Chapter Twenty-Five

The nightmare of the previous night visited him again, and Nigel bolted from his room in terror and covered in sweat. His rumpled clothes betrayed him having slept in them.

He looked each way down the hall, illuminated by a small oil lamp on a table near Lenore’s door. He saw no one.

Nigel strode back and forth before his doorway, glanced back in at his disheveled bed, and stopped. He shook his head and turned from his room. His experiment with sobriety over, he fetched the oil lamp and used the little flame to help guide his way downstairs to the main floor. The debris from the crate still lay strewn across the foyer. Strange, one would think she’d have a housekeeper.

He made his way around the mess and entered the dining room. The kerosene lamp still sat on the table, so he traded the oil lamp for it, using the small lamp to light the larger. He carried the kerosene lamp into the kitchen, spotless except for the dirty dishes from dinner sitting in the sink. Well, the cook is certainly neat, he thought. Now, where did Edgar stash that bottle?

He could not find it.

The icebox contained nothing of interest, but the door to the pantry stood open, and Nigel stepped in. The stairway at the back descended into the darkness below and called to him. He realized, if there was one bottle, there might be more in the cellar. Slowly, he navigated the steep stairs, carrying the lamp into the bowels of the house.

The packed dirt betrayed a path across the room to a scraped half-circle pattern where a door met the floor when opened. Nigel crossed the room and entered the next room. He held the lamp high. “Eureka!” he said aloud.

Racks upon racks of dusty wine bottles filled the room.

He chose one at random and attempted to blow off the carpet of dust. When this didn’t work, he wiped it with a hand. The dust came away, as did the label, which landed between a pair of bottles and slid down, out of reach. Nigel didn’t care. He glanced around for a corkscrew. Without one at hand, he peeled off the lead cap and shoved the cork inside. He raised the bottle to his lips and drank. The wine tasted good. In fact, very good and went down fast.

A short while later, Nigel staggered across the basement, juggling his second bottle of wine and the kerosene lamp. The ascent to the kitchen turned out to be difficult—the stairs seemed to move. He pressed himself against the handrail and used it as a guide. When he reached the foyer, he took a long drink from the bottle before attempting the staircase to the second floor.

With a herculean effort, he reached the second-floor summit. Nigel took a congratulatory swig, wobbled, and nearly fell backward. He caught himself, turned, and saluted the stairs with bottle in hand.

As he weaved along the carpeted hallway, he glanced down the hall at Lenore’s room and dropped the open bottle to the floor. Blood seeped into the hall from under her door.

No! Nigel thought as he stumbled toward Lenore’s room.

“Lenore?” he called as he entered through the unlocked door. Deserted. The blood at his feet disappeared.

Lenore’s bed looked untouched.

Heavy floor to ceiling curtains were pushed back from a bank of large windows and a pair of French doors stood open to the night. Nigel ran out onto a balcony. Lenore’s forecast about the fog proved correct and a gibbous moon shown in the starry sky. Nigel lowered his gaze and could see the beach and roiling surf below the bluff. He could also see the white of Lenore’s bathrobe and unbound hair blowing in the wind as she approached the waves.

“Lenore!” he shouted, but his voice was lost in the wind and pounding surf.

Frantic, he descended the stairs to the yard below. Nigel worked his way along the edge of the cliff, the lamp held high. At last he found a route, though a steep one, and he slid half the way on his backside, catching bushes along the way with his free hand to slow his descent. He made it to the base of the cliff and clambered over driftwood to the open beach beyond.

Nigel ran as best as he could in the soft sand, shouting all the while. “Lenore! Lenore!” Finding Lenore’s robe, he came to an abrupt stop. He retrieved it from where it lay in the sand. Nigel ran to the edge of the surf and held up the lamp. He called her name until his voice became hoarse.

What possessed her to do such a thing? Was she in a trance? Could a spirit exert such control? Was she somehow driven to suicide? He didn’t know.

Nigel shivered. The cold night air and the shock of Lenore’s disappearance sobered him considerably. Perhaps she’ll return, he told himself. He moved up the beach and built a fire of driftwood, using some of the kerosene as an accelerant. He soon created a raging blaze.

The wind blew spectral shapes of smoke and embers into the night air. Nigel sat on a log as he held Lenore’s robe and stared into the fire and at the shapes spawned above it.

Time passed. An hour? Two? He wasn’t sure but became increasingly aware of the likelihood of Lenore’s death. Nigel brought the robe to his face and filled his lungs with Lenore’s scent—lavender. He fell to his knees and started to cry.

“Mr. Pickford, I would thank you to return my robe at once. Do not turn around! I’m not decent.”

Shock and then relief washed over Nigel like successive tidal waves. After a few stunned moments, he grinned. He lifted the robe with one hand and in the corner of one eye, spotted Lenore’s right arm as it extended out of the darkness to grab it.

“Weren’t you cold?”

“Not until I emerged from my swim and discovered someone absconded with my robe!” She touched his shoulder and her voice became tender. “You were worried about me.”

Nigel stood and turned to face her. In the firelight, he could see Lenore’s bare shapely legs and arms extending from the robe. Might she be naked beneath? She wore no glasses and strands of her white hair flew around her head in the breeze. “What about sharks?” he asked.

Lenore shook her head no and smiled.

Nigel took Lenore’s arms and pulled her to him. “You should be worried.”

They kissed with intense passion. Nigel felt Lenore’s tongue snake into his mouth. A shiver of pleasure ran through his body, and his crotch swelled. He held Lenore still tighter.

Bravado aside, Nigel had not been with a woman in many years. He’d been a drunk, living in filth, longer than he could remember, with only brief periods of sobriety. Despite what he consumed tonight, he now felt free of it—filled with a new type of intoxication, her.

Locked in an embrace, the two sank to the sand.