Masters of Midnight

Jeremy Horne’s Journal

May 3—Here there be strange people.

At times I feel as if I’m visiting some foreign country, like Slovakia or Romania—one of those Eastern European countries where the women huddle under shawls while making the Sign of the Cross and the men bluster about things that go bump in the night. I mean, one guy actually went pale—all the blood drained right out of his face, Minter!—when I asked him for directions to Cravenwood.

It’s really so bizarre. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m only in Maine, that Boston is just a couple hours away, that just south of here lies Ogunquit—the place where we spent our most wonderful honeymoon. I force myself to remember that these are American citizens and this the 21st century—even if they talk as if their mouths are filled with cloves of garlic and they act as if I’m heading to Castle Dracula itself.

Oh, man, I’m beat. It’s been a long day. Right now I’m curled up on my twin bed in Motel 6 ready to crash. There’s not much else to do in this little seaside burg. Beautiful scenery, but not a bar or a club—gay or otherwise—anywhere nearby. The TV doesn’t even get HBO! But as I promised you, sweets, I will write you every step of the way, especially since my cell phone zonked out just north of Kittery. What is it about small towns and cellular towers?

And the place I’m heading for doesn’t even have electricity!

Maybe you’re right. Maybe all this will turn out fine. It just might make a great article, after all. Do you think for the Globe’s Sunday magazine? “Local Writer Seeks the Truth of his Father’s Disappearance.” Plus, it’s got all of the elements that editors orgasm over. Boy grows up abandoned by father, fucked up by his unsolved disappearing act. Boy goes off in search of Dad in some forlorn outpost, trying to fill that empty hole in his soul left by his wayward father. I’ll pile on the pathos—editors love that.

I can just hear you telling me to be serious. So I admit that I haven’t been all that focused on my career. That’s one of the things I love about you, Minter: how ambitious you are. How professional. I wish I could be more like you. I just haven’t found the passion for anything the way you have. You love being a photographer. You’re so committed to it. I wish I had your discipline.

Maybe writing this piece will do it for me. It’s really the only thing that’s gotten me interested since that idea I had to market those combination cell phone/car vacuums. But this is even better. It’s the personal angle to it, I guess. I admit that my father’s disappearance had an impact on me. It wasn’t so bad that he left my mother when I was only five for some bimbo. What was worse was that he then had to go and move off to some godforsaken fishing village on the coast of Maine and then get caught up into whatever cult it was that swallowed him up. Of course, that gives the story one more juicy angle. Editors love stories about cults. I only wish I knew what this one—

Sorry. I’m back. I thought I heard someone at the door. But no one was there. Except—okay, so maybe all the weird looks from the locals have made me just the teensiest bit jumpy. But I saw something weird out there. A handprint on the outside of my door, Minter! In mud.

At least, I think it’s mud.

Okay, enough for tonight. I’m going to sleep now. I’ll keep writing in this journal as I go along. It will help me put the story together, plus you can read it to help give me advice. And I like writing it to you, Minter. This is the first time we’ve been apart for so long, and—well, maybe I sound like a goofy romantic fool, but I’m going to crunch up my pillow next to me and imagine it’s you. Good night, babe.

May 4—Okay, so here’s my first encounter with one of the natives who actually lives in Cravensport. This is how it went:

“Uh, hello, my name is Jeremy Horne and I’m looking for the Cravenwood mansion.”

He was a fisherman. All leathery face and black grimy hands, big bushy eyebrows and white hair growing in tufts out of his ears. He gave me the once-over and said, “Get on with ya.”

“Excuse me?”

“I suppose yuah one of them repawters from Bahston.”

I had to admit I was.

“Thought ya wuh done with us yeahs ago. It’s quiet up heah now. It’s all ovah, all that nonsense. Why are you heah to staht things up agin?”

Now, Minter, I had no idea what he was talking about. Part of the problem, I’ll admit, was that Maine accent of his, which I doubt I’m doing justice in my attempts at transliteration. But what “all that nonsense” was certainly raised my suspicions—I mean, you just don’t say things like that to a reporter and expect him to go away—so I held my ground. “All that nonsense” was precisely why I was there, and if I was going to prove my worth as a journalist then I had better push harder.

“Well,” I tried explaining, “what I’m here for is to find out what happened to my father. He lived here for a while in the late 1960s. He ran an antique shop. Maybe you knew him. Phillip—”

“I don’t remembuh no one from back then,” the fisherman said. “Cravensport has been destroyed. Wiped out. All on account of all that craziness the Craven family got inta. They useta run the fishing fleets heah but then they let ’em all go to hell. Which is where I ’spect all of them Cravens have gone too!”

“Are they all dead? Everyone in the family?”

“All but the crazy Mr. Bartholomew. Lives over theah in that fallin’ down rat trap he calls home, with not even electricity or indoor plumbin’. And he’s not talkin’ to no one.”

Now, you know, Minter, that I was prepared for this. Remember that call I made to the retired sheriff of Cravensport? He had told me all about this Mr. Bartholomew Craven—how he lived in an 18thcentury manor that had never been hooked up to any modern conveniences. So I couldn’t call Mr. Craven to let him know I was coming, because there wasn’t a phone. I couldn’t fax him or e-mail him either. Best I could try, the sheriff said, was writing him, in care of Cravenwood.

I have no idea whether or not Bartholomew Craven ever received my letter. I wonder if it’s come back to me since I’ve been away. I expect you’d leave a message for me on my voice mail if it did. I’ll check at a pay phone in the village later.

Anyway, old Jonah Salt wasn’t going to be of any more help so I thanked him and headed back to my car. I didn’t need directions to the place, I discovered: as soon as I rounded the bend in the road, what’s looming down at me from the top of a craggy hill but Cravenwood. It had to be the place. I doubted this little village had more than one gargantuan old house, boarded up and gloomy, with bats hanging from its eaves. I’m not kidding, Minter. Bats. Like the frigging Addams Family or something.

So I drove up the long winding driveway that led to the old place. Of course, at the top, there was a rusted old iron gate, padlocked and with a sign: NO TRESPASSING. So I got out of my car and went up to the gate, taking hold and peering through the bars. And I swear—this is no lie, babe—just then it started to thunder. Up until then it had been a clear day, but suddenly the sky went black and it started to pour. Huge lightning and monstrous thunder. It will make for a great lead to my story, don’t you think?

May 4 (cont.)—Okay, I’m back. As the storm only got worse, I headed over to the inn where I’m staying. I decided to have lunch in their coffee-shop. I sat there for more than an hour, eating a crispy omelet and drinking three cups of strong joe, writing in my journal. The lady who owns the inn was very nice. She noticed me and came over to my table. She introduced herself as Mrs. Haskell, and said they didn’t get many out-of-town faces anymore.

“Why’s that?” I asked her. “The Maine coastline up here is so beautiful.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But there’s not much here to do. So many people have moved away. I keep trying to get the town to promote tourism as a replacement for the depressed fishing industry. But, well . . . they’re not very interested.”

“Is it because of—well, what happened with the Craven family?”

She looked at me. She’s an interesting lady, Mrs. Haskell. You’d like her, Minter. She’s the kind of woman you’d like to photograph. I can see you doing a whole show just of her. She must be fiftysomething, but she’s still really beautiful. Auburn hair touched with gray. And in her eyes there’s a certain gentleness, but strength too, and a lot of wisdom. She’s seen a lot with those eyes, I could tell.

Anyway, she sat down with me after I told her about my father. She knew him, Minter! Not well, but she remembered him. How he came to town and opened that antique shop with his wife. “She was very beautiful,” Mrs. Haskell said of my father’s wife. “She turned many heads in town.”

I thought of how much my mother had hated Dad’s wife. Megan—that was the wife’s name—had disappeared, too. Mom always blamed Megan for stealing my dad, but what I resented most about her was the fact that it was probably her idea to head up here to Maine, and if they hadn’t done that, my father would probably still be around today.

“It was a bad time for all of us in this town,” Mrs. Haskell told me. “I’m sorry about your father.”

“I just want to know what happened to him,” I told her. “I’ve wanted to know all my life.”

She smiled at me with sympathy. “I can understand your feelings. But some things—some things are better left as mysteries. Do you ever think that the pain of discovery might be even worse than the pain of the unknown?”

“No,” I told her definitively. “I’d rather know. Not knowing is hell.”

“In most cases, I’d agree with you.”

“What happened in this town thirty years ago?” I asked her forcefully, leaning across the table. I suddenly began telling her everything my early investigations had uncovered. You know all about it, Minter. I’ve shared all the grisly details with you. A series of unsolved murders—one in this very inn. Men with their bodies mangled, women with their throats slit. And my father, in the midst of what the sheriff would only call “some kind of cult,” disappearing forever one dark and foggy night.

Mrs. Haskell’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I know about all that,” she said. “I lived through it.”

“What was the cult?”

“It wasn’t a cult.”

“Then what was it?”

“Go back to Boston,” she said.

It was the same admonition all of the locals had been telling me ever since I’d arrived. But Mrs. Haskell said it kindly, and she reached over to take my hand in hers.

I told her I was going nowhere, not until I finally had some answers. “I want to talk to Mr. Bartholomew Craven,” I said. “That’s why I came up here. Everything points to that family and to that house.”

She didn’t deny my charges. She offered only an observation. “People are terrified of him.”

“With reason?” I asked.

She shook her head. “He is sad and lonely. That’s all. An old man who has lived beyond his time. Everyone he loved is gone.”

“But he was apparently involved in this cult, or whatever it was that sucked my father in and brought about his disappearance.”

She said nothing. How much more she knew, I couldn’t tell. All she repeated was, “He’s a sad and lonely old man.”

“What was it?” I asked. “What happened here? What were so many of the townspeople involved in? If not a cult, what? The deaths that happened here in town—were they part of some kind of ritualistic sacrifice?”

“It was all so long ago. Why bring it all up? It won’t bring your father back.”

“The police have given up trying to solve these murders and disappearances from thirty years ago. My father. His wife. And so many others.” I flipped open my notebook and began reading the names I’d collected. “Paul Patrick, his body ripped apart. Mr. Bain, the former innkeeper of this very establishment, found mutilated in an upper room. Donna Landers, her throat torn open and left to die in the woods. A policeman, Kenneth Davenport, with his head crushed and every bone in his body broken. And Margaret Everly—she disappeared for weeks, only to be discovered with her memory gone and half the blood drained out of her body.”

Well, you should have seen Mrs. Haskell react to that, Minter. Her hand flew up to her neck and she gripped it tightly, as if from some old, half-forgotten habit. It looked as if she were covering something there. Her face grew ashen and she said she had things to do, that she couldn’t talk to me anymore, that I really should take her advice and drop the whole matter. Then she hurried away.

Leaving the inn as the rain began to let up, I asked one of the waitresses Mrs. Haskell’s first name. You guessed it, Minter. Margaret.

She was part of it, too. I bet everyone in town over a certain age was part of it. Whether they want to remember it or not. That’s why they don’t want me nosing around. They don’t want me to discover their culpability.

It’s only made me more determined to get to the truth. So I drove up to Cravenwood again, and tried to find some way past the gate. It was impossible. The rain threatened to kick up again, so I decided to put it off until tomorrow. I’m back in my room now and feel pretty sleepy. So I’ll just bid you a fond good night, sweets. I’ll call you tomorrow. I hope you and Ralph are cuddling up a storm. Just tell him to keep his snout off my pillow. And no drooling! I miss you both!

May 5, 3:15 a.m.—Minter, I need to write just to steady my nerves. I had a nightmare. Man, it was awful. I feel so nelly admitting how freaked out I am right now, but when you get to read this journal you’ll see how much my handwriting is shaking. I’d call you but it’s so late and you’ve probably turned the phone over to voice mail anyway. Oh, man, I wish you were here.

So this is what happened. I woke up because I thought I heard a noise. It sounded like a dog. In my half-sleep I thought it was Ralph and I tried telling him to calm down. But this growling sound only got louder, and for a half-instant I thought I was home and Ralph had detected an intruder. I sat up, put the light on, and realized I was at the inn. The growling stopped, so I got up, took a pee, and put on the television just to remind myself I was still in the 21st century. I watched ten minutes of an I Love Lucy rerun—the one where they’re in the shack by the railroad tracks and the vibrations keep moving Lucy and Ricky’s bed. It made me laugh so I felt better and turned the light off again.

Now here’s what’s so weird, Minter. I don’t think I fell back asleep. Of course I must have, for what happened next couldn’t have been real. I heard the growling again. I sat up in the dark, and at the foot of my bed were these two red eyes. I shouted out, fumbling for the lamp, which, of course, I knocked over onto the floor. I jumped out of bed and ran to the window and pulled open the curtains. There, in the moonlight that suddenly filled the room, I saw a wolf—not a dog, Minter, but a wolf—a huge creature, with big red eyes. I screamed. The thing leapt up onto my bed, and on the floor I saw a dead man in a pool of blood. I know it was blood—it was so real, Minter. The moonlight was reflecting off it.

But then there came banging at my door. Someone was shouting to me, asking if I was okay, but I couldn’t answer. I just kept my eyes glued on the creature that was salivating on my bed. Finally the door opened—a security guard with a passkey—and the wall switch was thrown on, bringing light to the room. There was no wolf on my bed, no dead man on the floor, no blood.

I felt quite embarrassed, as you can imagine, Minter. But now, sitting here writing this, I find I can’t get back in that bed. I can’t switch off the lights. I feel certain this is the very same room Mr. Bain was killed in all those years ago. I keep telling myself it was a dream, a stupid hallucination brought about by all these crazy superstitious villagers. But I don’t know, Minter. I just can’t wait for the sun to come up.

May 5—It really is beautiful here, babe. I’m sitting on a rock at the beach below the cliffs. The spray from the waves that crash all around me is cool but invigorating, making me forget about my stupid dream last night. I’m thinking about how our first anniversary is coming up in a couple of months, and how I’d like to go back to Ogunquit with you. We could sit on rocks like this, looking out over the ocean. I wish you were here, Minter.

It was so good to hear your voice this morning. Did I wake you up? You said no, but I wonder. I hope your shoot goes okay today. Drag queens can be impossible. I wonder how many retakes they’ll demand? And of course, they’ll want you to fix up their boobs with PhotoShop. You sounded kind of frazzled when I spoke to you so I didn’t go into too many details about my dream or about all the weirdness up here. You’ll learn all about it when you read this journal.

More and more I’m convinced you’re right, though. This will make a great personal interest piece. If not for the Globe then for some place else. I can just see the magazine art directors loving it—I mean, here I am on a rocky coastline with some gothic mansion reputed to be haunted looming above me. Hey—you ought to do the photography for it! Maybe I’ll suggest it when I talk to you tonight and you can join me this weekend. I’d love to have you up here with me. Everything’s better when we’re together. You could bring Ralph, too. The inn accepts pets.

This could be the direction I’ve been looking for, Minter. I admit I’ve been kind of a wanderer all my life. I never could decide on what kind of a career I wanted. I’ve tried lots of different things—some things that I’ve never even told you about. Like I tried working as a publicist for a ballet company a few years ago. I’d never even been to the ballet. Then I got my real estate license. I showed six thousand houses but sold none. I hated it. So I became a traffic reporter at a radio station.

But it always came back to writing. I know I never went to journalism school the way you went to photography school, Minter, but I think this is what I want to do. Write stories. In college my best grades were always in English, and I was editor of my high school newspaper. Working at the radio station I used to watch the news reporters type up the stories they’d read on the air. It was so inspiring to me. That’s what I want to do: tell really interesting stories.

So I’m not going to leave here until I’ve gotten to the truth of this old town’s mystery. As much to give my life some direction as to learn about my father. Maybe the two things are tied up together. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been kind of aimless. You’ve changed me, sweets. You’ve given me a direction and I’m going to show you what I can do.

I’ve determined that the only way past that NO TRESPASSING gate is to come up from the cliff side. Cravenwood stands on a huge expanse right at the top of the cliff, overlooking the ocean. I can approach from behind, and maybe find the old man lurking around somewhere. He apparently doesn’t live at the main house, which is all boarded up anyway. That much I learned from the lady at the post office this morning. He lives in a smaller house on the estate, deep in the woods. The post office lady told me he picked up his mail irregularly—no mailman could make the trek all the way up that hill, she said—but that his box was currently empty. So I’m assuming he got my letter. What good that will do, I’m not sure. But at least he’s hopefully expecting me.

So wish me luck, babe. I’m going to find a path among the rocks and scale the side of the cliff. Good thing we took that mountain climbing class last fall in Colorado. This isn’t nearly as steep or as tall, but it’s still a little daunting. You’d be so proud of how butch I’m being.

Okay, here I go. Keep your cool with the drag queens, Minter. I love you!

May 5 (cont.)—I’m in his house, Minter! I’m writing by candlelight. What a story I have for you!

So I made it up the cliff without too many problems. If I looked down and saw the drop below me, my knees went a little weak, but I managed okay. Only once did I slip, but there were a lot of tree limbs and brush growing out the sides of the cliff that I was able to easily steady myself. I’d say it took about twenty minutes to scale the side. Not bad, huh?

It was probably about ten-fifteen, ten-thirty. I headed toward Cravenwood, which from this side looked less creepy and more simply run down, battered by decades of sea wind and salt air. Most of the windows were boarded over, except for the ones highest in the tower. It looks like a Newport mansion, only completely run down. It’s too bad, because it’s a fabulous house.

I have to admit my first thought was about my father. I wondered if he’d ever been in that house, if it was here that whatever happened to him happened. I couldn’t stop thinking about him, in fact. I felt his presence—as if he were nearby—oh, I don’t know. It was odd. Hard to describe.

I know I haven’t talked to you about my father much, Minter, except to say that I’ve long been obsessed in finding out what happened to him. Truth is, I hardly remember him. I remember a few little things— nice things, like going to the zoo and riding in the way-back part of his bumpy old station wagon. And sharing our birthmarks—you know that little purple splotch on my chest that looks kind of like a dragonfly? Well, my dad had one, too, in just about the same place as I do, and I remember feeling pretty special because it was something we shared.

But Dad apparently had other special people in his life. He began having an affair with Megan when I was just four or five. I guess that’s where he’d go when he didn’t come home at night. It was a rotten thing to do to a little kid, abandoning me like he did—but my mother (as you know all too well) is not an easy woman to live with. I remember once how she threw a frying pan at him. While she was frying eggs in it! Maybe that’s when she found out about the affair. I don’t know.

My dad was kind of a wanderer like me. It was in his blood, I suppose, the same way it’s always been for me. He jumped from job to job, too. Starting an antique shop in Maine was just the sort of thing he’d do. And he’d probably have left it, too, eventually—if whatever happened to him hadn’t happened.

Mr. Craven said that my father was a good man. That meant a lot for me to hear. I mean—

Okay, so I’m getting ahead of myself. Yes, I met Mr. Bartholomew Craven. And really, Minter, he’s really such a nice old guy. Mrs. Haskell was right. He’s just lonely. He was thrilled when he realized I’d actually come to see him—and he’s asked me to stay the night! I think it’ll be kind of fun, what with there being no modern conveniences. I have to pee in a bucket in an outhouse, Minter! You’d be freaking out not having running water! I told Mr. Craven about you—I think he might be gay—at least he didn’t flinch when I described you as my lover. I told him about the time we went camping and you insisted on bringing a battery-powered hair dryer with you. He got a good laugh out of that one.

Not that it started out so pleasantly, though. Let me back up. There I was, wandering around the boarded-up mansion, when I got the distinct sensation that someone was watching me. You know how that is. You feel eyes on the back of your head and you keep turning around quickly, looking behind you. A wind had kicked up, and there on top of the cliffs, with the salty air sharp in my nostrils, I sensed I was not alone.

I heard a twig snap behind me. I glanced off toward the woods and saw a figure there, a tall, hulking figure of a man. It disappeared into the trees so quickly that I immediately convinced myself it had been an illusion, a play of the morning sun against the leaves. I tried to forget it, but thoughts of my dream returned, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me.

I looked up. I could make out nothing in the windows of the tower. I snuck around to the courtyard and peered through slats in the boards that covered the windows into a large, empty parlor. There was no sign of life, no evidence of anyone who might live in such a foreboding place.

That’s when the hands gripped me by the shoulders from behind.

“Hey!” I shouted, struggling to turn around. But the grip was unbelievable, holding me firmly in place. I smelled something rancid. Whoever held me had the foulest breath I’d ever encountered. It grunted as I continued to try to twist out of its hold. Finally I slipped free, turning to face it.

It was a man, but barely so—surely the creature that had been lurking in the woods. He was tall, with a wide shoulder span, but he was slumped over, as if his back had been broken and never correctly healed. His face was mangled, with deep purple scars. There was only a left eye, his right socket grotesquely empty. His nose was crushed into pulpy folds of flesh, and his mouth was twisted and off-center. His hair was black and uncombed, and his clothes were equally as dark, torn and soiled. Looking up at him, I couldn’t speak.

“Leave me alone,” I finally said. “I didn’t mean to trespass. I’m just looking for Mr. Craven. He’s expecting me.”

The man-thing growled. He studied me with his beady one eye, tilting his misshapen head as he did so. He grunted again, then pointed in the direction of the woods.

“Look, like I said, if I’m trespassing, I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to get up here to see Mr. Craven. He has no telephone—”

The beast made another sound in his throat, more insistent this time, pointing again toward the woods.

He was a deaf-mute, I suddenly realized. He was reading my lips and trying to tell me something.

“Is he there? In the woods?”

The deaf-mute made a rough sound of affirmation.

I thought this very strange, you can be sure of that. No way was I wandering into the woods with some hulk who’d nearly split my collarbone in half. But then he withdrew an envelope from his shirt pocket. It was brittle and flaking. On its face was written my name, Jeremy Horne, in a spidery handwriting of an earlier time. I opened it and unfolded the old yellowed parchment inside.

My dear Mister Horne,

Should you arrive to visit as your letter to me suggests, I hope you will forgive me for not being able to greet you myself. I am consumed with writing the history of the Craven family, a vocation which demands my full and undivided attention every day from early morning until dusk. I humbly request that you allow my manservant, Hare, to escort you to my home, where, if you are so kind as to wait for me, I will be most glad to entertain you come sunset. Please have no apprehension of trusting Hare, for, despite his rather frightening appearance, he is a gentle soul and utterly devoted to me.

With kindest regards and a welcome to Cravenwood,
I am,
Yours sincerely,
Bartholomew Craven

I looked up into the beastly face hovering over me. “I—I could come back later,” I suggested, “if he’s busy—”

Hare made a ferocious sound, gripping my upper arm. He pointed again, but not toward the woods this time. Rather, he was directing my attention to an automobile parked on the side of the house. It was an old black model, some kind of ancient Ford, vintage 1935. I surmised quickly that what Hare was trying to tell me was that wherever Mr. Craven lived, I’d need to get there by car, and that I could make the trip either now or never. I swallowed, telling myself that all this simply added great color to my eventual story. Mr. Craven had said not to fear Hare.

But should I be fearing Mr. Craven?

I followed Hare to the car. He opened the back door for me and I slid inside. The interior was perfectly restored, with gleaming new leather. Odd that I should think of my father again in such a moment, but maybe not. My father had loved cars, and one of my few memories is of him restoring an old Mustang. He would’ve loved this car.

Hare walked back around and slipped in behind the wheel. As he started the ignition, I glanced at my watch. It was only a little after eleven o’clock; I was facing the prospect of twiddling my thumbs for practically the entire day as I waited for Mr. Craven to finish up with his writing project. Oh, well, maybe I could snoop around the place, pick up some clues as to what happened here thirty years ago, what sort of cult they were all a part of. That was, if Hare wasn’t constantly breathing his rancid breath down my neck.

Turns out, he didn’t hang around long at all. We drove through the woods for about half a mile, finally stopping at a much older house than the boarded-up mansion. This one looked Georgian, with broken columns lining a cracked portico. The house was in terrible disrepair, with the surrounding trees having grown nearly through it. Ivy obscured most of the windows and the branch of a large oak had imbedded itself into the roof. Hare unlocked the front door with a rusty old-fashioned key and gestured for me to enter. I did so, looking around at the dark, cobwebbed interior. Then Hare closed the door behind me and disappeared.

“Hare?” I called—ridiculously, of course, since he was deaf. I tried the knob of the door. It was locked. He had locked me inside the house!

I panicked, Minter. Can you blame me? I began to beat on the door with my fists, convinced I’d been tricked, that I was about to suffer the same fate as my father, whatever that had been. I turned and ran to an inner door, finding it was locked as well. I ran to the top of a flight of stairs, only to find my way barred there by another secured door. A door with a grated window leading into the basement was likewise bolted. I was confined to the small parlor, and in the dusty darkness I could hear the rustling of bat wings.

“The window,” I said to myself. A large picture window, crosshatched with panes of old lead-plated glass, looked out into the woods. Ivy crept up much of it, but I could still see freedom beyond. I would smash the glass, I would break free—.

But I couldn’t, Minter! Try as hard as I might, I couldn’t even scratch the glass. Might it have been that the panes of wood that held the glass in place were too resilient? Or might there be something—something unexplainable—that made the glass unbreakable?

I flopped down into a frayed armchair, out of breath. I’m pretty strong, Minter. You know that. I work out at the gym four times a week. But I was useless against that old glass and wood. Useless!

I looked back down at Mr. Craven’s letter. I had kept it in the pocket of my jacket. He asked me to wait for him until sunset. I could do nothing but trust him, to give him the benefit of the doubt.

But he’d sure as hell have some explaining to do when I saw him! I mean, you don’t just lock your guests in! What if there was a fire? What if I got sick and needed medical attention? What if I had to take a pee?

Which, I suddenly realized, I did. And not a bathroom anywhere.

I tried to distract myself. Maybe there was something in this room I could discover about my father’s disappearance. Whatever nastiness he’d gotten involved with concerned the Cravens. That much the old sheriff had been sure of. “We could never pin anything on them,” he’d told me. “But all the mysterious things that happened in town, all the deaths, had some link back to that family.”

I stood up from the filthy old chair and walked over to the bookcase built into the wall. I scanned the titles of the moldy volumes that rested there, draped in cobwebs. Histories of New England with publishing dates from the early nineteenth century. Books on whaling, on the great shipping fleets of Maine. And then—my breath literally caught in my throat, Minter—books on sorcery! Witchcraft. Spells and incantations. A set of volumes on the I Ching. One book was even called Practical Satanism.

Is this what my father had faced? I flipped through the volumes. Hideous pictures of witches being burned at the stake and incubi slipping into the darkness to seduce their unsuspecting victims. There was nothing particular to this place, however, nothing about Cravenwood or the Craven family, nothing to connect my father. . . .

Just then I heard a sound. I glanced around, only to see the inner door close once more. I heard the latch slide into place on the other side. Hare had been in the room; he had snuck in so quietly I hadn’t heard him. The stench of his foul breath lingered—as did a tray of food placed upon a table. Steaming rice and expertly seared pork loins, freshly steamed snap peas and carrots. A bottle of spring water and a carafe of wine. And, at the foot of the table, a chamber pot.

I looked closer at the meal. Another note from Mr. Craven rested against the carafe of wine.

My dear Sir,

In my absence, please accept this meal with my kindest regards. Please feel free to make yourself at home and enjoy any of the books from my library. And given my singular lack of modern conveniences, please accommodate yourself with my rather quaint tool of centuries past. Hare will take care of everything. I look forward to joining you this evening.

With anticipation of our eventual meeting,
I am, yours sincerely,
B. Craven

I couldn’t resist laughing. Using that chamber pot to relieve myself took a little getting used to, but I sure felt better afterward, Minter. Then I replaced the lid and set it against the far wall, turning my attention to the food. My fear had largely evaporated at this point; I was dealing with an eccentric writer, that was all. But his invitation to enjoy the books from his library—Practical Satanism, perhaps—still left me a little unnerved.

I must have dozed off after lunch, flipping through a history of the town, my eyelids growing heavy as I read about Isaac Craven, sea captain, who’d founded the place back in 1690. . . .

I opened my eyes suddenly. How long had I been sleeping? It was the strangest sleep, Minter. I kept hearing music, a tinkly kind of sound, like from an old music box, and it felt as if I were moving down long, winding, cobwebbed corridors. I can’t remember all the specifics of the dream, but it felt as if I were on a mission: searching for something, something I knew was at the end of the corridor, as I moved down this way and then that, finally leading to a door, I think, a door that I opened—

And I saw standing in front of me a very old man.

“Mr. Horne,” he said.

I was too surprised to say anything in reply. The room was now dark, lit by dozens of candles offering their flickering light.

“I’m sorry if I awoke you. You must have dozed off. I do apologize for keeping you waiting so long.”

“Mr.—Craven?”

“Yes, my good man. Bartholomew Craven, and I welcome you to Cravenwood.”

I stood up. “Mr. Craven, I appreciate your hospitality, but having me locked in here—”

“Locked? But you were not locked in, my good sir.”

“I was! I couldn’t leave this room.”

Mr. Craven studied me carefully, giving me time to do the same to him. He was indeed very old, with a gray pallor to his deeply lined skin that gave it nearly the same look and texture of the dry, flaking parchment he used for his letters. His cheekbones were high, giving a hollow look to his face, and his eyes were deepset and brown. His dark suit was well pressed and tailored, but somewhat frayed and tattered. His hair was white and wispy, what was left of it.

He walked suddenly to the front door and opened it quite effortlessly. “You see?” he asked. “It is not locked.”

“But it was!”

He gave me a confused expression. “I can’t see why Hare would lock you in. How dangerous that would be. Perhaps he did so accidentally. I shall speak with him.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. I wasn’t sure he was speaking the truth.

He raised his eyebrows imploringly. “But there was no harm, then? You enjoyed your lunch, I see. And I do apologize for my lack of modern facilities.” He grinned, nodding at the chamber pot. “I shall show you later where there is an outhouse in the back courtyard. It might be a bit more preferable than this.”

I wasn’t sure I could trust him, but I wasn’t going to waste any more time trying to prove or disprove the door being locked. I had questions I wanted answered. Things I wanted to know.

“Why do you live this way, Mr. Craven?” I asked. “Without electricity? Plumbing? A telephone?”

“I am a creature of the past,” he told me. “I have never felt comfortable with modern technology. I prefer to think I am living in another time. The eighteenth century, perhaps, when this house was first built.”

I said nothing, just looked around the room.

“You find me eccentric,” he was saying. “I suppose I am. But I prefer it this way. Just myself, and my books, and my writing, and—”

He was distracted by a sound behind him.

“And of course, Hare,” Mr. Craven said, gesturing for the beastly servant to enter. He emerged from the shadows with a bottle of wine and one glass on a tray. He set it down and proceeded to uncork the bottle.

“May I offer you some wine? It is a very good vintage.”

I nodded (you know how much I love good wine, Minter) and Mr. Craven gestured to Hare, who poured me a glass. He handed it to Mr. Craven who passed it over to me.

“Aren’t you joining me?” I asked.

He smiled. “No. I never drink . . . wine.” He walked over to a sideboard and withdrew a small bottle and a sherry glass. “I prefer port.” He poured himself some of the thick red liquid.

Hare had disappeared back into the shadows. That suited me fine; the guy creeped me out. He had locked me in here, I was sure of that—but whatever devious reasons he had for doing so, I wasn’t sure. Still, I wouldn’t press the issue with Mr. Craven; I’d just ask my questions and get out of there.

We shared a toast. “To your first visit to our fair estate,” Mr. Craven said.

I sipped the wine. “It’s—magnificent,” I told him. It really was, Minter. Like nothing I’d ever tasted.

“It is very old,” Mr. Craven told me. “More than a hundred years. I have several still in the wine cellar.”

“That’s amazing.”

“The Craven family have always been connouseurs.” He eyed me over his glass of port. “But you didn’t come here to ask me about wine.”

“No.” I steeled myself. “Mr. Craven, I want to find out what happened to my father.”

“Yes. You mentioned that in your letter.”

“Did you know him?”

“Oh, yes. A good man. He really tried to make a go with his antique shop.”

“What happened to him, Mr. Craven? Do you have any idea?”

“The police could never uncover any clues to his disappearance.”

“But what about you, Mr. Craven? I was told you knew him. I was told you knew both him and his wife, that they were often guests of yours.”

He smiled at me. “That is true. And did your police informants suggest we were all part of a cult?”

I hesitated. “Yes,” I said finally. “They did.”

“And did they say what kind of cult?”

“No.”

“I wish I could tell you that we were—oh, I don’t know, what cults are out there? Hare Krishnas? Branch Davidians? Moonies?” He laughed. “You see, I do manage to keep up with news of the modern world to some degree. Hare brings me a newspaper from the village occasionally.” He looked at me kindly. “But I know of no cult that your father and his wife belonged to. I’m sorry, Mr. Horne. I don’t know what happened to him.”

I sighed. “But it was around the time of all sorts of unsolved murders . . .”

“It must be difficult,” he said. “Not knowing what happened. I suppose all sorts of ideas would start to fester in your mind. You look for any connection, any link, anything to help you understand why your father walked out on you.”

I looked up at him. First I was angry, Minter. Angry that he would suggest that. But there was something in his old eyes, babe—something kind and compassionate and wise. I found myself unable to look away from him.

“I lost my father at a young age, too,” Mr. Craven said. “Oh, not in a physical sense. But he was cold and domineering. He didn’t approve of the choices I made in life. I used to imagine that my real father had been a pirate, and he had just gone away and that someday he would return. I was able to create all sorts of stories about him that way in my imagination.”

I was still unable to take my eyes off him.

“Are you married, Mr. Horne?” he asked me suddenly. “I don’t see a ring.”

“Uh—” I finally averted my eyes from his face, looking down at my hands. “No, I’m not married.”

“But attached, though?”

I nodded. “Yes. I’m attached.”

“And not to a woman,” he said, which, as you can imagine, Minter, shocked the stuffing right out of me.

“No,” I admitted. “To a man. How did you know?”

Mr. Craven smiled. “I have been blessed with intuition. It rarely fails me. More wine?”

I held out my glass for a refill. It was so good, already giving me a soft, happy glow. I was starting to warm to Mr. Craven. And my gaydar was definitely beginning to hum.

“Would you like to see his picture?” I asked, suddenly wanting—almost needing—to take him into my confidence, to share with him some intimate parts of my life. Why I felt that way, who knows? The wine? All I know is I wanted to show him your picture, Minter.

Mr. Craven was beaming. “Yes, certainly. I’d love to see what he looks like.”

I withdrew my wallet and flipped open to your photo. I noticed the way the old man gazed at it, the way his thin, cracked lips slightly parted.

“What is his name?” Mr. Craven asked, not looking up at me.

“Minter.” I watched as he raised questioning eyes to me. I laughed. “Yes, an odd name. It was his mother’s maiden name. His parents gave it to him as a middle name, and he liked it better than his first.”

“Which is?”

“Irwin.”

Mr. Craven smiled.

“Well, he is a striking young man.” He paused, lifting his eyes toward the ceiling for a moment, pressing his fingertips together. He returned his eyes to mine. “Might I show you something? In the upstairs corridor?”

I was curious, so I nodded, following him as he led me out of the parlor and up the staircase, holding a candelabra out in front of him to give us light. The doorknob at the top of the stairs, locked earlier, turned easily in his hand, and we walked into a dark dusty hallway. He paused about halfway down the length, lifting the candelabra to illuminate a portrait.

“This was my friend,” he said. “My kinsman and my friend.”

I strained my eyes to make out the portrait in the candlelight. It was of a handsome young man, dark, with large eyes and full lips. I knew right away what had made Mr. Craven think of it.

The portrait looked nearly identical to you, Minter!

“It’s remarkable,” I said.

“Isn’t it? They could be twins.”

I looked closer at the painting. There was no doubt about it. But even more curious than the resemblance was the fact that the man was dressed in clothing of centuries past. His hair, too, was pulled back, styled in the way I’d seen in drawings of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Over two hundred years ago! Mr. Craven was old, but come on, this was ridiculous!

I was denied the opportunity to point it out to him, however, by a sudden and horrendous clap of thunder. It sure storms often in these parts, Minter. And what storms they are! This one pounded against the house without so much as a gale of warning. Lightning crashed, illuminating the corridor. Mr. Craven headed quickly back down the stairs to find Hare, giving him commands without uttering any sound: just moving his lips, I supposed, because Hare was, after all, deaf. The rain came then, hard against the roof.

“I shouldn’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Craven,” I said. “If that’s all you truly know about my father—”

“But you can’t leave in a storm like this,” he said. “I insist you spend the night. Getting back through the woods in such a torrential downpour would be far too treacherous.”

“No, really, I—”

“Besides, I don’t know when Hare will be back to drive you. I’ve sent him on an errand. Something urgent I just remembered.”

He was looking me in the eyes again. I’m not sure what came over me, Minter, but suddenly the idea of staying overnight in this creepy old house just seemed fun. It was like it was the best offer I’d had in ages. Funny, isn’t it? I guess we need to get out more, babe.

But I have to admit it’s been kind of cool. The thunder and lighting kept on for some time, and Mr. Craven and I sat in front of the fire. He kept drinking his port and I nearly polished off that bottle of wine all by myself. I’ve got a pretty good buzz going, but nothing where I can’t think straight. I mean, I’ve written all this down, haven’t I?

Mr. Craven remembered only a few more things about my father. He was a good man, hardworking, and he had a beautiful wife. Where they might have gone he couldn’t imagine.

“It was a bad time here,” he said. “You mentioned the murders. Who could blame them for leaving?”

“And so there’s nothing to the sheriff’s theory of some kind of cult? Nothing at all?”

He smiled kindly over at me. “There was no cult I ever knew of.”

So I’ve hit a dead end. I was so certain that Mr. Craven held some answer, but I guess he doesn’t. He can’t be lying. His eyes are so sincere. I like him, Minter. I trust him.

It’s past midnight now and the storm still comes and goes. I’m finally getting sleepy. Mr. Craven led me to a room that seems freshly cleaned and aired out, as if he’d been expecting me to stay all along. There’s a chamber pot in the room and a basin with a jug of water. He lit some candles, and in their light I can see that the bed linens, although old, have been freshly laundered and are of a very high quality. I wish you were here with me in this bed, Minter. It’s very comfortable and for some reason I’m very horny. I’ll call you tomorrow when I leave here, lover. What a day it’s been. Suddenly I’m so sleepy. It’s as if

May 6, 3:15 a.m.—Weirdness, Minter. I must have fallen asleep as I was writing. Just zonked right out. And now, at the very same time that I was awakened last night, I’ve seen something else unexplainable. There was a noise outside my window that startled me awake. The storm was over and the night was still. But I was sure I heard the sound of something crying. Something not human—

I leapt out of bed and looked out the window. Below, entering through a back door of the house, awash in moonlight, I spied Hare. And in his arms he carried a struggling, kicking, mooing calf. A calf! They disappeared inside the house below.

Bizarre, isn’t? I want to write this down because I have the strangest feeling that if I don’t, I won’t remember it in the morning. Now I’m so sleepy again, Minter, I’m not sure that I

May 6, 5:45 a.m.—It’s only now that I find I finally have the strength to write again. Could that wine have given me the most peculiar hangover of my life? I saw things, Minter. Things that I—

Okay, let me try to collect my thoughts. I must have fallen asleep once more as I wrote in this journal. It was right after I saw Hare carry the calf into the house. And I was right: I had indeed forgotten about it until I read what I had written in here.

I fell asleep in some kind of deep stupor. But then I woke up—at least, I think I did—maybe it was a dream—oh, Minter, I don’t know! I remember leaving my room and walking down the corridor. I was looking for something. I don’t know what. A bathroom, maybe? It was like I was sleepwalking.

I turned the corner and entered into this room. There was an old canopy bed and a small table with a vanity. A woman’s room, but covered in dust and cobwebs. I just stood there, in the middle of the room, looking around. Why had I come there? I think, if I had been sleepwalking, I awoke a little at that point, because I remember thinking I shouldn’t be walking around so late at night without Mr. Craven’s permission.

And then I heard a sound. The creaking of a door. Off in the shadows of the room, a partition in the wall slid back, and a woman emerged. She was like nothing I’ve ever seen before, Minter. Tall, dark, beautiful—but something wasn’t right about her. She was pale, and there was something burning in her eyes, something wild, like an animal—

A hungry animal.

“Who are you?” I called out.

She came toward me. Her arms were outstretched. She wore a sheer white gown, and I could see her breasts through it. I backed away from her. She touched me. She opened her mouth as if she’d kiss me—

And then I must have blacked out. It must have been a dream, Minter. That’s the only way to explain it. An alcohol-induced dream. I remember other scattered images—Mr. Craven was in the dream, too. He was telling the woman to leave me alone, that I wasn’t hers, that I would be no good to her—

Next thing I knew I was back here, in bed. I got up to write this all down, because again, I feel if I don’t that I won’t remember it in the morning.

You always say we should keep a dream journal, Minter. Right beside the bed so we can write them down while they’re still fresh. You say they can teach us things, our dreams. Well, what do you make of this one?

I’m afraid you might think I’m just being my usual hysterical self, drinking too much and getting all caught up in fancy daydreams. But I swear these dreams felt so real, so authentic. I can’t help but think about those books on witchcraft downstairs. You’re always so rational, Minter. You don’t believe any of those ghost stories we watch on the Sci-Fi Channel. No such things as alien abductions or near-death experiences or communicating with the dead. I find all that stuff fascinating. I have ever since I was a kid and I was an expert on horror lore, gleaned from watching all the Universal and Hammer fright flicks. Dracula, Frankenstein, the Mummy, the Wolfman . . . “Even a man who is pure at heart, and says his prayers by night, may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the autumn moon is bright . . .”

What sense would you bring to these experiences I’ve had? Oh, right now, Minter, I’d give anything for your logical, skeptical mind. I’m a dreamer; I’ve always known that. Truth has mattered less to me than fantasy or imagination. But that has meant no career, no direction, and no boyfriend who’s lasted longer than a few weeks—until you, Minter.

So I think I’m at a turning point. Whatever’s happening here is meant to teach me something. I’m here to discover something about myself. Something about my own truth. About my direction in life. Whether my experiences have been the stuff of dreams or the cold facts of reality, they are meant to show me the way. I believe that. I have come here not only to find my father, but my fate.

May 7, 11:15 a.m.—Another note from Mr. Craven this morning, this one left propped outside my door. He apologized for not being able to join me for breakfast, but said Hare would bring me food in the parlor downstairs. And something else, too, Minter—he wrote that if I waited for him to finish his work today, he’d give me some information he’d “just remembered” about my father. Well, that was sure incentive enough to keep me hanging around this strange old place for a few more hours.

Breakfast was surprisingly good. Scrambled eggs and bacon and freshly baked bread, brought in to me on a silver platter by a shuffling, silent Hare. Was he the cook, too? I hadn’t seen any other servant so far. The coffee was hot and strong, which went a long way toward banishing that hangover and those strange dreams. But thinking about them again, Minter, I admit they still unnerve me.

So I decided to wander around the grounds a bit. No locked doors today. It’s a gorgeous spring day here. Birds in the trees are chattering back and forth like excited schoolchildren in a playground. The sun is warm and all the leaves have popped, bright green, fresh and new. I can hear the crash of the surf at the bottom of the cliffs. How I wish you were here to experience all this with me, sweets.

Exploring through the woods that lead back up to the main house, I stumbled across a small graveyard. At least I think it was a graveyard. Crooked slabs of concrete marked about a dozen plots, but there were no names etched into the faces. I had a distinct chill standing there, and it wasn’t from the sea wind that swept in from the cliffs.

I could have left, Minter. I could have kept walking through the woods, found my way back to town, gotten in my car and driven away. I could be on my way home to you right now, Minter. But I came back to this house. Somehow I just couldn’t leave. Sure, it’s because of the carrot Mr. Craven has dangled in front of me: more information about my father. But it’s more than that.

I just have to see him again. I have to look again into those deepset dark eyes of his. I can’t explain it. I just can’t wait to see him again. I am transfixed by him, utterly in his thrall. My quest for answers, about whether I can believe in my way of seeing the world, is all tied up with him. He holds the answers I seek. I cannot explain it any more than that. I just know it is true.

May 7, 10:35 p.m.—Mr. Craven kept me waiting until after sunset. He was most gracious in his apologies, saying his work had simply overtaken him, and insisted I have dinner with him. Before I could say anything, Hare had wheeled in a tray of lamb chops and roasted potatoes, and I agreed. It was excellent. Mr. Craven didn’t eat any of it, though, saying he wasn’t hungry. “Well, not for lamb, anyhow,” he said with a smile.

He just sat there drinking his port while I feasted. Every time I’d try to bring up my father and ask him what he had remembered, he’d change the subject. He seemed fascinated about our lives, Minter. An older gay man living vicariously through the details of a younger generation, I suppose. Though I have to admit he didn’t seem quite so old tonight. There was a little more spring in his step, more color in his wizened old cheeks.

“Where did the two of you meet?” he asked.

I laughed. “At a bar, actually. I suppose we both thought it was just going to be yet another one-night stand, but fate had its own ideas.”

“Ah, fate.” Mr. Craven rubbed his hands together as he watched me eat. “And did you court him? Bring him flowers?”

“Yeah, sure. Especially in the beginning. You know, when things are all hot and heavy . . .”

“Hot and heavy,” Mr. Craven repeated.

“You know what I mean.”

He arched an eyebrow at me. “So is it no longer ‘hot and heavy’ then?”

I blushed. “Well, I suppose it still is. We’ve only been together ten months. This is actually the first time we’ve been apart any length of time.”

“You must think of him often, then.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

“Think of him now.”

“Huh?”

“Think of him now so that I may see the look on your face.”

It was an odd request, but I complied. I must have smiled, for Mr. Craven seemed pleased.

“I can see him in my mind’s eye,” he said dreamily, “mounted upon his horse.”

I looked at him quizzically. “How do you know he rides?”

“Well, of course he rides. He’s always loved to ride.”

I raised my eyebrows in bemusement. “Are you psychic, Mr. Craven?”

He didn’t answer me. He stood and began walking around the room, touching things. A vase. An old lamp. A candestick. The spines of the books on the shelves. “He loved to ride, and he loved to dance. Oh, what a wonderful dancer he was—”

He was no longer talking about you, Minter. His mind was far away. “Mr. Craven,” I asked, trying to be compassionate, “are you thinking about your friend? The one in the portrait?”

He turned to me with wide eyes, seeming shaken out of his reverie. He had no answer for me. His lips were tight against his teeth.

“His name was Jebediah,” he said at last.

“Was he your lover?”

Mr. Craven’s face went dark. He turned away from me and stared out the window. In the distance dogs began to howl. It gave me the creeps.

“He was,” the old man answered. “Until a she-devil arrived to take him away from me.”

“I’m sorry.”

He turned back to face me. He was smiling now. “But enough of the past. The past is gone. I must live for now. For today. Tell me more about Minter—”

“Mr. Craven,” I interrupted, “please. You promised to reveal something about my father. Something you said that you’d remembered.”

He looked at me. And as I looked back, Minter, I swear he seemed to be growing younger in front of my eyes. His hair was still white and his face still lined, but his jaw was now firmer, his cheeks less hollow. He carried himself with greater strength and determination than he had even when he first came into the room. It was the strangest thing to observe.

“Your father,” he spoke. “Yes, your father. He was a good man.”

“You’ve already told me that.”

“He was a good man who was caught up in events beyond his control. You shouldn’t blame him for disappearing on you. That’s what I wanted to tell you. He was powerless to stop what happened.”

“Mr. Craven, I’m not following you . . .”

“That is all you need to know.”

“What do you mean that’s all I need to know?” I felt myself suddenly get angry. All the warm feelings I’d been experiencing for him dissipated. I felt tricked, manipulated. “This is what you told me to wait all day to hear? This is what you remembered?”

He smiled shrewdly at me. “Is it not enough, Jeremy?”

It was the first time he’d called me Jeremy. Before that, it was always “Mr. Horne.” I’m not sure why it stopped me, but it did. In that moment I felt the same chill that I’d felt out in the graveyard.

“No,” I managed to say. “It’s not enough. If you have details, Mr. Craven, I’d like to hear them.”

He approached me. If my writing is shaky, Minter, it’s because I’m terrified just remembering the moment. There was something about his eyes, so dark, so deep. He came within inches of my face, and his breath was rank. Up close, he looked still younger: the lines were disappearing on his skin almost as I watched. He smiled, revealing gleaming white teeth.

“You don’t want details, Jeremy,” he said in a deliberate whisper. “Details are the stuff of nightmares. The way of madness. Of ruin. Details warp your mind. They curdle your thoughts. Destroy your hopes. Abandon your soul to its darkest fears.”

I held my ground. “In details lie the truth.”

“And is it truth you seek above all else, Jeremy? Above everything?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice shaking. “Truth is what I came here to find.”

“Not only about your father.”

I stared at him. “No, not only about him.”

Mr. Craven smiled. “You want to know the truth about yourself, too. Why you have been so aimless all your life. Why you have never found your calling, so to speak.”

It was eerie, how much he knew.

“Is it so obvious?” I asked. “My life?”

“Minter is successful, is he not? You feel inferior.”

I bristled. “No. No, I—Minter is very encouraging of me—my writing aspirations—”

“You are terrified of his leaving you. Throwing you over for someone else. Someone who has a direction in life. Someone who is superior to you.”

“No—no, I—”

“You say you seek truth, but you stand there in denial of it. Is truth really what you seek, Jeremy Horne?”

I was unable to reply.

“Is that not right?” he asked. “Above all else, you want truth?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I want truth.”

A slow, thin grin spread across his face. “And would you trade truth over love, Jeremy?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Truth over love. How can I be more plain that that? The truth you seek, in exchange for love.” He smiled. “Minter’s love, for example.”

In that moment I knew utter terror. What did he mean? He was crazy. He was spouting nonsense, but suddenly I detected that in his ravings lay some kind of malice. His gentlemanly demeanor was a mask. The locals were right to fear him. I tried to recall Mrs. Haskell’s admonition that he was just a sad, lonely man—but in his sadness and loneliness, he had become bitter. Malicious. And quite possibly dangerous.

“Thank you for dinner, Mr. Craven, but I find I must leave now,” I said crisply, turning and heading for the door.

Just then it began to thunder. The crash shook the house so much that vases tottered on the shelves. I stopped. This was too weird. The rain pummeled the roof. The wind began howling through the eaves.

“Oh, but you can’t leave in such a storm,” Mr. Craven said, an echo of the night before, the gentility and hospitality suddenly returning to his voice. “The road through the woods will be impossible.”

“I’ll manage,” I said, resuming my stride toward the door.

“But I must insist,” Mr. Craven said, and there, all at once from the shadows, was Hare, his big hulking form standing between me and the door.

I felt Mr. Craven’s hand on my shoulder. It was ice cold.

“What kind of a host would I be if I were to let my guest go out in weather like this? Your room upstairs is waiting for you.”

I turned around slowly to face him. He beamed a warm smile at me, gesturing with his hand toward the stairs.

I couldn’t move. I was caught in his eyes. I could say nothing. I just found my strength and began to walk in the direction of the stairs.

I’m back in my room now, Minter. I’m trapped here. He won’t let me leave. The door is locked from the other side. There’s no escape. The drop from the window is too steep. I’m trapped!

I had come here seeking truth. I had thought that here were the answers I’d been looking for all my life. I had convinced myself this was my destiny, my fate—

But what kind of fate is it?

Once again I’ve let dreams and fancies cloud my judgment. I’m sorry, Minter. How disappointed you’d be in me. I’ll get out of here in the morning. He doesn’t want to be charged with kidnapping. He’s got to let me out then. He’ll let me out to use the outhouse or something, and I’ll make a run for it. I’ll smash through a window, use a candlestick as a weapon this time if I need to—

And maybe I’m simply being melodramatic yet again. I just don’t know anymore. But I know I’m not going to sleep. I’m going to stay awake all night. There’s no way I can close my eyes now.

May 8, 6:02 a.m.—At last the sun is starting to break through the night. Why is it so difficult for me to write? My mind keeps wanting to slip away, to forget—and the pen is so heavy in my hand. But write I must—

The wounds on my neck are throbbing. The flesh is torn, bright red.

Proof, Minter. Proof that what I’ve seen is real. You can’t explain these wounds away with any of your logic, any of your damned rational assessment, the way you do when we’re watching Unexplained Mysteries or whatever show like it. I have been attacked, Minter. It was not my imagination. Stop thinking that it was!

“He is not yours!” Mr. Craven’s voice had echoed through the room. “He is not yours!”

The woman was sobbing. “He looks so much like Phillip! Please! You must give him to me!”

My father’s name . . . she had used my father’s name . . .

Where was that? When did that happen? Had I fallen asleep as I’d tried so hard not to do? I remember images . . . my door opening, the soft tinkling music—the woman’s room, yes, the same place I’d been the previous night. And the same woman—.

Mr. Craven had laughed at her.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Take him if you want him so much. You will see.”

No. I can’t allow myself to remember what happened next. My mind pushes the thought away. It was too horrible.

But I’ve got to. For you, Minter. I’ve got to record what’s happened to me. There must be a record. And you’ve got to believe!!

Her teeth. So sharp and long. And she came forward as if to kiss me, and I felt such revulsion for her. She punctured my neck with her teeth. The pain was excrutiating. The bile rose in my throat as she lapped at my blood, and I vomited right there, all over her. There are still stains on my shirt. That was no dream. No hallucination.

The creature screamed. She pulled back from me, and Mr. Craven laughed.

I fell to the floor, gripping my neck. I felt warm blood ooze through my fingers. I retched again, and spewed the last of my lamb dinner all over the floor.

“Come to me!” she cried. “Come to me, I command you!”

I answered her only with a dry heave.

Mr. Craven’s laughter filled the room.

“You see?” he said. “I told you he was not for you!”

“But he is Phillip’s son!”

“And like Phillip, he is mine,” Mr. Craven told her, and the woman shrieked.

I can’t write anymore. I can’t

May 8, 9:30 a.m.—With the sun shining through my windows, I can finally think more clearly. My strength is slowly returning so that I might plan my escape.

That was no dream. And so I know now that my father met his fate here in this house. The woman knew him. And Mr. Craven’s chilling words:

And like Phillip, he is mine.

I inspected my wounds in the mirror. They are healing quickly, far more quickly than they should be.

Vampires. In the haze of last night, I understood what they were.

There are such things. That’s what old Edward van Sloan, playing old Van Helsing, had said at the end of Dracula. He was right. There are such things!!

This journal is not the ranting of a madman, Minter, even though I fear that even now, even after all I’ve written, you still might insist on thinking so. You trivialize my dreams. You demean my imagination. But I was right, my love. This place has confirmed to me that my truth is real. Coming here I did indeed discover my destiny—but is that destiny my death?

At least I am safe now. While the sun shines, I am safe. And if I am to escape, it must be now. But how?

My door is locked. There is no way out of this room. No breakfast served this day. And there’s no one to hear me if I tried to call. Hare’s deaf, and besides, he’s under Craven’s power.

Yet perhaps I could reason with him. Tell him he doesn’t want to be party to a kidnapping. Or worse. As soon as I get out—and Minter, for the record, I am getting out—I’ll report Craven. I’ll bring the police back here and fuck them if they don’t believe me when I tell them they’ll need crucifixes and wooden stakes instead of guns. They’ll find out soon enough.

What had Craven done to my father? He must have had him in his power. That’s the cult! The cult of the vampire! My father’s fate—it must have been hideous.

But it won’t be mine, Minter! I swear!

May 8, 4:45 p.m.—My hopes have faded, my love. My desperate attempt to escape backfired. So I am keeping this journal as a record. Writing it all down so that if I do not make it out of here, you will know what happened to me, Minter. I’ll find a way to secure it. Hide it. You’ll get it somehow. You must! And then you must believe! You must put aside all you have been taught and you must believe!

Yes, Minter, what he said to me is true. I do fear you leaving me. I do fear you will tire of my aimless ways, my dreams, my flights of fancy. You will leave me unless I can become something else, someone better, someone with direction—

And yet what does it matter now? My dreams have led me to ruin. I will never see your face again, my love, and you will remember me as a lost soul who wandered off one night, never to return.

I dread dusk, which draws closer with every tick of the old clock. What I am about to write may be my last entry, my love. It will seem unbelievable, totally fantastic. But believe it, Minter. I want you to know what happened to me. I didn’t leave you of my own free will! I am destroyed by a devil! I am powerless against him!

I thought I was home free. I really did. I figured that even though Hare couldn’t hear my calls, he’d feel them. I began to bang on the door, rattle the knob, stomp my feet on the floor. I kept at this for fifteen, twenty minutes, feeling the vibrations shudder through the old wood of the house. Finally I heard the heavy shuffling of Hare on the stairs. I began pounding on the door even harder.

I heard the key in the lock. The old door creaked open enough for Hare to look inside. His single pulpy eye glared at me.

“I’m sick,” I said, enunciating the words clearly so that he’d be sure to read them correctly. “I’m sick and I need a bathroom. Please, Hare! Show me some mercy!”

He grunted.

“Look at me, Hare.” The stains were still on my shirt. “Please don’t leave me here like a sick animal in a cage!”

He hesitated, making a low, gurgling sound in his throat. Then he pushed the door forward roughly and took ahold of my wrist. He pulled me out into the corridor and shoved me toward the stairs.

Hare’s stronger than I am, I knew that much. But I took a chance that I was faster. I’d been a cross-country star in college, after all. So as soon as we were near the bottom of the stairs, I made a break for it. That was my first mistake. In my eagerness to get away, I was rash. Why didn’t I wait until we were outside at the outhouse?

Oh, sure, I proved faster than Hare. His lumbering stride was no match for my swift sprint across the parlor. But the front door was locked—of course it was—and the heavy iron candlestick only bounced off the glass of the window. Hare was only a few feet from me by then, snarling and salivating, his massive hands reaching for me. I eluded him, dodging behind a chair as he lunged. The big hulk went sprawling to the floor. I ran deeper into the house, slamming doors behind me and locking them when I could. There had to be a way out somewhere!

But the door leading outside from the old eighteenth-century kitchen was locked too. I was left standing there among old copper pots and pans hung on hooks around an ancient hearth. I lifted one of the largest pots from its place, intending it as a weapon. The glass here proved similarly invulnerable to my swing, so I merely held the pan in front of me, waiting for Hare, who I could hear stumbling and growling his way through the house toward me.

That’s when I spotted the door to the cellar. It was standing open. I had no idea if there was any way out from there, but perhaps it would offer me a place to hide. Better to chance the unknown than face a certain pummeling by Hare.

So I hurried down the steps, still carrying the copper pan in case I needed it. Immediately I was hit by the thick, fruity smell of old soil. It was a damp, dark place, constructed with stone in some places, with rotting wooden posts and earth in others. The ceiling was low and the corridors narrow. Yes, there were hiding places here. But for how long? Hare would know all of them. He would trap me down here. Kill me, probably.

The only light came from small windows cut into the earth. Even if the glass was breakable, the windows were too small for me to crawl through. I paused at one point, crouching behind an old rolltop desk to listen for Hare. There was no sound of him following me. In fact, as I strained to hear, I detected his footsteps above. He was in the parlor. He hadn’t pursued me into the cellar.

I took a moment to breathe, to think. What would I do now? Had I made my situation worse? What if night fell and I was still down here, trapped in utter darkness? What might Mr. Craven do to me then?

I leaned against the desk and the weight of my hands caused the top to roll upward. Inside were revealed several old, flaking newspapers. I looked at the dates. 1969.

My eyes quickly scanned the faded type.

LOCAL COUPLE MISSING