A Legacy of Dirt: The Shunned Place — A Tale of Lovecraftian Noir by Peter Guy Blacklock — Chapter Two: Dissolute Progeny
I have finally got round to editing the second chapter of my Lovecraftian Horror, hard-boiled Noir mashup. A newly finalised Chapter One can be found HERE, if you haven’t already read it. This tale was originally intended to be a novella (of about 40,000 words), but may now have to be expanded into a short novel (of about 50,000 to 60,000 words) depending on how the remaining writing and editing process goes.
I make no appolgies for depicting the characters as movie stars from 40s and 50s genre film, in keeping with the first chapter. I find it useful to picture the said stars as the characters in my story while I’m writing, and I thought it might give the readers here a helping hand to visualise them more accurately while reading.
I currently have six chapters drafted out and will probably post a couple more here to this website as teasers before I get the full ten to twelve chapters written, edited and ultimately published. Now, to the text of the latest chapter…
Chapter Two: Dissolute Progeny
The Lincoln’s twin headlights projected two searching beams that scanned and probed the dead of night darkness through near opaque sheets of rain. The slate grey stones of the looming five-storied keep-like house, and the castellated walls of the courtyard that fronted it, glistened wet, black and slick. It was an ugly, horned toad of a building. Big and hulking, with bloated appendages squared out and meeting in an arch over the open entrance through the gatehouse. Already, Lofty knew he hated the place. It reminded him too much of the old-world edifices the Nazis had so often occupied and used to dominate local populations across Europe. They had been bases from which to brutalize with an unrelenting iron fist. They made perfect prisons to hold those that resisted them, and holes to throw those that did not fit within their twisted, evil ideology of affected purity and supremacy.
The big sedan slipped through the yawning gatehouse with masses of room to spare and on into the inner cobblestone court. In the middle of the courtyard was a circular structure about fifteen feet wide and five feet high, like a low building, but with no doors or windows. It had a shallow, conical roof made of timber, suggesting it was a kind of covered water well — a thing it was assuredly too big to be in any conventional sense. Lofty drove around it slow, taking in the size of the main house. He beeped the horn several times in the hope it would bring someone to let them in from the rain that much sooner. The courtyard itself was about fifty feet across, flanked by ancillary buildings. Most now garages, but once were stables and other workshops or housings typical of such late medieval complexes. He pulled up to the broad, high stairs that led to the big front doors of the building proper, which remained decisively closed.
“Well, there’s no point in us both getting wet again.” He said with a glance back at Martha. “You better stay here till I can get someone to come and open the door. It’s only eleven, there should be people about, and I’m sure the old bird will have plenty of servants.”
“What makes you think it’s locked,” she said, “maybe we can go straight in.”
“If you ask me, walking into a rich man’s house unannounced in the middle of the night is a good way to get yourself drilled. Anyway — if I was rich and it was my house — I’d keep it locked.”
She nodded.
He got out, ran around the sedan and sprinted up the five massive steps to the solid-looking double doors. They each sported a heavy knocker, and a bell-pull hung to the side. He knocked loudly, then gave the pull an urgent couple of tugs. Lofty looked the doors up and down as he waited, getting wetter and more impatient as the rain continued to pour. Directly above, where the two doors met, he noticed a strange — and relatively recent — embellished ankh-like symbol carved roughly into the thick lacquer of the ancient weather-worn timber frame. His gloom adapted eyes were dazzled by the bright shaft of light cast into them as the doors opened inward. Though not before he noticed the shadowed impression of another, older and more subtle, carved sigil inscribed on the underside of the massive stone lintel that jutted out above his head. There he saw a stylized pictogram or hieroglyph depicting what looked like a fat, squat bat with three protrusions rising from its triangular head; long ears perhaps, with a single central horn?
“Yes, yes?” Came a stern and austere female voice from inside. “Who is it at such a late hour? What is it? What do you want?” A tall, slim, rather sombre middle-aged woman stared at him accusingly from the bright, warm and dry within.
“Mr Robertson and Miss Woodstern.” He said, looking down with what he hoped was a charming smile. “I believe we are expected.”
“Expected, eh. I see a Mister, but no Miss!” She said as if somehow catching him out.
Lofty turned — about to whistle to the car — but the fox-fur wrapped Martha was already running up the stairs, having seen the castle doors open from within the vehicle.
“Ah, and there is the Miss.” The woman said, seemingly disappointed. “Well, I suppose you had better come in if your arrival is, indeed, anticipated. You’re not the first of the vultures to arrive, and I expect you will not be the last.”
Lofty and Martha gave each other a sideways glance as the woman turned begrudgingly to allow them in. “Do you not have any luggage?” She said.
“Oh, yes — in the Lincoln.” Lofty paused as if to go back.
“No, it is fine. I will get Sagamore to fetch your bags, and he can move the automobile into one of the garages. He will carry your things up to your rooms. But first, I must ask that you go through into the parlour.” She waved them toward the first door on the left in the palatial high-ceilinged reception hall that stretched through the centre of the building toward the distant stairs. “Master Shelby will want to greet you and check your letters. I am afraid Master Castle himself has already retired for the night — he will see you in the morning.”
“Master Shelby?” Quizzed Lofty as they moved toward the door of the parlour.
“Vincent Shelby, Master Castle’s nephew.” The woman replied as if she were stating the obvious. She ushered them through the door from the hall and unceremoniously closed it behind them the instant they were inside.
The parlour was a formal wood-panelled sitting room, dominated by a huge desk and liberally scattered with an eclectic mix of objet d’art from almost every corner of the globe and every age of its history. It positively reeked of old money, a lot of it. Lofty wandered around the room, silently appraising the various pieces on show. Martha settled herself down in one of the many plush chairs facing the almost monumental desk. It acted like a focal altar dedicated to the ostentatious wealth displayed on and around it.
Minutes passed before the presaged nephew of Master William Castle joined the two guests. He proved to be a tall man with broad shoulders, probably in his thirties, rather doughy and soft-looking. He seemed uncomfortable in his large masculine frame, almost like it belied his status as a refined gentleman. Lofty doubted the man had ever done a days work in his life, certainly not the kind of work that would cause him to break a sweat. And yet he was mopping his brow with a large handkerchief as he entered the room through the same door they had. He was impeccably dressed and groomed, with a sardonic smile, a pencil moustache and a clipped accent that put Lofty’s nerves on edge.
“Mister Robertson and Miss Woodstern.” The rich man’s nephew said. “It is such a pleasure to meet you both.” Though he seemed to only have eyes for Martha, barely giving Lofty a second glance. He approached and greeted her with a hand held out. She instinctively raised her hand to his. He made a rather gallant flourish of taking it and kissing the back of her proffered fingertips. “Exquisite.” He said and then looked at her face more closely. “Forgive me, but have we met before? You seem awfully familiar, oh, I’ve got it — you bear an uncanny resemblance to a certain young starlet who made a bit of a splash recently. Sugar Malone, that’s it, could be the next big name in Hollywood.”
Martha laughed at that. “There’s nothing uncanny about it. I’ve only had a few very small bit-parts so far, though. Not quite the glittering heights of Hollywood. Sugar Malone is my professional name — have you seen any of my performances on the silver screen, or maybe some of my shoots?”
“Yes, yes, of course, but this is incredible. To have an up and coming star here with us, a member of the family no less, I cannot begin to tell you how delighted I am.” He finally let Martha’s hand go and then sidled and smarmed his way to the seat behind the immense desk. “Well, I must thank providence for bringing a touch of glamour to this otherwise rather humdrum and depressing family affair. In fact, for bringing such glamour to this otherwise humdrum and depressing family full stop. For in truth, it would seem that we are indeed all related.” With that, he sat down.
“Though we must be pretty distant relations and from decidedly poorer branches of the family.” Said Lofty as he casually sat in a chair beside Martha. “Neither of us had even heard of old Wilbur before receiving the letters from his son, your uncle.”
“Oh indeed. Let us just say that my grandfather, and his father before him, had a remarkably prodigious talent for siring children that were not, for want of a better term — and if you’ll forgive my frankness — conceived in the marital bed. The copious results of their dissolute progeny have spread far and wide, whereas the seeds sown closer to home fell on increasingly infertile ground. My uncle, for example, despite a long life of dalliances and indulgences — perhaps the victim of some cosmic joker trying to redress the balance — has had little success as the expected great progenitor he so aspired to be.”
“And what about yourself?” Asked Lofty coolly as he tapped himself a cigarette from his pack. “No legitimate heirs to pass the vast fortune on to?” He then bumped another and offered it to Martha. She took it gladly.
As Lofty lit her cigarette and then his own, Vincent Shelby shifted uncomfortably. “Alas,” he said, “as for myself, I have neither the temperament nor the desire for children — legitimate or otherwise. Much to the displeasure of my dearly departed grandfather.” A hint of resentment entered his voice. “Who very much came to see me as the prodigal black-sheep, if you’ll excuse my mixing of metaphors, and an unmitigated dynastic dead-end, as he put it.”
“So, I suppose,” Lofty indicated himself and Martha, “we are the results of the dissolute progeny that now needs bringing back into the familial fold for the sake of the dynasty. To rejuvenate the infertile ground, so to speak.“
“Bluntly, yes.” Said Shelby with a thin smile. “My grandfather saw the two of you, among others, as the potential long-term security for the legacy of his diminishing and dissipated family. You would not believe the trouble we had tracking down the more dispersed and disparate of you all.”
“Where’s the catch?” Said Martha, cutting to the chase through the bandied wordiness of the two men. “You don’t generally get something for nothing in this life, and there is always a catch in my experience… so what is it?”
“As to that,” Shelby replied, his smile getting thinner, “I am as much in the dark as you. Presumably, all will be revealed at sundown tomorrow, at the reading of the will. Now, if I could check your letters. Then I’ll get Mrs Dudley to show you to your rooms, and you can change out of those wet things, freshen up and make yourselves more comfortable.”
“I need to make a phone call,” said Lofty as he handed over the letter, “to the police… someone was taking potshots out on the road — I should report it.”
“Really — how awful. Unfortunately, there are no phone lines that come all the way out here.” Said Shelby as he stood and rang a bell-pull by the door. “We are quite isolated in that regard.”
“Maybe we can try sending smoke signals or something.” Said Martha under her breath.
*
They were in their respective rooms on the third floor within half an hour, after climbing two sets of turning stairs at alternate ends of the long central corridors that ran the length of the building on each level. Although the house had looked big from the outside, it seemed positively cavernous now that they were inside it. The floor could easily hold twelve spacious guest rooms, each about nine or ten feet wide and twenty or so long. Assuming they were all analogous to the room that Lofty found himself. There was an open fireplace, a high-backed chair and desk, an armoire and dresser, a couple of easy chairs, bookshelves, a rather large bed with an ornately carved chest at its foot and accompanying side cabinets on either side of its head. There was even a compact, though well-stocked, drinks cabinet. If somewhat cluttered, it was a veritable home from home, sumptuously comfortable and certainly plusher than his usual lodgings. It was all dark mahoganies, soft leathers and rich fabrics. Everything had a sheen of the exotic, the antique and the expensive.
The only thing missing was his luggage from the car. Lofty took his wet jacket off and hung it over the high-backed chair, which he placed a safe distance from the fire to dry. He lit himself a cigarette and then poured himself a shot of whiskey from one of the decanters supplied by his host. As he settled himself into one of the easy chairs, his shoulder holster and gun hanging over the back of it, he heard a loud knock to the adjoining room that now sequestered Miss Martha Woodstern. A few minutes later, there was a heavy knock at his door too. Lofty lazily stood and opened it.
A large Native American dressed in work-denims filled the doorway; his thick, unruly hair slicked back and his arms full of luggage.
“You must be Sagamore?” Posited Lofty as he stood aside to allow him entry.
The man gave a glum nod as he strode past and dropped the bags inside the room. As he turned to leave, he held out the keys that Lofty had left in the car.
“Sagamore’s your surname, right?” Asked Lofty as conversationally as he could while taking the keys. Again, the man only nodded, so the P.I. continued. “You descended from the last chief of the old Agawam tribe?”
The Native stopped and looked at Lofty. “You ask a lot of questions, bud.” He said gruffly.
“Sorry, I was a student of history before the war, that’s all. I did a thesis on Algonquin culture in my final year at Miskatonic. The Agawam featured prominently, being the local tribe. What I would have given to have been able to talk to someone like you back then.”
“Someone like me?” Sagamore’s expression took on a more baleful aspect.
“An actual descendant of Chief Masconomet. He was quite the significant player in early Essex County history. Didn’t he and his family adopt the name Sagamore after he ceded the Agawam lands over to the English Colony?”
“He did, but that was a long time ago.” Sagamore seemed to consider a moment before continuing. “His people were already decimated by plague and misfortune before you English ever set foot here. The tribe ceded their language and their identity on that day too. They forsook their Algonquin heritage and adapted to the ways of the colonists. Countless generations have passed since that time; I doubt many of their descendants now know or even care who the Agawam were.”
“You certainly seem to know.” Stated Lofty as he stubbed out his cigarette. “But you’re right; first-hand knowledge of the Agawam is pretty hard to come by these days.”
Sagamore’s aspect lightened somewhat. “Quite the coincidence then that ya should find someone like me now, all-be-it belatedly — at least as far as your thesis is concerned.”
“Have a snort with me?” The P.I. proposed as he poured himself another whiskey. “It don’t seem right calling ya Sagamore; what’s your first name?”
“Samuel.” He said. “I don’t drink, but if you’re in a giving mood, I’ll gladly take one of them butts off ya.”
The detective tapped a smoke from his pack and proffered it to Samuel. “My name’s Mitch, by the way, though most folks call me Lofty.”
“Thanks.” Said Samuel taking it and flaring it up with his own lighter.
“So, what’s your place in this big old house? How long ya been here?” Lofty sat back down into the easy chair, he indicated the other chair, but Samuel Sagamore remained standing.
After a massive draw on his cigarette, the Native American said, “Been here about a year. They say I’m a caretaker, but I’m really the general dogsbody who does all the heavy work. Pay is good though, free bed and board — so, can’t complain, except for the isolation and the bad spirits that roam here.” He took another long draw.
“The bad spirits?” Lofty asked with a curiosity tinged by scepticism and a wry smile.
“There’s something not right about this house, that’s all. You’ll soon see; strange sounds in the night, ominous feelings, unpleasant smells, sudden chills. A place like this gets under your skin. It’s a bad house built on bad ground. The Algonquin called this area the Shunned Place, the mound that this house sits on, as well as the woods, marshes and estuaries that surround it; they would not go near it. The headlands and islands between the estuaries of the Ipswich and Essex Rivers were all forbidden.”
“But I thought there used to be some sort of old native earthworks or ruins here — a kind of quarry or mine — the records were somewhat vague. I even read it might have been a ritual complex in one account?”
“Those ancient ruins were older by far than even the earliest memories of the Agawam, or so the stories told. Strange stone-carved figures stood here on the hill once, supposedly depicting an ancient race that was not quite human. They lived here long before the Agawam or any of the Algonquin tribes. A cruel people, it was said, who built a malign place in which to worship their evil god.” He then gave a sardonically dark smile. “Of course, these days, that can all be dismissed as native superstition.”
There was a distant roll of thunder, followed by a sudden rap of knocks at the door.
“I should get back to my room.” Said Samuel Sagamore as he stepped to the door and opened it.
Waiting on the other side was Martha. Confronted by the big Native American making to leave, she took a surprised step back. He nodded to her and said, “Miss.” Then looked back at Lofty. “Probably best not wander too far from your rooms when it gets to the early hours.” He said ominously. “That’s when the bad spirits tend to stir.”
He left, and Martha stepped in, closing the door behind him. “What was that all about?” She said. The young woman had changed into an especially slinky Chinese-style dress, and to Lofty’s eyes, she looked like a million dollars and then some.
“Oh, just another attempt at spooking us into leaving, I think.” He said.
“What do you mean, another attempt?”
“The gas-station attendant was all dizzy with haunted house nonsense too. I’m beginning to think the Castle’s have hired a bunch of actors or something, to get us to fade before the reading of the will.”
“Haunted house?” She said, a little nonplussed. “You trying to tell me this hideous pile has ghosts adrift in its dark and drafty corridors?”
“Supposed to have — can’t say I’m buying it — though that Indian was good, laid it on a little thick, but he knew his stuff. He dangled just the right bait, and like a sap, I bit.”
“That makes no sense, though.” Said Martha as she sat in the other easy chair. “He never said a word to me, just dumped my bags like sacks of coal… and why would they invite us out here just to scare us off?”
Lofty paused to think but was frustrated in his search for an answer. “Don’t know. I guess I’m so busy second-guessing everything, I’ve stopped seeing things for what they are — a crazy gas-station attendant and an overly superstitious Indian.”
“Don’t forget the cantankerously hostile housekeeper and the sleazily creepy nephew with his morally bankrupt forbears. This place certainly seems to attract the strangest of people, and I don’t know what that says about the two of us.”
Lofty laughed kind of dryly at that. “No,” he said, “me neither.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” she then said with a half-smile, “that bullet that clipped your ear wasn’t an actor or a ghost.”
“Damn, I’d forgotten about that.” Lofty stood and went over to the mirror on top of the dresser to look. It was only a nick, though it had stung like blazing hell when first inflicted. It seemed to have stopped bleeding, and most of the blood had washed clean away in the heavy rain. He decided to leave it; cleaning it any more may just set it off bleeding again.
“So,” said Martha, “are we still nipping downstairs to get the lay?” Although Mrs Dudley had quickly pointed out certain rooms as she guided them upstairs, she had barely given them time to think, let alone take it in. They had agreed to have a good scout of the lower floors once they changed out of their wet clothes.
“I still haven’t had the chance to get changed.” He said. “Can I knock on your door in about five?” He was keen to see if any of the other guests were up and about. Mrs Dudley had mentioned that four ‘of the vultures’ had arrived sometime before them, and Lofty was itching to get the skinny on them all.
“Sure thing, Gee.” She said. Before leaving, she quipped. “Don’t waste time fretting on haunted house tales; the living are proving far creepier than any supposed ghost. Jeez, way things are headed, there’s probably some crazy old crone of a maiden aunt locked up in the attic somewhere.”
__________
Chapter Three: [Title yet to be finalised] will be coming to this blog soon and I may feature another of the initial chapters here before publication of the finished ebook and paperback later in the year.
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