what other explanation could there be?"
"That's right," Tragg nodded, looking back as Hamilton hastened to rejoin the group. "There isn't any other explanation, unless the spiders just didn't like it out here."
"And why wouldn't they," Perry mused as they stepped onto the hall carpet.
"I can't begin to imagine," Tragg declared.
****
Paul, Steve, and Andy were just pulling up across from the mansion when the lights came on. For a moment they stopped and stared, stunned.
"What the . . . where did that come from?!" Paul cried at last.
Steve shook his head. "The electricity was off," he said. "It's been off for years. I can't believe a man as desperate as Martin Rand would dare to call the power company and have them put it back on."
He got out of the car, drawing his gun as he headed for the property. Paul and Andy were right behind him.
"Hey, Steve," Paul called after him. "How do you suggest getting in?"
Steve only barely glanced back. "I did some research on the property. There's supposed to be a secret entrance in the cemetery. We'll take that route and try to give Rand the element of surprise. That could be especially important now." He looked to the two cars parked at the manor. "He might be holding hostages."
Paul swallowed hard. He recognized Perry's convertible all too well.
"You're right," he said. "But what if he already knows we're here? It's kind of a weird coincidence, with the lights snapping on just as we're rolling up."
"It is," Steve frowned. "But unless Rand gives us some irrevocable proof that he knows, I'd rather take my chances that it is an odd coincidence. Anyway, if he knows, he might be expecting us to come through the front door."
Andy nodded. "We have a better chance out back. I doubt Rand even knows about the secret entrance."
"Probably not," Paul agreed.
But a shudder went down his spine anyway. What kind of a place was a cemetery to put a secret passage?
When they reached the backyard and found the iron gate of the burial grounds, Paul's ill feelings did not abate in the least. The place, though small, still managed to be extensive enough for several curving paths and even some statuary. Off in the distance, where it was only a faint shape in the night, was a mausoleum.
"This is just a family cemetery?" he exclaimed. "How many people are buried here?"
Steve grasped the gate, trying to swing it open slowly and carefully enough so as not to disrupt the rusted hinges. He did not quite succeed. A low, squeaking protest echoed through the immediate area.
Andy cringed. ". . . From the plans Steve found, there was enough room for a couple of hundred plots," he said. "And judging from the number of monuments we can see from here, it almost looks like most of them are filled."
"It does, doesn't it," Paul mumbled. He stepped through the gate with the two policemen. "And what if some of those missing axe murderer victims really are in here? Would they get monuments too, with fake names?"
"More likely, they may have been buried in existing graves," Andy said.
Steve nodded. "Forensics teams have been out here several times, without turning up anything conclusive." He headed towards the far corner of the graveyard.
"It's no wonder a place like this might be haunted," Paul muttered as he followed.
Louder he said, "So is the passageway inside the mausoleum?"
"That's what the plans say," Steve replied. "But they unfortunately don't say how to open it."
"So we'll have to make like detectives in the movies and look for the trigger." Paul liked the sound of this less and less. Who knew how long it would take them to find the means of opening the panel? And who knew what was happening to Perry and Della and the rest in the meantime?
"Regrettably, yes," Steve sighed.
"Maybe we'll have some good luck and it won't take long," Andy said. He brushed by an Angel of Grief statue on his right.
Paul started to trail after him but then stopped, squinting at the statue in disbelief. He could have sworn he had seen a movement.
Of course that was insane. If he had seen anything, it could have only been Andy's shadow across the stone.
Or at least, that was what he firmly thought . . . until something cold and hard curled around his wrist as he walked past.
"GAH!"
Both Steve and Andy jumped a mile and spun around, guns drawn. "Paul?!" Steve exclaimed. "What's wrong? You know we can't risk drawing attention to ourselves."
"I know, but this thing doesn't. Or it doesn't care." Paul struggled, pulling in vain at the granite fingers wrapped around his flesh.
"What are you talking about?" Steve came closer. "I know you realize this isn't the time for a joke." But then he saw the problem and his jaw dropped. "Paul, how did you get your hand stuck in there?!"
Andy stared, his eyes wide. "It wasn't holding out its hand," he said. "I know because I just went past it before Paul. Now it's got hold of Paul, while it's still bent over the monument and grieving!" And somehow that was more eerie than if it had risen completely, as though it was still acknowledging its function as an inanimate object while wanting to be more at the same time.
Steve regarded him and the stone hand in disbelief. "Oh, come on," he protested. "Are you trying to tell me the statue deliberately reached out and grabbed Paul?"
"That's exactly what it did," Paul said. "And now I can't get loose!" He placed his foot on the monument and pulled, to no avail. Instead he lost his balance.
Steve and Andy hastened to steady him. "There's no way you can break out of it yourself," Andy noted. "Its fingers are completely wrapped around your wrist!"
Steve frowned. He had to concede to that, at least. However it had gotten that way, it was that way. And Paul was having no luck in prying the fingers off of his arm.
"I could try shooting it," Steve spoke.
"No," Paul retorted. "We can't risk the noise!"
"Well, we can't leave you here like this, either," Steve informed him. "I wouldn't dare."
"Oh, I'd be fine," said Paul, even though he was thoroughly unsure of that. He swallowed his unease. "Just as long as the rest of the statues didn't gang up on me too."
"There has to be a logical explanation for this," Steve insisted. "Maybe there's some sort of electronic device inside the statue's arm, and it either activated or someone activated it when you walked by."
"But why didn't it happen when I walked by?" Andy wondered.
"Who knows. Maybe you didn't hit the trigger. Or maybe whoever might have started it didn't want it to grab a police officer." Steve stepped back, leveling his gun at the stone. "It might even be Rand. Maybe this is the proof he knows we're here."
Paul cringed at the sight of the gun. ". . . If this thing shatters, chunks of granite might fly everywhere. Including into us."
"I'll be as careful as I can. And Paul, try to turn away as much as you can."
"My arm will still be here." Paul's tone was dry as he walked as far ahead as he could while still being held prisoner. At the strain on his arm, he stopped.
In the next instant Steve squeezed the trigger. The bullet flew out and into the arm, severing it. The fingers fell away from Paul's wrist as the stone limb descended to the grass.
Paul scrambled to his friends, his heart racing. "Thanks, Steve. I never want to see another of these statues again as long as I live!" he declared.
"You and me both," Andy exclaimed. The statue seemed completely like a statue now. The loss of half an arm had not seemed to faze it. But Andy did not want to be anywhere near it.
"I always thought these kind were creepy anyway," Paul said.
Steve nodded. "Let's hurry," he said. "Whether Rand heard that or not, we should try to stay quiet from now on."
"You'll get no arguments from me," Paul said. "I just hope the mausoleum doesn't have any other weird surprises!"
Again they resumed their journey, even as a strange and unexplainable fog began to curl around their ankles. Not noticing that, Andy took one last glance at the statue. And his mouth and his stomach plunged.
"Look!" he gasped, gripping Paul's forearm while pointing with his other hand.
"Now what?!" Steve groaned as he and Paul turned. But then they stiffened.
The broken part of the arm was back on the statue, as though nothing had happened at all.
". . . If we were a bunch of kids, right now we'd be running for dear life to get away from that thing," Paul said at last.
"Right now, I'm not so sure that isn't a good idea," Andy said. If only they could run from here altogether. But of course they could not; they had to get into that house. And who knew what other horrors were up ahead.
Also shaken, Steve clutched his gun as he looked away. "Let's walk, very fast, to the mausoleum," he said. "And if anyone has a few prayers, I think we can use them. Heaven help everyone in that house."
"Amen," Paul whispered.
****
The back corridor was eerie and unwelcome. Della shivered and cringed as she and the others walked past the assorted rooms, pausing at each to look for any sign of Martin Rand. While the rooms felt fine in and of themselves, there was an almost tangible feeling of unease in the hallway.
"Perry . . ." Della looked to him in concern. "Do you feel it?"
Perry nodded, not even asking what she meant. "Yes." He kept her close to him as they walked. "Something isn't right."
"It's just our own fears magnifying everything," Hamilton insisted. But his gaze darted from the hall to the rooms in his obvious anxiety. He felt it too. He just did not want to have to admit that there was a chance of it being supernatural.
"The kitchen didn't feel like this," Sergeant Brice declared.
Tragg frowned, looking grim. "No, it didn't," he grunted. "I can't say what it is precisely, but I . . . I almost get the sense that something wants us out, very badly."
"That is what it feels like," Perry agreed. "As though we've blundered into someone else's domain. And I can't say I blame them. I wouldn't like strangers wandering through my apartment."
"But Perry . . ." Hamilton looked to him, his eyes filled with pleading desperation. "Unless we're all feeling Rand's feelings, there's no one else here to want us out." The message in his eyes was clear. Please don't turn this into another supernatural circus. Please let the explanation be normal for once.
Perry just shook his head in genuine regret. "Isn't there, Hamilton?" he said quietly.
Della stepped into a room just ahead, hoping against hope for shelter as well as the finding of the missing Rand. For a moment all was normal and the room felt fine. It was a relief, a breath of fresh air, compared to the hall.
But then the fear began to seep in. She was not welcome here. Something wanted her out, something that she did not understand or recognize. And this something was washing over her, pushing her, increasing her feelings and her panic. It was growing difficult to even breathe. She had to get out. She had to get out now!
She fled the room, running back to Perry. Her mouth was open in what would be a strangled cry, but she could not scream. She could barely even speak. The words would not come.
"Perry!" she choked out at last. A hand flew to her throat.
Everyone spun to look. "Della, what on earth," Tragg exclaimed.
Perry grasped her shoulders. "Della, what is it? What's wrong?" he demanded. "Tell me, please."
Della shook her head, pointing in desperation back at the room. "I . . . I had to leave," she mouthed. "We have to leave. Oh Perry . . . !"
Perry's eyes narrowed. Gently moving Della aside, he strode to the room and looked in. "There's nothing here," he said. "Della . . ."
"Perry, don't go inside," Della pleaded.
"Is Rand in there?" Tragg frowned.
Della could only shake her head.
Perry stepped into the room, standing in its center. At first there was nothing of significance, certainly nothing that should have made Della so terrified and unable to speak. But Perry believed her over the seeming vacancy of the room. He waited.
The feeling started slow. Perry was not one to give in to petty fears, and neither was Della, but this was not his fear or his feeling. This was something else's anger.
Perry opened his mouth. We're not here to cause you any trouble. We'll leave as soon as we've either found Martin Rand or established that he isn't here.
That was what he wanted to say. He tried to say it, but his voice was stopped. Chilled, he tried to move towards the door. Instead he was frozen in place.
"Perry!"
It was Della's sudden cry that seemed to break the spell. Perry gasped, tearing free of the spot and the room. He stumbled forward to the doorway, all too relieved to exit the unfriendly space.
"Perry, what in the name of . . ." Hamilton was staring, as was everyone else.
Della took hold of Perry's arm, to both steady him and lead him away from the room's entrance. Alarm flickered in her eyes.
". . . I think you're right, Della," Perry managed to say. "We have to leave. The problem is, this house won't let us go."
"The house?" Hamilton regarded him in disbelief. "Perry, you're talking nonsense!"
Perry stood up straight, finally catching his breath. "I know," he said. "I didn't mean it literally, of course. I meant something in the house."
Della watched Perry, her eyes filled with worry as he continued.
"It doesn't want us to be in some of the rooms, or in here at all, but it won't let us leave, either." Perry coughed and shook the cobwebs from his mind. "It's a paradox."
"That's putting it mildly," Tragg frowned. "And this is the strangest back hallway I've seen. Up ahead it gets wide enough to be in an auditorium!"
"Not only that, there's a stage," Brice exclaimed.
All eyes turned to him. "A stage?!" Tragg peered at him. "What are you talking about, Sergeant?"
"Exactly that, Lieutenant," Brice said. "There's a couple of heavy red curtains over there on the left. I went over and looked through them and I found a stage with seats below! A lot of them too."
Tragg shook his head. "That doesn't make sense," he said. "What would a stage be doing in a private residence?"
"Maybe the owners enjoyed private plays the same way people enjoy home theatres today," Perry suggested. "It could have even been Anabeth Frasier who ordered its installation. Why don't we take a look?"
"I guess we might as well, as long as we're stuck here," Hamilton frowned. "We haven't seen any sign of Rand yet, either."
"There's a staircase up there too," Brice said, nodding to the hallway. "It's right in that niche to the left, before the hall widens out. It looks pretty rickety, though. I'm not sure we should chance it."
"It must be the back stairs," Tragg mused, "since there's a much bigger staircase in the front hall. I suppose they both lead to the same place."
"Probably so, Lieutenant. And the back stairs are right across from a wide arch." Brice gestured as they started to walk.
"You must have gone out pretty far ahead, Sergeant," Hamilton remarked.
"I didn't realize I was alone until I found the stage," Brice admitted. "I thought everyone else was still right with me."
"It would have been better if we had been," Perry said.
Della kept a close grip on his arm. "Perry, you felt it too, didn't you?" she whispered with urgency. "That horrible, suffocating feeling in that room."
Perry nodded. "Yes, Della, I did. But I'm not sure how or why. The only thing that's clear is that whatever was in there didn't want either of us in there."
"I take it back about this house not being evil," Della fretted. "With the way we're being treated, it would have to be! It's no wonder Anabeth left this place and wouldn't ever say why."
Perry was preempted from replying as they arrived at the back stairs and the arch. The stairs, made of old and rotting wood, did indeed look rickety-to say the least. The arch, meanwhile, opened onto a small, square platform with three wrap-around steps to the bottom. A large den with a fireplace and matching green furniture greeted them there.
Tragg stood at the foot of the stairs and gripped the banister as he looked up. The staircase spiraled around, and instead of being enclosed by walls it was free and clear. Once on the steps, one could look over the edge of the railing and see how far it was possible to drop.
"Well, that's pleasant," he muttered with dripping sarcasm.
He placed a cautious foot on the bottom stair. It shifted under his weight but did not break. Nevertheless, he stepped back. "We'll have to go upstairs when we're finished here, but there's no sense taking that route," he declared.
Brice nodded. "I thought so, Sir." He walked ahead, leading the others past the arch and into the wide part of the corridor.
Della was again chilled as they followed. She pulled her coat closer around her. They were passing a bust of a Roman Caesar, and as Brice went by she could swear the statue's eyes followed his movements.
She swallowed hard. It had to be the lighting; there was no way it could be anything else. Statues did not have eyes. Houses could not be unfriendly. None of this was possible.
First Tragg and then Hamilton walked past. Again the eyes moved. This time Della knew it was real. "Perry!" she hissed in horror.
Perry was already studying the bust, a deep frown crossing his features. "It could be a trick," he murmured, "a set-up to scare away intruders. The house is modern enough that such technology isn't impossible."
"I'm afraid it's not a trick, Perry," Della moaned.
Her jaw dropped as Perry drew his arm free and walked right up to the offending bust. He stared it straight in its pupil-less eyes before peering around it and feeling his way down the base. "I don't see any wires or secret doors," he said.
"Perry, come away!" Della cried, hurrying over to grab his arm.
The others stopped and turned back. "What's going on?" Tragg demanded.
"This statue is watching us!" Della told him. "Now Perry's trying to figure it out logically!"
"Only I can't," Perry said. "And it isn't looking at us now. Come on." He went with Della back to the group, which had halted by the red curtains.
"Mysterious screams, evil rooms, watchful statues . . ." Hamilton was muttering under his breath. "Is anything even halfway normal around here?!"
Tragg gave him a crooked and grim smile. "Nope."
Brice gathered one of the curtains, pushing it back to reveal the area beyond it. "See, Lieutenant, here's the stage," he announced.
Tragg turned his attention to it. He stepped forward, wandering onto the empty stage and looking out at the equally empty audience. "Well, I'll be . . . if this isn't the darnedest thing." He ambled back, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Rand isn't around there, either. It couldn't have been built that long ago; it still looks in good condition, unlike those stairs. That means Miss Frasier couldn't have had anything to do with its construction," he added with a glance to Perry and Della. "She abandoned this place over sixty years ago."
"I wonder what was in this spot when she lived here," Della mused.
She, Perry, and Hamilton studied the stage room as well, baffled and amazed. When they turned away, the amount of questions they had had multiplied.
"Strange," Perry commented. "It looks like we're almost at the end of the hall, too. I don't see any other rooms beyond the stage, just some artificial plants, a painting, and a mirror." He glanced back the other way. "Let's go into that den. Maybe from there we can get back to the front hall and go up to the second floor."
"I'm game," Hamilton said. "We must've gone over almost all of the first floor by now."
"Is there a basement?" Perry suddenly asked.
"Yes, actually, there is," said Tragg. "We were down there before you and Della arrived."
"What's its condition?" Perry wondered. They turned, walking back towards the arch.
"Oh . . . about the same as the first floor," Tragg said. "Fully furnished, lots of rooms, and err . . . odd, unexplained happenings."
"Is there anything as horrible as that statue or that room?" Della queried with a shiver.
"Not really, I don't think," Tragg said. "It's more subtle down there, but like it or not, there's a definite feeling that something's there, too. It followed us through some of the rooms."
Hamilton let out an exasperated sigh. He did not want to concede to that. But on the other hand, he did not believe that he and Tragg and Brice had all foolishly given into fear and the sensation had manifested through that. And what did that leave, other than an actual presence?
"And there was still no sign of Martin Rand," Perry said, breaking into Hamilton's thoughts.
"No, there wasn't," Hamilton told him. "I don't know, Perry. Maybe he's not even here. Maybe he never was here."
"If he was here, I'm afraid he still is," Perry said. "I can't imagine that he would be set free when we haven't been."
"Unless you want to say he made a pact with the ghosts and they'd let him go while detaining all of us," Hamilton said sardonically.
Perry smiled. "I'd rather not say it."
As they reached the arch, he passed under it and down the steps into the den. The others swiftly followed and spread out over the large room, studying its arrangements and flaws before determining the space was of little consequence.
The den was open, leading into other rooms as well as another hall. The connecting dining room and kitchen, which were also partially open, were visible up ahead. To the side was another hall and probably some bedrooms.
"Where's the basement door?" Perry wondered.
"Oh, it's under the main stairs," Tragg shrugged.
"Have you explored these rooms down here?" Perry nodded towards the new hallway.
"No, we haven't," said Tragg.
The rooms were indeed mostly bedrooms, decorated in a variety of styles and themes. One of the most striking was a young girl's room dressed in pink and white. It made Della sadder than any of the others. "I wonder what happened to her." She stepped onto the pink carpet and reached over, touching the doll's auburn head.
An uncomfortable feeling rushed over her. She whirled, her eyes widening. "Who's here?!"
There was nothing visibly standing behind her. Perry looked through the doorway. "Maybe the doll's owner hasn't left. Maybe she doesn't want to. Come on, Della."
Della bit her lip. "Are you here?" she said softly. "I'm sorry for barging in. I didn't mean to be rude."
The discomfort eased. Reluctantly Della turned away, returning to the corridor. "It doesn't feel horrible in there," she said. "Just as though I was intruding. But when I said I was sorry, it felt like it was alright."
Tragg sighed. "Well, I suppose there could be ghosts of all kinds lurking around here."
Hamilton cringed. His hopes for no ghosts had been steadily plummeting ever since they had wandered into the back hall. Across this hall and down a ways was another bedroom. Curious, he moved to the doorway and looked inside.
"An older girl had this room," he noted, looking at the pictures of music stars on the blue walls and the tape deck and CD player on the shelf.
"Recently, too," Tragg grunted as he wandered over.
Not feeling anything there, they walked to the end of the hall and stopped.
"Rand is still being elusive," Tragg said. "Let's find our way back to the main hall and go up to the second floor."
"We might as well. We've exhausted this one," Hamilton sighed.
Della took out her phone and studied the screen. "I still can't raise a signal," she berated.
"And the windows are unbreakable in this section of the house too," said Perry. "Something is still determined to keep us here."
"But why, Perry?!" Hamilton burst out. "Just tell me that. Why?!"
"I wish I could." As they walked back up the hall, Perry glanced into the rooms once more. "I doubt it could be for any good purpose."
Della looked at the pink room. "Oh, but this little girl couldn't be part of it," she objected.
"Probably not," Perry conceded. "But then again, who's to say?"
Brice kept silent, as usual, and uneasily examined their surroundings. ". . . I wonder why it only feels like a presence in some of the rooms," he said at last.
"Maybe they just stay in their domains," Hamilton muttered with sarcasm.
"No, that's a good point, Hamilton," Perry said. "The child stays in her room, the unknown and ugly being in its. And as long as we don't cross those thresholds, they don't bother us."
"But it isn't just individual rooms where we've felt something," Tragg said. "That whole back hallway feels strange to some degree."
"This whole house feels strange to some degree," Hamilton retorted.
Perry half-smiled. "Unfortunately, it does," he said.
****
The mausoleum was dark and cold. And large; the three flashlight beams did not go far in covering its interior.
"There aren't any angel statues in here, I hope," Paul worried.
"I don't see any," Andy tried to assure him. "Just lots of pottery."
Paul eyed some in discomfort. "They're probably all urns. And in this happy house, that's probably not much better."
Steve stepped forward, looking towards the back of the structure. "The secret panel is supposedly in that wall," he noted. "If it really exists and didn't only make it to the blueprint stage." He walked over, feeling across the wall for the lever.
Paul and Andy joined him. But after ages of fruitless searching, it seemed hopeless.
"We've gone over this wall with a fine-toothed comb, and nothing!" Paul stepped back, throwing up his hands in frustration. "Steve, this trigger has to be somewhere else, if it's here at all. Uhoh."
Both Steve and Andy spun around. "What is it?!" Steve exclaimed.
But at the same moment he spoke, they saw Paul had backed into a pedestal, causing the urn resting on top of it to wobble dangerously. Paul dove to rescue it from smashing to the floor, cringing in alarm all the while. But as he righted it and adjusted its position, it seemed to click down into place. The wall creaked and groaned, the rusted gears squealing as the sought-after panel slid open. All three men stared in amazement.
"Paul, you did it!" Andy declared.
"I did? . . . Hey, I did!" Breaking out of his trance, Paul hurried forward. "We should've thought they'd do something macabre like that. And we'd better get in there before it closes up again!"
"I bet it does. They probably used this to keep it open." Steve held up a scuffed piece of wood he had found on the floor. He set it in place in the doorway before stepping over it into the unknown. "Let's go."
Paul and Andy followed him in, shining their flashlights along the winding stone steps. Their footsteps echoed eerily in the chamber.
"This had better not lead to an ossuary," Paul grumbled.
"It's supposed to go under the cemetery and come out on a path behind the basement wall," Steve said. "And there's secret panels and stairs and pathways on each level of the house."
"So it's a network of secret passageways snaking all over the house," Paul remarked. "It sounds perfect for spies."
"It probably was," Steve said with a smirk.
"And we don't know what level Perry and the rest are on," Paul continued. "We'll have to check them all."
"Yes, unfortunately," Andy nodded.
They reached the bottom of the steps and started down the only path. It was long and dark and utterly devoid of life. There was not so much as a cobweb. In such a place, it was impossible to forget that on either side of their road, somewhere beyond the walls, lay the dead. Paul could not take a full breath until they passed through the opposite end of the tunnel and emerged in the basement. From there it did not take long to find the way out of the passageway and into the main part of the floor.
"Well, isn't this cozy," Paul grunted as they stepped into an extensive laundry room. It was open to the rooms beyond, as well as unfinished in general. Above them, the ceiling beams were visible instead of plaster. An unpainted wooden support beam stood from the ceiling to the floor where the room made a sharp corner turn.
Steve walked through the opening and into the arched hallway. "The whole basement seems half-finished," he said. "Unless this is a new style." He wandered around another random wooden beam.
"Not only that, it seems we're not alone." Andy was tense as he followed Steve. "There's something down here."
"And nobody around," Paul finished. From their location, they could see the great majority of the largest room in the basement. Paul hurried to stay close to the two policemen. "Hoo boy. I am not looking forward to this."
****
As soon as Perry set foot on the second-story landing, he knew something was wrong. There was a chill and an unwelcome air unlike anything he had felt on the first floor, even in the room that had horrified Della. And as everyone else came up behind him, it became obvious that all of them felt it too.
"Something doesn't feel right here," Tragg frowned. "And I suppose that sounds cliché after what we just saw and felt, but . . ."
"No, Tragg," Perry interrupted. "You're right. Something isn't right."
Della swallowed hard. "Perry, I don't think we should even be up here. Maybe we should find the stairs to the third floor and just immediately try there."
"I'd agree, if not for the problem of Martin Rand's disappearance," Perry returned. "We have to check everywhere."
"I can't imagine he'd want to stay up here, either," Hamilton muttered.
Della looked to him in some surprise. "Then you feel it too, Mr. Burger?"
Hamilton sighed in exasperation while shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yes, Miss Street, I feel something. Whether it's exactly what you're feeling or not, I couldn't say."
Tragg slipped around them and into the long corridor. "Well, since Perry's right and we have to check everywhere for Rand, we might as well get started." He glanced to the right-hand corner next to the landing. "There's another child's room here. I see a rocking horse and a bookcase of kids' books."
Brice came up beside him. ". . . That horse is moving," he gasped.
Tragg started, looking to it point-blank. "I don't see a thing," he grunted. "Your imagination is running away with you, Sergeant."
Brice frowned. "I could've sworn I saw it." But if it had been moving, it was silent and still now, just as it should be.
Della tried to push back the feeling of dread as she crossed the hall and opened one of the few closed doors. "This is a bathroom," she said in amazement. "But it's fancier than hardly any I've ever seen."
Perry came up behind her and curiously peered into the bright room. It was indeed impressive. The floor was carpeted in white, and it was wide enough and long enough that there was another door at the opposite end of the room.
"It's larger than some people's living rooms," he said. "Even my own." He eyed the regular white bathtub and the modern pink Jacuzzi on the other side of the room.
Della took several steps inside and turned to look at the large mirror and long counter. The latter took up the great majority of the wall.
"I have to admit, I wouldn't mind having a bathroom as lovely as this," she said as she examined her reflection in the mirror.
"It would be extravagant," Perry remarked.
"It would be luxurious. I bet that hot tub feels absolutely wonderful after a long day at work." Della moved to the other door. "I wonder where this leads," she mused. "How strange-it's a swinging door, like the one in the kitchen." She demonstrated by moving it back and forth.
"Not very private," said Perry. "Is there a way to latch it?"
"Yes, thankfully," Della said. She stepped through it, allowing it to drift shut behind her.
Now she was standing in another part of the corridor. Amazed, she looked at the ceiling above her and then back at the rooms stretching before her.
"Maybe we were wrong about this floor, Perry," she said. "I don't feel anything amiss here."
But the ensuing silence chilled her. She whirled, stunned. "Perry?!" she called. "Perry, where are you?! I thought you were right behind me."
She reached for the swinging door and pushed it back. There was no bathroom on the other side, only an empty and nondescript room. Worse, there was no Perry.
"Perry?!" Della cried. She ran into the room, her heart racing. She had just come out of here! Where was the mirror? The hot tub? Perry?
"Perry, this isn't funny," she declared, her hands going to her hips.
Even as she spoke, however, she knew all too well that Perry wouldn't find it funny, either. This was not his doing. He would not even be capable of changing the room.
Della ran out the first door, desperately praying to find Perry and the others in the corridor, unaware that anything was wrong.
But she soon ground to a standstill. The world beyond the first door was just as foreign as what she had found through the swinging door. This was not near the second-story landing, as it should be. She had no idea what it was near. She did not recognize the rooms in the least.
And there was no Perry, no Hamilton, no Lieutenant Tragg and Sergeant Brice.
There was absolutely no one.
Della was all alone.
****
"Della?! Della, for Heaven's sake. Where are you?"
Perry leaned out of the swinging door, staring at the corridor beyond. Della could not have vanished so quickly. And if she had disappeared into one of the rooms, she would come if she heard Perry calling her.
Horror and alarm struck him hard. He had been too lax after feeling that this floor was worse than the ground level. Now Della was somehow, unbelievably lost.
"Perry?!"
He turned, facing a bewildered Hamilton. "What's going on? Where's Della?"
"That's what I want to know!" Perry retorted. "She walked through here just a moment ago and now I can't find a trace of her!"
"What?!" Hamilton gaped at him. "That's impossible." Ordinarily he would have laughed in amusement, but in this house there was nothing to laugh about. Purposely he crossed the room, peering through the open doorway with Perry.
"You see, Hamilton?" Perry walked out, standing in the hall. "Della isn't here."
Hamilton followed him out. "She has to be in one of the rooms," he insisted. "Maybe Rand is hiding in one of them and knocked her out."
"He wouldn't hurt her," Perry retorted.
"If he's what you say he is," Hamilton replied. "You're not right about people all the time, Perry, even if sometimes it seems like it. . . ." He trailed off, sounding occupied as he looked into the first room on his left.
"What is it?" Perry barked, hurrying after him.
"Nothing," Hamilton frowned. He stepped into the bedroom. "See for yourself. Della certainly isn't in here. It doesn't look like anyone's been in here for decades. That's funny, though; there's no dust."
Perry only took a cursory glance before striding on to the next room. Behind him he could hear Hamilton scrambling to catch up, and farther back, Tragg and Brice discussing the child's room near the landing, but he only barely paid attention to any of them.
No matter what, no matter how long it took, he had to find Della.
A chill went up his spine. Suppose . . . just suppose . . . he was wrong about Martin Rand. Maybe he would take Della, as a shield. Maybe he had.
Or maybe the explanation was even worse and much harder to believe.
I should have listened to my instincts, he berated.
Hamilton was definitely right-Perry was not correct all the time. Now he had made just about the worst possible blunder he could have.
"Della, where are you?" he called in desperation.
There was no answer.
****
Tragg frowned as he heard Perry and Hamilton conversing down the hall. "Something's gone wrong," he realized, leaning out of the child's room. In his hand he was holding Martin Rand's identification card, which had somehow gotten onto the floor in the room. Having determined it required a more thorough search than he had originally given it, he had been looking for any other traces of the missing man. Brice had quickly followed him. Now it sounded as though they were needed elsewhere.
"Miss Street isn't with them," Brice exclaimed in worry. "They're looking for her."
"Then let's get going," Tragg said. "As soon as we check the closet. That's the last place in here."
". . . Lieutenant?"
"What?"
But Tragg's demanded query vanished as an ominous creaking sound became audible. He turned, following Brice's gaze to the rocking horse near the bookcase. It was moving by itself, faster and faster.
"I knew I thought it was moving, Lieutenant!" Brice cried. Several times during the search he had caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, but he had tried to convince himself it was only his imagination. There was no mistaking it now.
"So you did." Half transfixed by the motion, Tragg reached over to take hold of the toy and bring it to a halt. Instead a book flew right at him. He grabbed it just in time. "What the . . ."
A second book launched itself at Brice. He ducked, but instead of the book hitting the wall or the floor, it hovered in the air and came back at him.
Then the entire bookcase, as it were, had become filled with ammunition. Volumes flew one right after another, pelting the alarmed and bewildered policemen even as they fought to shield themselves from the onslaught.
"Now, see here!" Tragg yelled. "What's the meaning of this? Stop it!"
"They're probably not going to stop until we get out of this room!" Brice proclaimed.
"Well, they'll just have to wait a moment," Tragg growled. "We're looking in that closet, and no tornado of kids' books is going to stop us!"
Another book glanced off his hat as he spoke. It struck the closet doorknob and from there was airborne again, but this time due to another force. Both Tragg and Brice stared.
"It was blasted back," Tragg said in disbelief. "That doorknob is charged with electricity!"
"Rand couldn't have gone in there," Brice declared. "And who knows. Maybe whatever's in here has been trying to keep us from getting electrocuted with that doorknob." He gripped Tragg's shoulder. "Let's go, Lieutenant. We should try to help find Miss Street."
Tragg was still staring at the sparks flying from the metal knob. But at Brice's words he snapped back to himself. "Yeah," he said. "Let's do that." He allowed Brice to steer him around the pile of books on the floor and out of the room.
As they stepped into the hall, Tragg glanced back. The bookcase was already full. Not one book remained on the floor.
He shook his head. The rules of logic did not exist here. And by now he should have realized and accepted that.
He hurried ahead, Brice in tow.
Title: The Case of the Man-Eating House
Entry Number: 11
Author: insaneladybug/Lucky_Ladybug
Fandom: Perry Mason
Rating: T/PG-13 (overall creepiness, evil houses and malignant spirits, scary situations)
Genre: Supernatural/Horror
Spoiler Warnings: None
Word Count: 16,076 overall. For this half, 9,824.
Perry Mason
The Case of the Man-Eating House
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! I leave my usual notation that the time period is the present day, since time period is not critical to the series and I prefer it this way. This is my Halloween piece for 2012, inspired by dreams, Halloween merchandise, and the Livejournal community OctoberWriting. Also involved is the 2012 theme at OctoberWriting, Film Noir. The story title is based on an episode of The Wild Wild West (which guest-starred William Talman, by the way!), and I've included several in-jokes to the episode in the story. The house is a combination of two different re-envisionings of our house that I've dreamed about repeatedly and strangely, complete with many of the bizarre and eerie feelings and happenings that occur in said dreams (and a little extra, for story purposes). I leave a disclaimer that, thankfully, our much smaller house in reality does not feature any of the eerie feelings and happenings! . . . Well, except for lights occasionally flipping on when no one's around to turn them on. Hmm.
In a city as large as Los Angeles, there were, of course, many ghost stories. The kids in each neighborhood and subdivision had their own collection of spooky, scary, macabre tales. Throughout the year, but especially as Autumn rolled around, they dared each other to enter assorted haunted houses and other buildings. These ventures were met with varying levels of success and terror.
One mansion that everyone seemed to avoid with collective fright was the Twilight House, which had once belonged to a glamorous actress of the classic film noir era. As if it wasn't unsettling enough for it to be the one home left on a street of vacant properties, rumors had started to circulate that anyone who journeyed into its long-vacant halls never came out. After all, the kids insisted, the last known owner of the house had become a recluse and never emerged in the last years of his life.
It only fueled the stories when it was learned that said last owner was an axe murderer.
Naturally, Della had never believed the silly stories. But she was also not about to find the thought of trouping through an old and unsafe house a good thing. And when the Twilight House became part of a current case, and she found herself and Perry pulling up in front of it on the night before Halloween, she was most displeased.
"Perry, what are we doing here?" she exclaimed.
Perry just smiled and shut off the car's engine. "Oh, I thought we could just stop and have a look, as long as we're out this way. I thought you might be curious about this house, Della, since Anabeth Frasier once lived here."
"I'll admit, I have been curious. I love catching her films on the classic movie channels on television, the rare nights I'm home and not at the office. But that's not why we're here. You're really hoping we might run into Martin Rand and you can convince him to give himself up," Della deduced.
"Is that so terrible?" Perry returned.
"No. . . ."
Perry instantly picked up on the hesitancy in his secretary's voice. "What's the matter, Della?" he queried. "Afraid we won't get out again?"
"Well . . ." Della gave him a coy smile. "We really might not. The floor might be completely rotted through."
"I'll test it before I go in," Perry promised. "It might be better for you to wait out here."
Della just gave him a Look. "Stay out here in the dark, with no one else around? Ohh no."
Perry considered that. "Maybe it would be better if we stayed together," he agreed. "This hasn't been a neighborhood filled with crimes, but it isn't the most pleasant part of the Valley."
Della shivered. "That's an understatement."
Perry climbed out of the car. "Remember, Della-this is just an old, vacant house in the middle of Los Angeles County, just like countless other old, vacant houses."
"Except that this old, vacant house ties in with a murder case," Della said.
Martin Rand, the suspect and Perry's possible client, was supposed to have vanished somewhere inside. But when the police had come to investigate, it had been tightly sealed from the outside. No one could have gotten through. They had not been able to gain entry themselves, no matter how hard they had tried. And no matter what they believed, to some degree they were all disturbed by that fact.
Perry started up the walk but soon ground to a halt. "Della," he frowned. "Look."
Della looked. A dark car was parked in the driveway. "What is it?" she wondered in surprise.
"I don't know. My guess is an undercover police car." Perry gently prodded Della forward with a hand on her back. "They're probably around back. You can see the lock is still on the front door."
"Replaced after the police destroyed the old one and still couldn't get in," Della said.
"That was strange," Perry acknowledged.
Even stranger was what happened as they drew near to the porch. As they both watched, stunned and in disbelief, the chain slipped from around the door and the padlock clicked open. The door creaked open on groaning hinges, as though beckoning them to the darkened interior.
Della became aware that she was clutching Perry's upper arm. "Perry!" she hissed in horror.
Perry was frowning at the display. "Maybe you're right, Della," he said. "Maybe this isn't any place for us." He paused. "Although I suppose the lock and chain could have simply been loose. But that wouldn't explain the door."
"No, it wouldn't!" Della exclaimed. "Let's go around to the back and find whoever's here. We can all leave together and never come back."
Perry opened his mouth to respond when a blood-curdling scream cut him off. Again he and Della stared. "That came from inside!" Perry declared.
Now he ran up to the porch, Della right at his heels. "Hello?!" he called. "Hello? Who's there?!"
Della tried to keep her fingers steady as she searched for her phone. "The police must have heard that!" she cried. "But they aren't coming."
Perry stepped into the entryway with Della, beaming his flashlight around the low-hanging cobwebs and blue chandelier. There was nothing at all, no sign that anyone had been there a moment ago. But the scream was still ringing in their ears.
"Della, you go around back and get the police," Perry directed. "Tell them what's happening."
"I can't leave you in this awful place!" Della declared in alarm.
"It'll just be for a few minutes," Perry said. "I'll leave the door open."
The door had other ideas. It swung shut with a wail of finality, locking the two hapless rescuers into their new prison.
Della ran to the door, knocking and banging. "Help!" she screamed. "Let us out of here! We're trapped!"
The only sound was that of the padlock and chain replacing themselves. Della swallowed hard, turning to look at Perry in sickened horror. Perry, frowning deeply, was going to the window.
"Is anyone out there?" Della asked without much hope.
"No," Perry said. "By all appearances, the chain and lock reaffixed themselves. Which is impossible." He stepped away from the window. "The only other possibility is that something else took them away and put them back. Something we can't see."
Della gazed at their vast and eerie surroundings, her stomach only dropping further with each sweep of the old entryway. ". . . You mean this house really might be . . . haunted?" she whispered.
"I'd certainly rather not think it," Perry said. "But it would only be foolish to completely discount the idea. Especially after all we've seen in the past few months."
Della took a few steps forward. "I suppose ghosts should seem mild compared to the rest," she said. "But there's something about this house, Perry. I can't really explain it. It feels so dark and cold and . . ." She shook her head. "Not evil, exactly, but certainly not friendly or welcoming."
Perry looked back to the window, thrusting his flashlight at the glass. It did not so much as budge or even crack, no matter how often he struck it. Frowning, he moved away again. "Well, there's obviously nothing we can do for the moment. Whatever's here has the advantage of us."
He moved over to Della. "Does your phone work in here? Try calling the police and then we'll investigate that horrible scream."
Della took the phone out of her purse and flipped it open. "It says No Signal," she said. Really, she had half-expected it.
"So does mine," Perry remarked. "Alright, let's go. Unless that scream was a trick, someone might need our help."
Della was convinced of it. She walked with Perry down the corridor, looking into each room they passed. Contrary to feeling that they were alone, the house was vibrant and very much alive. Something was watching them. And, it seemed, other living people were there too, possibly allies.
It was strange and unsettling, to feel such sensations. She did not have ESP. She was not psychic. She did not even study a great deal about the paranormal, as Mignon Germaine did. But the house was simply pulsating with energy. As far as she was concerned, there was no possible way to not feel it.
A flashlight suddenly beamed in her eyes. "Della? . . . Perry?"
Della rocked back, stunned. "Lieutenant Tragg?" she asked, shielding her eyes.
The beam was quickly withdrawn. Lieutenant Tragg, accompanied by Hamilton Burger and Sergeant Brice, stepped out of the shadows of a heavy pine-green drape. They looked as surprised to see Perry and Della as Della felt about seeing them.
"Well, when we saw a police car in the driveway, I should have figured it was yours, Lieutenant," Perry said. If he was surprised, he was not showing it.
"And we should have figured that you'd show up sooner or later," Tragg said. "But Perry, I'm surprised at you. This is no place for Della."
"I don't think it's a good place for any of us," Perry returned.
"Are all of you alright?" Della exclaimed. "We came in because we heard some horrible scream."
"We're fine," Hamilton said. "We heard the scream too. We haven't been able to figure out where it came from yet." He frowned. "How did you get in? Someone locked us in and we couldn't even break a window."
"Same here," Perry said. "Something unlocked the door for us, apparently just to entice us inside. Then it locked up after us."
"Why do you say ‘something', Perry?" Tragg asked.
"Because we didn't see anyone," Perry said. "And I was looking out the window when the door was being locked."
"Oh, that's preposterous," Tragg retorted. "Don't tell me you're trying to say the ghost of the house locked us all in."
"Right now, Tragg, I'm not saying anything," Perry said. "Only that I hope you and Hamilton aren't completely opposed to the idea of a ghost."
". . . I suppose ghosts really exist," Hamilton said grudgingly. "Or spirits or something like that. And a year ago you never could have got me to say it. But that doesn't mean they're the explanation for everything strange that happens."
"No, it doesn't," Perry agreed. He looked from Hamilton to the others. "But we'd better consider that for this time at least, it could be a strong possibility."
****
Paul hung up in frustration. "Nothing," he announced. "From either of them."
Steve sighed, easing himself off of his desk. "We haven't been able to get in touch with Lieutenant Tragg and Mr. Burger, either," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, they've been gone too long for comfort. Andy and I are going after them."
"I'll come with you," Paul instantly declared.
"I had a feeling you would," Steve remarked. "But Paul, please don't do anything unnecessarily rash. Leave the crime-fighting to the police."
"I'd be glad to," Paul said. "Unless something unavoidable comes up."
Steve gave a weary nod. "Unless that happens," he agreed.
Paul followed him to the door. "Steve . . ." He hesitated. "You don't really believe those crazy rumors flying around about the place, do you? About the axe murderer and the ghost and people disappearing?"
"Me? Come on, Paul." Steve regarded him in amused amazement.
"I knew it wouldn't sound like you," Paul said.
They stepped into the hall, Steve glancing around for Lieutenant Anderson. Seeing the hall vacant, he continued, "But just because I don't believe in ghosts doesn't mean that someone couldn't be milking the story for all it's worth."
"They must be," Andy said as he abruptly appeared from his office. "Or several someones. It would take more than one person to subdue Lieutenant Tragg and Sergeant Brice and Mr. Burger. And Perry and Della, if they're along for the ride."
Paul blew out his breath in exasperation. "Well, let's get started then. It's probably going to be a long night."
He glanced back at Steve's desk in the office. "Does anyone know where we're going?" he asked, somewhat uneasily. "You know, so that if we don't come back, someone will be around to come looking for us?"
"Sergeant Nichols knows," Steve said, further amused now. "Paul, you really do believe this nonsense."
Paul went red. "I just know that the creep you're after could be holed up there," he said.
"He's just one man," Steve returned. "He couldn't subdue so many people."
". . . Yeah," Paul consented. "You're right, Steve."
"And you call him a ‘creep'," Steve noted. "Does that mean you don't share Mr. Mason's idea that Martin Rand is innocent?"
"I think a lot of his clients are guilty," Paul said. "But Perry doesn't and Perry's usually proven right." He sighed. "I wish I was even half as good with my judgment."
". . . Jimmy knows where we're going too," Andy said as they headed for the exit. "And I can't say he's thrilled about it. Not so much because of the missing person of interest, either. I can't help remembering what you told me about that fake psychic, Lieutenant. The one who said that everyone believes, even just a little."
"He was probably right, too," Steve said, shooting a sideways glance at Paul, who rolled his eyes.
"The stories about that place are just rumors," Paul said. "They have been for years. I don't even know if they ever had any truth to them. I don't think anyone else knows, either."
"One thing I do know is that there's an old cemetery in back of the house," Steve said.
Paul blanched. "It's not just part of the made-up stuff?!"
Steve shook his head. "It belonged to the first owners of the house. It ended up including some of their extended family as well as friends."
". . . And the axe murderer's victims?" Paul asked, his stomach dropping.
"Possibly," Steve admitted. "At least the ones who were never found."
Paul could not refrain from an audible groan. "And Perry and Della and the others are stuck in a place like that? Oh brother."
Steve gave him an entertained look. "There's really nothing to worry about, Paul. Except for one escaped murder suspect."
"And the ghosts, if you believe in them," Andy added.
"Even though I don't, why take chances?" Paul retorted.
Steve chuckled.
"Why, indeed," Andy said.
****
Della was becoming increasingly anxious as she and the others wandered through the extensive ground level of the mansion. The feeling that something unwelcoming was there seemed to grow stronger the longer they lingered, but since they were trapped there was little they could do to appease it.
If not for that sensation, the house would really be quite pleasant. It had been heavily renovated since its early days; although it still bore some resemblance on the inside to the Victorian design on the outside, many rooms had been given a more modern touch. There were even electric lights, despite of course not still being hooked up.
The large kitchen was probably Della's favorite room, with its smooth oak cupboards and island countertop. As soon as they entered, she went to the counter in awe, running her hands over the finished wood.
"Oh, isn't this beautiful?" she exclaimed. "I wouldn't mind having a kitchen like this. In a different house, of course," she hastened to add.
"Of course," Perry smiled.
Hamilton wandered ahead. At the other end of the kitchen was a second door, the kind that could swing on its hinges in either direction. He pushed it open, beaming his flashlight into the back hallway that stretched into the darkness.
"There's another corridor over here," he announced.
Without warning, the room and the hallway were flooded with light. Everyone froze.
"Well," Tragg said at last, being the first to recover, "it seems the electricity was still hooked up after all."
"But we knew it was disconnected, Lieutenant," Sergeant Brice exclaimed. "We looked into all of that information before we came out here."
Tragg sobered. "Yeah. I know."
Della stepped away from the counter and closer to Perry. "What could have caused it to come back on?" she wondered, her voice hushed.
"It could just be that our missing suspect is a skilled electrician and has a generator," Tragg said. "He could have plugged it in just now to give himself some light. And maybe to tease and torment his guests a bit at the same time." He glanced to the back hallway. "Let's not let our imaginations run away with us. Come on; we'll see what's back there."
"I just noticed something, now that we can see properly," Perry spoke, keeping a protective hand on Della's back. "There aren't any cobwebs in here."
Della's eyes widened. "Perry, you're right," she gasped. "The kitchen is spotless!"
Hamilton stared. ". . . Well, obviously Rand must have been out here and doesn't like cobwebs, so he got rid of them." He hurried back to look out at the front hall and the main entrance. "There's still cobwebs in the parlor, Perry. They didn't magically disappear, if that's what you were trying to insinuate."
Perry nodded. "I'm sure you're right, Hamilton." He and Della moved forward to join Tragg and Brice at the back door. "After all, what other explanation could there be?"
"That's right," Tragg nodded, looking back as Hamilton hastened to rejoin the group. "There isn't any other explanation, unless the spiders just didn't like it out here."
"And why wouldn't they," Perry mused as they stepped onto the hall carpet.
"I can't begin to imagine," Tragg declared.
****
Paul, Steve, and Andy were just pulling up across from the mansion when the lights came on. For a moment they stopped and stared, stunned.
"What the . . . where did that come from?!" Paul cried at last.
Steve shook his head. "The electricity was off," he said. "It's been off for years. I can't believe a man as desperate as Martin Rand would dare to call the power company and have them put it back on."
He got out of the car, drawing his gun as he headed for the property. Paul and Andy were right behind him.
"Hey, Steve," Paul called after him. "How do you suggest getting in?"
Steve only barely glanced back. "I did some research on the property. There's supposed to be a secret entrance in the cemetery. We'll take that route and try to give Rand the element of surprise. That could be especially important now." He looked to the two cars parked at the manor. "He might be holding hostages."
Paul swallowed hard. He recognized Perry's convertible all too well.
"You're right," he said. "But what if he already knows we're here? It's kind of a weird coincidence, with the lights snapping on just as we're rolling up."
"It is," Steve frowned. "But unless Rand gives us some irrevocable proof that he knows, I'd rather take my chances that it is an odd coincidence. Anyway, if he knows, he might be expecting us to come through the front door."
Andy nodded. "We have a better chance out back. I doubt Rand even knows about the secret entrance."
"Probably not," Paul agreed.
But a shudder went down his spine anyway. What kind of a place was a cemetery to put a secret passage?
When they reached the backyard and found the iron gate of the burial grounds, Paul's ill feelings did not abate in the least. The place, though small, still managed to be extensive enough for several curving paths and even some statuary. Off in the distance, where it was only a faint shape in the night, was a mausoleum.
"This is just a family cemetery?" he exclaimed. "How many people are buried here?"
Steve grasped the gate, trying to swing it open slowly and carefully enough so as not to disrupt the rusted hinges. He did not quite succeed. A low, squeaking protest echoed through the immediate area.
Andy cringed. ". . . From the plans Steve found, there was enough room for a couple of hundred plots," he said. "And judging from the number of monuments we can see from here, it almost looks like most of them are filled."
"It does, doesn't it," Paul mumbled. He stepped through the gate with the two policemen. "And what if some of those missing axe murderer victims really are in here? Would they get monuments too, with fake names?"
"More likely, they may have been buried in existing graves," Andy said.
Steve nodded. "Forensics teams have been out here several times, without turning up anything conclusive." He headed towards the far corner of the graveyard.
"It's no wonder a place like this might be haunted," Paul muttered as he followed.
Louder he said, "So is the passageway inside the mausoleum?"
"That's what the plans say," Steve replied. "But they unfortunately don't say how to open it."
"So we'll have to make like detectives in the movies and look for the trigger." Paul liked the sound of this less and less. Who knew how long it would take them to find the means of opening the panel? And who knew what was happening to Perry and Della and the rest in the meantime?
"Regrettably, yes," Steve sighed.
"Maybe we'll have some good luck and it won't take long," Andy said. He brushed by an Angel of Grief statue on his right.
Paul started to trail after him but then stopped, squinting at the statue in disbelief. He could have sworn he had seen a movement.
Of course that was insane. If he had seen anything, it could have only been Andy's shadow across the stone.
Or at least, that was what he firmly thought . . . until something cold and hard curled around his wrist as he walked past.
"GAH!"
Both Steve and Andy jumped a mile and spun around, guns drawn. "Paul?!" Steve exclaimed. "What's wrong? You know we can't risk drawing attention to ourselves."
"I know, but this thing doesn't. Or it doesn't care." Paul struggled, pulling in vain at the granite fingers wrapped around his flesh.
"What are you talking about?" Steve came closer. "I know you realize this isn't the time for a joke." But then he saw the problem and his jaw dropped. "Paul, how did you get your hand stuck in there?!"
Andy stared, his eyes wide. "It wasn't holding out its hand," he said. "I know because I just went past it before Paul. Now it's got hold of Paul, while it's still bent over the monument and grieving!" And somehow that was more eerie than if it had risen completely, as though it was still acknowledging its function as an inanimate object while wanting to be more at the same time.
Steve regarded him and the stone hand in disbelief. "Oh, come on," he protested. "Are you trying to tell me the statue deliberately reached out and grabbed Paul?"
"That's exactly what it did," Paul said. "And now I can't get loose!" He placed his foot on the monument and pulled, to no avail. Instead he lost his balance.
Steve and Andy hastened to steady him. "There's no way you can break out of it yourself," Andy noted. "Its fingers are completely wrapped around your wrist!"
Steve frowned. He had to concede to that, at least. However it had gotten that way, it was that way. And Paul was having no luck in prying the fingers off of his arm.
"I could try shooting it," Steve spoke.
"No," Paul retorted. "We can't risk the noise!"
"Well, we can't leave you here like this, either," Steve informed him. "I wouldn't dare."
"Oh, I'd be fine," said Paul, even though he was thoroughly unsure of that. He swallowed his unease. "Just as long as the rest of the statues didn't gang up on me too."
"There has to be a logical explanation for this," Steve insisted. "Maybe there's some sort of electronic device inside the statue's arm, and it either activated or someone activated it when you walked by."
"But why didn't it happen when I walked by?" Andy wondered.
"Who knows. Maybe you didn't hit the trigger. Or maybe whoever might have started it didn't want it to grab a police officer." Steve stepped back, leveling his gun at the stone. "It might even be Rand. Maybe this is the proof he knows we're here."
Paul cringed at the sight of the gun. ". . . If this thing shatters, chunks of granite might fly everywhere. Including into us."
"I'll be as careful as I can. And Paul, try to turn away as much as you can."
"My arm will still be here." Paul's tone was dry as he walked as far ahead as he could while still being held prisoner. At the strain on his arm, he stopped.
In the next instant Steve squeezed the trigger. The bullet flew out and into the arm, severing it. The fingers fell away from Paul's wrist as the stone limb descended to the grass.
Paul scrambled to his friends, his heart racing. "Thanks, Steve. I never want to see another of these statues again as long as I live!" he declared.
"You and me both," Andy exclaimed. The statue seemed completely like a statue now. The loss of half an arm had not seemed to faze it. But Andy did not want to be anywhere near it.
"I always thought these kind were creepy anyway," Paul said.
Steve nodded. "Let's hurry," he said. "Whether Rand heard that or not, we should try to stay quiet from now on."
"You'll get no arguments from me," Paul said. "I just hope the mausoleum doesn't have any other weird surprises!"
Again they resumed their journey, even as a strange and unexplainable fog began to curl around their ankles. Not noticing that, Andy took one last glance at the statue. And his mouth and his stomach plunged.
"Look!" he gasped, gripping Paul's forearm while pointing with his other hand.
"Now what?!" Steve groaned as he and Paul turned. But then they stiffened.
The broken part of the arm was back on the statue, as though nothing had happened at all.
". . . If we were a bunch of kids, right now we'd be running for dear life to get away from that thing," Paul said at last.
"Right now, I'm not so sure that isn't a good idea," Andy said. If only they could run from here altogether. But of course they could not; they had to get into that house. And who knew what other horrors were up ahead.
Also shaken, Steve clutched his gun as he looked away. "Let's walk, very fast, to the mausoleum," he said. "And if anyone has a few prayers, I think we can use them. Heaven help everyone in that house."
"Amen," Paul whispered.
****
The back corridor was eerie and unwelcome. Della shivered and cringed as she and the others walked past the assorted rooms, pausing at each to look for any sign of Martin Rand. While the rooms felt fine in and of themselves, there was an almost tangible feeling of unease in the hallway.
"Perry . . ." Della looked to him in concern. "Do you feel it?"
Perry nodded, not even asking what she meant. "Yes." He kept her close to him as they walked. "Something isn't right."
"It's just our own fears magnifying everything," Hamilton insisted. But his gaze darted from the hall to the rooms in his obvious anxiety. He felt it too. He just did not want to have to admit that there was a chance of it being supernatural.
"The kitchen didn't feel like this," Sergeant Brice declared.
Tragg frowned, looking grim. "No, it didn't," he grunted. "I can't say what it is precisely, but I . . . I almost get the sense that something wants us out, very badly."
"That is what it feels like," Perry agreed. "As though we've blundered into someone else's domain. And I can't say I blame them. I wouldn't like strangers wandering through my apartment."
"But Perry . . ." Hamilton looked to him, his eyes filled with pleading desperation. "Unless we're all feeling Rand's feelings, there's no one else here to want us out." The message in his eyes was clear. Please don't turn this into another supernatural circus. Please let the explanation be normal for once.
Perry just shook his head in genuine regret. "Isn't there, Hamilton?" he said quietly.
Della stepped into a room just ahead, hoping against hope for shelter as well as the finding of the missing Rand. For a moment all was normal and the room felt fine. It was a relief, a breath of fresh air, compared to the hall.
But then the fear began to seep in. She was not welcome here. Something wanted her out, something that she did not understand or recognize. And this something was washing over her, pushing her, increasing her feelings and her panic. It was growing difficult to even breathe. She had to get out. She had to get out now!
She fled the room, running back to Perry. Her mouth was open in what would be a strangled cry, but she could not scream. She could barely even speak. The words would not come.
"Perry!" she choked out at last. A hand flew to her throat.
Everyone spun to look. "Della, what on earth," Tragg exclaimed.
Perry grasped her shoulders. "Della, what is it? What's wrong?" he demanded. "Tell me, please."
Della shook her head, pointing in desperation back at the room. "I . . . I had to leave," she mouthed. "We have to leave. Oh Perry . . . !"
Perry's eyes narrowed. Gently moving Della aside, he strode to the room and looked in. "There's nothing here," he said. "Della . . ."
"Perry, don't go inside," Della pleaded.
"Is Rand in there?" Tragg frowned.
Della could only shake her head.
Perry stepped into the room, standing in its center. At first there was nothing of significance, certainly nothing that should have made Della so terrified and unable to speak. But Perry believed her over the seeming vacancy of the room. He waited.
The feeling started slow. Perry was not one to give in to petty fears, and neither was Della, but this was not his fear or his feeling. This was something else's anger.
Perry opened his mouth. We're not here to cause you any trouble. We'll leave as soon as we've either found Martin Rand or established that he isn't here.
That was what he wanted to say. He tried to say it, but his voice was stopped. Chilled, he tried to move towards the door. Instead he was frozen in place.
"Perry!"
It was Della's sudden cry that seemed to break the spell. Perry gasped, tearing free of the spot and the room. He stumbled forward to the doorway, all too relieved to exit the unfriendly space.
"Perry, what in the name of . . ." Hamilton was staring, as was everyone else.
Della took hold of Perry's arm, to both steady him and lead him away from the room's entrance. Alarm flickered in her eyes.
". . . I think you're right, Della," Perry managed to say. "We have to leave. The problem is, this house won't let us go."
"The house?" Hamilton regarded him in disbelief. "Perry, you're talking nonsense!"
Perry stood up straight, finally catching his breath. "I know," he said. "I didn't mean it literally, of course. I meant something in the house."
Della watched Perry, her eyes filled with worry as he continued.
"It doesn't want us to be in some of the rooms, or in here at all, but it won't let us leave, either." Perry coughed and shook the cobwebs from his mind. "It's a paradox."
"That's putting it mildly," Tragg frowned. "And this is the strangest back hallway I've seen. Up ahead it gets wide enough to be in an auditorium!"
"Not only that, there's a stage," Brice exclaimed.
All eyes turned to him. "A stage?!" Tragg peered at him. "What are you talking about, Sergeant?"
"Exactly that, Lieutenant," Brice said. "There's a couple of heavy red curtains over there on the left. I went over and looked through them and I found a stage with seats below! A lot of them too."
Tragg shook his head. "That doesn't make sense," he said. "What would a stage be doing in a private residence?"
"Maybe the owners enjoyed private plays the same way people enjoy home theatres today," Perry suggested. "It could have even been Anabeth Frasier who ordered its installation. Why don't we take a look?"
"I guess we might as well, as long as we're stuck here," Hamilton frowned. "We haven't seen any sign of Rand yet, either."
"There's a staircase up there too," Brice said, nodding to the hallway. "It's right in that niche to the left, before the hall widens out. It looks pretty rickety, though. I'm not sure we should chance it."
"It must be the back stairs," Tragg mused, "since there's a much bigger staircase in the front hall. I suppose they both lead to the same place."
"Probably so, Lieutenant. And the back stairs are right across from a wide arch." Brice gestured as they started to walk.
"You must have gone out pretty far ahead, Sergeant," Hamilton remarked.
"I didn't realize I was alone until I found the stage," Brice admitted. "I thought everyone else was still right with me."
"It would have been better if we had been," Perry said.
Della kept a close grip on his arm. "Perry, you felt it too, didn't you?" she whispered with urgency. "That horrible, suffocating feeling in that room."
Perry nodded. "Yes, Della, I did. But I'm not sure how or why. The only thing that's clear is that whatever was in there didn't want either of us in there."
"I take it back about this house not being evil," Della fretted. "With the way we're being treated, it would have to be! It's no wonder Anabeth left this place and wouldn't ever say why."
Perry was preempted from replying as they arrived at the back stairs and the arch. The stairs, made of old and rotting wood, did indeed look rickety-to say the least. The arch, meanwhile, opened onto a small, square platform with three wrap-around steps to the bottom. A large den with a fireplace and matching green furniture greeted them there.
Tragg stood at the foot of the stairs and gripped the banister as he looked up. The staircase spiraled around, and instead of being enclosed by walls it was free and clear. Once on the steps, one could look over the edge of the railing and see how far it was possible to drop.
"Well, that's pleasant," he muttered with dripping sarcasm.
He placed a cautious foot on the bottom stair. It shifted under his weight but did not break. Nevertheless, he stepped back. "We'll have to go upstairs when we're finished here, but there's no sense taking that route," he declared.
Brice nodded. "I thought so, Sir." He walked ahead, leading the others past the arch and into the wide part of the corridor.
Della was again chilled as they followed. She pulled her coat closer around her. They were passing a bust of a Roman Caesar, and as Brice went by she could swear the statue's eyes followed his movements.
She swallowed hard. It had to be the lighting; there was no way it could be anything else. Statues did not have eyes. Houses could not be unfriendly. None of this was possible.
First Tragg and then Hamilton walked past. Again the eyes moved. This time Della knew it was real. "Perry!" she hissed in horror.
Perry was already studying the bust, a deep frown crossing his features. "It could be a trick," he murmured, "a set-up to scare away intruders. The house is modern enough that such technology isn't impossible."
"I'm afraid it's not a trick, Perry," Della moaned.
Her jaw dropped as Perry drew his arm free and walked right up to the offending bust. He stared it straight in its pupil-less eyes before peering around it and feeling his way down the base. "I don't see any wires or secret doors," he said.
"Perry, come away!" Della cried, hurrying over to grab his arm.
The others stopped and turned back. "What's going on?" Tragg demanded.
"This statue is watching us!" Della told him. "Now Perry's trying to figure it out logically!"
"Only I can't," Perry said. "And it isn't looking at us now. Come on." He went with Della back to the group, which had halted by the red curtains.
"Mysterious screams, evil rooms, watchful statues . . ." Hamilton was muttering under his breath. "Is anything even halfway normal around here?!"
Tragg gave him a crooked and grim smile. "Nope."
Brice gathered one of the curtains, pushing it back to reveal the area beyond it. "See, Lieutenant, here's the stage," he announced.
Tragg turned his attention to it. He stepped forward, wandering onto the empty stage and looking out at the equally empty audience. "Well, I'll be . . . if this isn't the darnedest thing." He ambled back, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Rand isn't around there, either. It couldn't have been built that long ago; it still looks in good condition, unlike those stairs. That means Miss Frasier couldn't have had anything to do with its construction," he added with a glance to Perry and Della. "She abandoned this place over sixty years ago."
"I wonder what was in this spot when she lived here," Della mused.
She, Perry, and Hamilton studied the stage room as well, baffled and amazed. When they turned away, the amount of questions they had had multiplied.
"Strange," Perry commented. "It looks like we're almost at the end of the hall, too. I don't see any other rooms beyond the stage, just some artificial plants, a painting, and a mirror." He glanced back the other way. "Let's go into that den. Maybe from there we can get back to the front hall and go up to the second floor."
"I'm game," Hamilton said. "We must've gone over almost all of the first floor by now."
"Is there a basement?" Perry suddenly asked.
"Yes, actually, there is," said Tragg. "We were down there before you and Della arrived."
"What's its condition?" Perry wondered. They turned, walking back towards the arch.
"Oh . . . about the same as the first floor," Tragg said. "Fully furnished, lots of rooms, and err . . . odd, unexplained happenings."
"Is there anything as horrible as that statue or that room?" Della queried with a shiver.
"Not really, I don't think," Tragg said. "It's more subtle down there, but like it or not, there's a definite feeling that something's there, too. It followed us through some of the rooms."
Hamilton let out an exasperated sigh. He did not want to concede to that. But on the other hand, he did not believe that he and Tragg and Brice had all foolishly given into fear and the sensation had manifested through that. And what did that leave, other than an actual presence?
"And there was still no sign of Martin Rand," Perry said, breaking into Hamilton's thoughts.
"No, there wasn't," Hamilton told him. "I don't know, Perry. Maybe he's not even here. Maybe he never was here."
"If he was here, I'm afraid he still is," Perry said. "I can't imagine that he would be set free when we haven't been."
"Unless you want to say he made a pact with the ghosts and they'd let him go while detaining all of us," Hamilton said sardonically.
Perry smiled. "I'd rather not say it."
As they reached the arch, he passed under it and down the steps into the den. The others swiftly followed and spread out over the large room, studying its arrangements and flaws before determining the space was of little consequence.
The den was open, leading into other rooms as well as another hall. The connecting dining room and kitchen, which were also partially open, were visible up ahead. To the side was another hall and probably some bedrooms.
"Where's the basement door?" Perry wondered.
"Oh, it's under the main stairs," Tragg shrugged.
"Have you explored these rooms down here?" Perry nodded towards the new hallway.
"No, we haven't," said Tragg.
The rooms were indeed mostly bedrooms, decorated in a variety of styles and themes. One of the most striking was a young girl's room dressed in pink and white. It made Della sadder than any of the others. "I wonder what happened to her." She stepped onto the pink carpet and reached over, touching the doll's auburn head.
An uncomfortable feeling rushed over her. She whirled, her eyes widening. "Who's here?!"
There was nothing visibly standing behind her. Perry looked through the doorway. "Maybe the doll's owner hasn't left. Maybe she doesn't want to. Come on, Della."
Della bit her lip. "Are you here?" she said softly. "I'm sorry for barging in. I didn't mean to be rude."
The discomfort eased. Reluctantly Della turned away, returning to the corridor. "It doesn't feel horrible in there," she said. "Just as though I was intruding. But when I said I was sorry, it felt like it was alright."
Tragg sighed. "Well, I suppose there could be ghosts of all kinds lurking around here."
Hamilton cringed. His hopes for no ghosts had been steadily plummeting ever since they had wandered into the back hall. Across this hall and down a ways was another bedroom. Curious, he moved to the doorway and looked inside.
"An older girl had this room," he noted, looking at the pictures of music stars on the blue walls and the tape deck and CD player on the shelf.
"Recently, too," Tragg grunted as he wandered over.
Not feeling anything there, they walked to the end of the hall and stopped.
"Rand is still being elusive," Tragg said. "Let's find our way back to the main hall and go up to the second floor."
"We might as well. We've exhausted this one," Hamilton sighed.
Della took out her phone and studied the screen. "I still can't raise a signal," she berated.
"And the windows are unbreakable in this section of the house too," said Perry. "Something is still determined to keep us here."
"But why, Perry?!" Hamilton burst out. "Just tell me that. Why?!"
"I wish I could." As they walked back up the hall, Perry glanced into the rooms once more. "I doubt it could be for any good purpose."
Della looked at the pink room. "Oh, but this little girl couldn't be part of it," she objected.
"Probably not," Perry conceded. "But then again, who's to say?"
Brice kept silent, as usual, and uneasily examined their surroundings. ". . . I wonder why it only feels like a presence in some of the rooms," he said at last.
"Maybe they just stay in their domains," Hamilton muttered with sarcasm.
"No, that's a good point, Hamilton," Perry said. "The child stays in her room, the unknown and ugly being in its. And as long as we don't cross those thresholds, they don't bother us."
"But it isn't just individual rooms where we've felt something," Tragg said. "That whole back hallway feels strange to some degree."
"This whole house feels strange to some degree," Hamilton retorted.
Perry half-smiled. "Unfortunately, it does," he said.
****
The mausoleum was dark and cold. And large; the three flashlight beams did not go far in covering its interior.
"There aren't any angel statues in here, I hope," Paul worried.
"I don't see any," Andy tried to assure him. "Just lots of pottery."
Paul eyed some in discomfort. "They're probably all urns. And in this happy house, that's probably not much better."
Steve stepped forward, looking towards the back of the structure. "The secret panel is supposedly in that wall," he noted. "If it really exists and didn't only make it to the blueprint stage." He walked over, feeling across the wall for the lever.
Paul and Andy joined him. But after ages of fruitless searching, it seemed hopeless.
"We've gone over this wall with a fine-toothed comb, and nothing!" Paul stepped back, throwing up his hands in frustration. "Steve, this trigger has to be somewhere else, if it's here at all. Uhoh."
Both Steve and Andy spun around. "What is it?!" Steve exclaimed.
But at the same moment he spoke, they saw Paul had backed into a pedestal, causing the urn resting on top of it to wobble dangerously. Paul dove to rescue it from smashing to the floor, cringing in alarm all the while. But as he righted it and adjusted its position, it seemed to click down into place. The wall creaked and groaned, the rusted gears squealing as the sought-after panel slid open. All three men stared in amazement.
"Paul, you did it!" Andy declared.
"I did? . . . Hey, I did!" Breaking out of his trance, Paul hurried forward. "We should've thought they'd do something macabre like that. And we'd better get in there before it closes up again!"
"I bet it does. They probably used this to keep it open." Steve held up a scuffed piece of wood he had found on the floor. He set it in place in the doorway before stepping over it into the unknown. "Let's go."
Paul and Andy followed him in, shining their flashlights along the winding stone steps. Their footsteps echoed eerily in the chamber.
"This had better not lead to an ossuary," Paul grumbled.
"It's supposed to go under the cemetery and come out on a path behind the basement wall," Steve said. "And there's secret panels and stairs and pathways on each level of the house."
"So it's a network of secret passageways snaking all over the house," Paul remarked. "It sounds perfect for spies."
"It probably was," Steve said with a smirk.
"And we don't know what level Perry and the rest are on," Paul continued. "We'll have to check them all."
"Yes, unfortunately," Andy nodded.
They reached the bottom of the steps and started down the only path. It was long and dark and utterly devoid of life. There was not so much as a cobweb. In such a place, it was impossible to forget that on either side of their road, somewhere beyond the walls, lay the dead. Paul could not take a full breath until they passed through the opposite end of the tunnel and emerged in the basement. From there it did not take long to find the way out of the passageway and into the main part of the floor.
"Well, isn't this cozy," Paul grunted as they stepped into an extensive laundry room. It was open to the rooms beyond, as well as unfinished in general. Above them, the ceiling beams were visible instead of plaster. An unpainted wooden support beam stood from the ceiling to the floor where the room made a sharp corner turn.
Steve walked through the opening and into the arched hallway. "The whole basement seems half-finished," he said. "Unless this is a new style." He wandered around another random wooden beam.
"Not only that, it seems we're not alone." Andy was tense as he followed Steve. "There's something down here."
"And nobody around," Paul finished. From their location, they could see the great majority of the largest room in the basement. Paul hurried to stay close to the two policemen. "Hoo boy. I am not looking forward to this."
****
As soon as Perry set foot on the second-story landing, he knew something was wrong. There was a chill and an unwelcome air unlike anything he had felt on the first floor, even in the room that had horrified Della. And as everyone else came up behind him, it became obvious that all of them felt it too.
"Something doesn't feel right here," Tragg frowned. "And I suppose that sounds cliché after what we just saw and felt, but . . ."
"No, Tragg," Perry interrupted. "You're right. Something isn't right."
Della swallowed hard. "Perry, I don't think we should even be up here. Maybe we should find the stairs to the third floor and just immediately try there."
"I'd agree, if not for the problem of Martin Rand's disappearance," Perry returned. "We have to check everywhere."
"I can't imagine he'd want to stay up here, either," Hamilton muttered.
Della looked to him in some surprise. "Then you feel it too, Mr. Burger?"
Hamilton sighed in exasperation while shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yes, Miss Street, I feel something. Whether it's exactly what you're feeling or not, I couldn't say."
Tragg slipped around them and into the long corridor. "Well, since Perry's right and we have to check everywhere for Rand, we might as well get started." He glanced to the right-hand corner next to the landing. "There's another child's room here. I see a rocking horse and a bookcase of kids' books."
Brice came up beside him. ". . . That horse is moving," he gasped.
Tragg started, looking to it point-blank. "I don't see a thing," he grunted. "Your imagination is running away with you, Sergeant."
Brice frowned. "I could've sworn I saw it." But if it had been moving, it was silent and still now, just as it should be.
Della tried to push back the feeling of dread as she crossed the hall and opened one of the few closed doors. "This is a bathroom," she said in amazement. "But it's fancier than hardly any I've ever seen."
Perry came up behind her and curiously peered into the bright room. It was indeed impressive. The floor was carpeted in white, and it was wide enough and long enough that there was another door at the opposite end of the room.
"It's larger than some people's living rooms," he said. "Even my own." He eyed the regular white bathtub and the modern pink Jacuzzi on the other side of the room.
Della took several steps inside and turned to look at the large mirror and long counter. The latter took up the great majority of the wall.
"I have to admit, I wouldn't mind having a bathroom as lovely as this," she said as she examined her reflection in the mirror.
"It would be extravagant," Perry remarked.
"It would be luxurious. I bet that hot tub feels absolutely wonderful after a long day at work." Della moved to the other door. "I wonder where this leads," she mused. "How strange-it's a swinging door, like the one in the kitchen." She demonstrated by moving it back and forth.
"Not very private," said Perry. "Is there a way to latch it?"
"Yes, thankfully," Della said. She stepped through it, allowing it to drift shut behind her.
Now she was standing in another part of the corridor. Amazed, she looked at the ceiling above her and then back at the rooms stretching before her.
"Maybe we were wrong about this floor, Perry," she said. "I don't feel anything amiss here."
But the ensuing silence chilled her. She whirled, stunned. "Perry?!" she called. "Perry, where are you?! I thought you were right behind me."
She reached for the swinging door and pushed it back. There was no bathroom on the other side, only an empty and nondescript room. Worse, there was no Perry.
"Perry?!" Della cried. She ran into the room, her heart racing. She had just come out of here! Where was the mirror? The hot tub? Perry?
"Perry, this isn't funny," she declared, her hands going to her hips.
Even as she spoke, however, she knew all too well that Perry wouldn't find it funny, either. This was not his doing. He would not even be capable of changing the room.
Della ran out the first door, desperately praying to find Perry and the others in the corridor, unaware that anything was wrong.
But she soon ground to a standstill. The world beyond the first door was just as foreign as what she had found through the swinging door. This was not near the second-story landing, as it should be. She had no idea what it was near. She did not recognize the rooms in the least.
And there was no Perry, no Hamilton, no Lieutenant Tragg and Sergeant Brice.
There was absolutely no one.
Della was all alone.
****
"Della?! Della, for Heaven's sake. Where are you?"
Perry leaned out of the swinging door, staring at the corridor beyond. Della could not have vanished so quickly. And if she had disappeared into one of the rooms, she would come if she heard Perry calling her.
Horror and alarm struck him hard. He had been too lax after feeling that this floor was worse than the ground level. Now Della was somehow, unbelievably lost.
"Perry?!"
He turned, facing a bewildered Hamilton. "What's going on? Where's Della?"
"That's what I want to know!" Perry retorted. "She walked through here just a moment ago and now I can't find a trace of her!"
"What?!" Hamilton gaped at him. "That's impossible." Ordinarily he would have laughed in amusement, but in this house there was nothing to laugh about. Purposely he crossed the room, peering through the open doorway with Perry.
"You see, Hamilton?" Perry walked out, standing in the hall. "Della isn't here."
Hamilton followed him out. "She has to be in one of the rooms," he insisted. "Maybe Rand is hiding in one of them and knocked her out."
"He wouldn't hurt her," Perry retorted.
"If he's what you say he is," Hamilton replied. "You're not right about people all the time, Perry, even if sometimes it seems like it. . . ." He trailed off, sounding occupied as he looked into the first room on his left.
"What is it?" Perry barked, hurrying after him.
"Nothing," Hamilton frowned. He stepped into the bedroom. "See for yourself. Della certainly isn't in here. It doesn't look like anyone's been in here for decades. That's funny, though; there's no dust."
Perry only took a cursory glance before striding on to the next room. Behind him he could hear Hamilton scrambling to catch up, and farther back, Tragg and Brice discussing the child's room near the landing, but he only barely paid attention to any of them.
No matter what, no matter how long it took, he had to find Della.
A chill went up his spine. Suppose . . . just suppose . . . he was wrong about Martin Rand. Maybe he would take Della, as a shield. Maybe he had.
Or maybe the explanation was even worse and much harder to believe.
I should have listened to my instincts, he berated.
Hamilton was definitely right-Perry was not correct all the time. Now he had made just about the worst possible blunder he could have.
"Della, where are you?" he called in desperation.
There was no answer.
****
Tragg frowned as he heard Perry and Hamilton conversing down the hall. "Something's gone wrong," he realized, leaning out of the child's room. In his hand he was holding Martin Rand's identification card, which had somehow gotten onto the floor in the room. Having determined it required a more thorough search than he had originally given it, he had been looking for any other traces of the missing man. Brice had quickly followed him. Now it sounded as though they were needed elsewhere.
"Miss Street isn't with them," Brice exclaimed in worry. "They're looking for her."
"Then let's get going," Tragg said. "As soon as we check the closet. That's the last place in here."
". . . Lieutenant?"
"What?"
But Tragg's demanded query vanished as an ominous creaking sound became audible. He turned, following Brice's gaze to the rocking horse near the bookcase. It was moving by itself, faster and faster.
"I knew I thought it was moving, Lieutenant!" Brice cried. Several times during the search he had caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, but he had tried to convince himself it was only his imagination. There was no mistaking it now.
"So you did." Half transfixed by the motion, Tragg reached over to take hold of the toy and bring it to a halt. Instead a book flew right at him. He grabbed it just in time. "What the . . ."
A second book launched itself at Brice. He ducked, but instead of the book hitting the wall or the floor, it hovered in the air and came back at him.
Then the entire bookcase, as it were, had become filled with ammunition. Volumes flew one right after another, pelting the alarmed and bewildered policemen even as they fought to shield themselves from the onslaught.
"Now, see here!" Tragg yelled. "What's the meaning of this? Stop it!"
"They're probably not going to stop until we get out of this room!" Brice proclaimed.
"Well, they'll just have to wait a moment," Tragg growled. "We're looking in that closet, and no tornado of kids' books is going to stop us!"
Another book glanced off his hat as he spoke. It struck the closet doorknob and from there was airborne again, but this time due to another force. Both Tragg and Brice stared.
"It was blasted back," Tragg said in disbelief. "That doorknob is charged with electricity!"
"Rand couldn't have gone in there," Brice declared. "And who knows. Maybe whatever's in here has been trying to keep us from getting electrocuted with that doorknob." He gripped Tragg's shoulder. "Let's go, Lieutenant. We should try to help find Miss Street."
Tragg was still staring at the sparks flying from the metal knob. But at Brice's words he snapped back to himself. "Yeah," he said. "Let's do that." He allowed Brice to steer him around the pile of books on the floor and out of the room.
As they stepped into the hall, Tragg glanced back. The bookcase was already full. Not one book remained on the floor.
He shook his head. The rules of logic did not exist here. And by now he should have realized and accepted that.
He hurried ahead, Brice in tow.