Book Five, Chapter 67: The Host

After about ten minutes of driving, I finally connected with a familiar road—a road that normally led to the Powerworks Pavilion. But this time, as I drove along, I saw that I was supposed to turn left onto a small road leading further uphill, one that had been washed out when we’d been here before.

There was a simple sign showing the way to the Manor. The other road, the one we usually traveled down, seemed to lead to a quarry instead of a space base/power station. I suspected they had shut it down a long time ago because the sign was so rotten I could barely read it.

So, up the mountain, I drove.

I glanced at my watch and realized I was making good time. I suspected that time itself was being toyed with, but I couldn’t prove it.

The further I drove, the more signs of the estate I began to see: old, crumbling walls, a well surrounded by a gazebo, wind chimes, and other decorations hanging from the trees. I began to realize that, in a way, autumn had made its first strike here at the top of the mountain, even though everywhere else, summer still had a little fight left in it.

It was dreary and damp. Perfect for an abandoned manor.

I drove onward until I reached a gate guarded by three armed men decked out in army gear. One of the men glanced down at a clipboard and walked up to my window as I arrived.

“Name?” he asked as I rolled down my window.

“Riley Lawrence,” I said.

He nodded, looking at his list.

“Drive right on through, sir. Stick to the right and park in front of the big house.”

I nodded, and forward I went. They didn’t even check my ID. What kind of security were they?

The gate’s presence had tricked me. I had assumed I was almost there, but I still had another mile to go.

Then I saw it as I rounded a curve.

At first, I noticed the large fountain in front of the house, which had probably not had running water in many, many years. But it was beautiful, featuring a sort of angel—or perhaps a naiad—dancing in the water that didn’t run, playfully being chased by a wolfhound, all of it tarnished by time and neglect.

I drove onward, noticing that there was a placard on the fountain that I’d need to get closer to read, but I’d have to park my car first.

I saw Kimberley’s convertible and Antoine’s truck parked and decided to find a place next to them.

I got out of my car and set myself on a path back toward the fountain, intent on reading whatever inscription I had spied from the road.

When I got there, I was met with a simple poem:

“In twilight’s rest, our darling sleeps,
The chain of sorrow, love still keeps.”

“Bound no more by moon’s embrace,
She finds her peace in silent grace.”

“Beyond the bars of night and grief,
Her spirit soars, at last, released.”

“In hallowed earth, where shadows lie,
We leave our love, a soft goodbye.”

All I could say was, “Huh. That’s interesting.”

I stared up at the woman I had at first believed to be an angel but now saw as a beloved and indomitable spirit of a young daughter, probably taken too soon.

After a quick scan to see if there was an opening to an underground vault or something, I walked back toward my car and looked at my watch again, realizing I had more time before I had to go inside.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go into the spooky, old, gothic mansion; I just didn’t want to miss something out here.

So, I went back to my car and opened up the trunk, and thank goodness I did. What I was met with was a milk crate—the old wooden kind—filled with tape reels in little metal canisters, each labeled with a title written on a piece of tape. I shuffled through them and immediately knew that most of them didn’t matter, and I knew that because the three that did matter appeared in my head on the red wallpaper.

The only way I could figure it was that, like all the other information I had gotten so far, this was information my character would absolutely already know and that by checking the trunk, I had gained access to it.

I let the tapes in my mind start to play, beginning with one labeled Background Info: Werewolf Soft Springs 1985.

As I watched the tapes, I sorted through the rest of the trunk’s contents and found a handheld camera, a Super 8 or similar, from what I could tell. As a documentarian, was I meant to film everything?

The tape was of an interview done with an older woman who spoke about the lore of werewolves. I was rubbing my hands together as I watched it; I must have looked like a real fool, but this was great stuff.

You have to learn the basics of how a werewolf works in the universe of the movie you’re in.

These werewolves had a lot of typical qualities, like hating silver.

According to the woman, as she showed off what appeared to be a friendship bracelet made of silver, werewolves were particularly sensitive to the metal. Then she went on with more details, like the magical connection between wolves of a pack or that a werewolf will remember you for decades.

In fact, she claimed that the same werewolf had visited her every few years since she was a little girl.

Someone with my voice asked her why. That was even creepier than Carousel copying my handwriting.

She said it was because it was her brother who went missing when they were children.

That would have sounded kooky if someone in the real world said it.

I could only imagine what it would be like to try to find the truth about something supernatural in a world where magic existed but was denied by the public at large. It would be hard to sort through what was real and what was nonsense.

But if I were to make a guess based on the way the woman spoke, she really was being visited by her werewolf brother.

She went on to list a few other details like the curse being spread by saliva. And she said something peculiar to wrap up the short interview: “All werewolves are in love. That’s why they howl at the moon.”

That was a new one for me.

That was the whole tape, and while I wanted to watch the others, my time ran out. I took a look up at the Manor and quickly walked toward the front door.

It opened before I even had a chance to knock on the old, rusted knocker, which was just a round metal loop inside the mouth of a wolf, appropriately enough.

“Mr. Lawrence,” a tall, olive-skinned man said to me with a polite smile while I still held my hand in the air, reaching for the knocker like an idiot.

On the red wallpaper, his name was Duval, Mr. Duval.

“Hello, I got an invitation to be here tonight,” I said, holding up my envelope.

“You did, Mr. Lawrence, and I am so pleased that you have arrived,” he said. He didn’t stick out his hand for me to shake; his hands were firmly at his sides as he bowed in greeting.

He was an old-fashioned butler.

As I walked past him to get inside, I started to wonder if perhaps there was going to be a murder and if he was the one who did it.

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“The other guests are in the gentleman’s parlor,” he said. “I must make further arrangements for tonight’s dinner if you’ll excuse me. Oh, and I must ask that you never film Mr. Kirst. I understand that you are a documentarian, but he is off-limits. Perhaps you should wait until tomorrow to begin.”

I was still holding the camera from the trunk of my car. I supposed the dinner wasn’t on the record. I wasn’t heartbroken.

I nodded and smiled as if to release him from whatever bounds of servitude a butler signed on for.

I took a look around the Manor, just taking things in.

My first observation was that there was no electricity. The place was wired, but for whatever reason, the electric lights—antique and beautiful, though covered in dust and cobwebs—were not on.

Lanterns were placed around the entrance area. Was that called a foyer or a lobby? I couldn’t remember, but it was a grand, large area that would have been quite beautiful if not for a hundred years without maid service.

Large bookcases were placed here and there with books that appeared to be authentic from the time period rotting right on the shelves. They had not done much to clean up around the place except sweep paths between the rooms.