CHAPTER TWELVE

The house was as Aunt Rose had said: impossible to miss.

It was a huge, dark affair with multiple turrets and porches, gables and archways. Its clapboard sides were painted a dark shade of gray, its shutters black. A gate, dominating the iron-spear fence, stood open, and as Julia walked through it, she experienced a strange sensation. It was as though she had stepped from one world into another. The air itself seemed different.

There was no bell. The door knocker was in the shape of a ram’s head, with tiny eyes made of some dark material set into the bronze metal; the eyes seemed to be watching her. A large bronze ring hung suspended from the ram’s nostrils. Julia lifted the ring and let it bang down. The whole house seemed to vibrate from the sound. Julia held her breath. This was the end of her long, long search. Finally it was finished. She was home. She was where she belonged, where she was needed and wanted.

The door remained closed and Julia’s pulse throbbed more quickly. Again she raised the knocker and let it bang down. This time she did it with more determination. And again the deep, thick thud of the ring hitting against its solid plate send a thundering boom throughout the rambling old mansion.

Finally the door opened on silent, well-oiled hinges. Julia found herself facing a rather tall, somewhat austere-looking woman with gray hair that flew in every direction. Her eyes were narrowed into a squint, the chin was pointed and her nose was sharp-ridged and crooked. “Well?” the old woman croaked.

Julia tried a weak little smile. “I’m looking for....” She fell silent. Who was she looking for? No one had thought to tell her her father’s name. It wasn’t Carson, like her own; that much she’d been told.

Was it Bishop? She felt most foolish, standing there with open mouth and motionless tongue. She couldn’t just tell this strange old woman that she was looking for her father.

“I’m sorry,” Julia stammered. “I seem to be in a quandary.”

The old woman put her bony hands on her hips and tilted her head to an impatient angle. “Who is it you want, girl?”

“I’m Bridget Bishop’s daughter,” Julia managed to say.

She saw the old woman’s expression change. The weary old eyes brightened for a moment, then narrowed again as she looked Julia up and down. She stared into her face for a full minute then said, “Yes, I heard you’d come to Belham. You got her eyes and her hair. She was prettier, though...had more meat on her.” She moved aside with a quick shuffling little step. “Well, come in, girl, come in. Don’t stand out there for all the people to gawk at. He isn’t home, went out early this morning...never said where he was going...never does,” the old woman ushered Julia into the house and carefully, solidly closed and locked the door.

Julia found herself standing in the center of a massive labyrinth of rooms, corridors, and staircases. It was as if she stood in the hub of a giant wheel with passageways going off in every direction. The inside was as gray and bleak as the outside. The foyer into which she’d been admitted was a large circle with a stairway that curved up one wall and down the other. The old woman must have noticed Julia’s interest in the horseshoe staircase.

“The living go up the right; the dead come down the left,” she muttered with a cackle.

One lone reception table stood in the very center of the foyer. On it was a single urn filled to overflowing with dried stalks and flowers in autumnal colors. The chandelier overhead was of polished brass which had been curled and spiralled and twisted into the most intricate of designs. The floor was black, the walls were stretched with silver-gray silk. The carpeting on the stairs was blood red. Julia found the whole atmosphere depressing.

“Have you had your breakfast, Miss?” the old woman asked.

“Thank you, yes. What time will my father be back, do you think?”

The woman lifted one bony shoulder higher than the other. “With him there’s no way of knowing. In all the years I’ve served him, he still tells me nothing. He’ll be here when he gets here, that’s all I can tell you.” She nodded toward double doors. “You can wait in there. It’s the parlor. That’s the only room we keep up these days. The rest of the place is going to wrack and ruin. It’ll all fall down around our ears if we’re not careful.”

The room Julia entered was pleasant enough. At least the colors were a bit brighter, but not much more. These walls were stretched with powder-blue linen. The rugs were deep, deep purple, the draperies heavy black. There were white accents here and there, but overall, the room seemed one large portion of purple and black, suspended in light blue.

“Well, make yourself as cozy as you can, Miss. Ring if you need anything,” the old woman said, nodding toward a bellpull next to an ornate black-marble fireplace. “They call me Matilda.”

“Thank you, Matilda. Truthfully, I don’t know what my real name is now. I’ve been called Julia Carson, but I suppose my real name is Bishop...like his,” she added, hoping the old woman would enlighten her.

“He never misses lunch, so at least you know you’ll not have to wait all day.” She cackled again and shuffled out of the room, leaving Julia very much alone.

She went toward the window, figuring to open the draperies and admit some daylight. She found, however, that the seams had been solidly stitched together. How curious, she thought as she felt for the dividing seams. She found none.

Tucked in one dark corner of the room was a statue of an unusual size and shape. The dimness of the corner made it unrecognizable. Julia walked toward it, and as she got closer she continued to have difficulty identifying the piece of sculpture. It was neither male nor female in gender, nor was it animal or human, but a combination thereof. The figure stood almost six-feet high, she calculated, with a head much too out of proportion to the rest of the body. The statue was carved from dark stone, marble perhaps, she decided. And down the front of the torso was a gold overlay, applied in layers to resemble feathers, fur, or fish scales. The face was hideous. Bright yellow eyes peered out from the black face, if one could call it a face. Where the nose should have been was a long snout like that of a very large dog; where the hair should have been was a mane with stubby horns at the forelocks. The figure had arms and hands, but glancing down at the feet, Julia saw that it stood on paws with long, sharp claws.

She touched the golden staff it held in one hand. To her amazement, the arm moved slightly and she heard a scraping sound as a portion of the wall behind the strange statue slid open. A large cavernous room appeared to the rear.

If the statue bewildered her, the room proved even more perplexing. The center of the room was completely empty, a vast oval space with black-marble flooring. At one end of the oval was a raised platform on which stood what looked like an altar of sorts. Candlesticks were placed in a row atop the flat slab.

She remembered Miss Marshall’s cigarette lighter was still in her handbag. She rummaged in the bag for it and, finding it, flicked it on and lit one of the tall candles. The flame flickered and grew tall and straight in the almost airless room, sending long, ominous shadows stretching into the blackness.

Julia glanced around the room. The place was draped completely in black, which accounted for the lack of draft and the dense silence that hung over everything. Around the outside of the oval were statues of strange forms, none of which were identifiable. There were animals or mixtures of men and beasts, huge birds, reptiles that stood on their tails, naked monsters that made the blood rush to her temples and force her to look away from their grotesque attitudes.

Behind the statues, the draperies were hung with hideous pictures of burning cities, faces with hair on fire, crosses turned upside down. She turned back toward the altar and raised her tall candlestick. Over the altar was a massive face with bright, gleaming yellow eyes, pointed ears and sharp stabbing horns on the forehead. Julia felt cold fear catch in her throat. She dropped the candle, throwing the room back into darkness. Turning, she blindly dashed out.

Her breath was short and she leaned, unknowingly, against the old statue that stood guarding the entrance to the room. Unwittingly she touched the arm and heard the wall paneling slide shut.

Why would anyone want so hideous a room? What kind of a man was her father? The inverted crucifixes, the burning cities, all made her think of the powers of hell that the medium had referred to. Was she never to escape this evil that seemed to be pursuing her?

She couldn’t stay here. No, she decided. She’d go now and perhaps return another time when she had a chance to gather her wits and nerves about her.

Just as she started for the door again, a figure, tall and straight and masculine, loomed before her.

“So you are the daughter I have been searching and waiting for all these years,” the man said.

His voice was the softest, smoothest, most charming, and beautiful voice Julia had ever heard.