Ravenword and The House of the Red Death - 4: The Castle

4

The Castle

The six members of Ravenword disembark travel-weary and anxiety worn. The night has taken deep hold on both their fatigue and the bus line that was to carry them to the village of Colle, as evident by the handwritten notice posted over the route.

“Now what?” Agnot grumbles under the withering of the group.

Irritated with their sheeplike demeanor, Vin lets the duffel bags slide from his shoulder to the floor to punctuate his exasperation. “Can anyone get a signal?”

“Not without the right SIM card,” Billy rebuffs.

Vin’s lips purse in suppression of his mounting irritation, and as he pulls off his backpack to rifle through one of the large pockets, the rest of Ravenword follow suit. Billy, however, pans the empty station as cell phones interrupt the night with the cheap jingles.

A grumpy and disjointed chorus of “Nothing,” “Nope,” “No,” and “Told ya” tins off the adumbral walls as Vin pleads silently with his mobile. Defeated, he deactivates his phone and looks up to find the shambled eyes of his companions on him.

“So?” Agnot drawls.

Vin sighs curtly. “Find a pay phone!”

“Fuck you,” Agnot barks.

A general agitation runs through Ravenword until broken by Charlie, who wraps her arm around Agnot’s shoulder.

“Babe,” she says before eyeing Vin and the rest of the group. “This isn’t helping. We’re not going to get to any sleep anytime soon by being bitchy with each other.”

Resignation permeates their nods and murmurs of contrition, passing from face to face until Billy’s exodus dawns on them. Turning like lethargic cogs in their scan of the terminal, they find him stock-still and staring at the street-side exit. Despite the warm Tuscan breeze, a collective chill follows their gaze to the source of an unspoken heed.

On the other side of the glass doors, a figure stares back at them against the backdrop of pitch. Long, stringy hair exaggerates the unnatural gaunt and pale of the face framed in that thin black mane. Likewise, the ill-fitting, shabby brown suit creates a skeletal impression of the man’s wiry build, which stoops as if the weight of an unholy curse were upon his shoulders. The most chilling feature of the aspect, however, is the inscrutable eyes, recessed so deeply under the shadow of his brows as to defy existence.

Seemingly autonomous, his left arm raises a bony hand to point into the darkness. Ravenword gape in silence as the arm sinks, and the specter recedes with a trancelike gait.

Before they can check one another, Billy lumbers toward the exit in pursuit of the creature. Parson, at the behest of his rest-starved body, tosses a resolute glance to his comrades, secures the duffel strap to his shoulder, and saunters after him. The rest of the company scurries to catch up, and soon they are on the sidewalk, blinded by the gloom of fatigue to the life and music of surrounding Lucca.

“Jesus hates us,” Parson deflates upon reaching the end of the building.

The five gaze in defeat at the old, black-windowed, rusted green van blotched with gray primer, into the back of which Billy is now stowing his backpack and duffel bag.

“Do you want to get there or not?” Billy calls, leaving the rear panel doors open as he moves to the side of the van and, with a measure of effort, slides the door open.

“Not,” Parson declares.

Vin steps out, with the rest of Ravenword in tow, and peers into the abysmal gut of the van. With the exception of a beaklike nose, the features of the driver are eclipsed by darkness. In the bench seat behind him, Billy is scratching in the shadows for a seatbelt.

“Where are you going?” Vin hisses, astounded at Billy’s willingness to climb into a strange vehicle, in a strange city, with an even stranger stranger.

A raspy moan rises from the throat of the creature behind the wheel, imitating “d’castello nel buio” in a thick Italian dialect.

Billy’s head tosses a swiveled nod to Vin with smug satisfaction.

“How do we know that’s really where he’s going?” Julia squeaks, curled up against Parson.

Billy lets his eyelids fall and looks at the group as if he’d like nothing more than to slam the door and leave them behind. “He’s our ride. Who else would be going there?”

“How do you know that?” Vin presses.

“Jesus christ!” Billy exclaims, ignoring the cadaver’s protest. “Don’t you think Fichtenberg would find some way of getting us there after the train delay and the bus not running?”

Billy returns to his search for a seatbelt, leaving Ravenword to their decision.

Vin, despite the massive cluster of reluctance snowballing in his chest, leads the others to the back of the van and begins loading their bags.

Within moments they are buckled in and lurching with the van as it pulls onto the road.

Sitting beside Billy, Vin whispers, “I hope you’re right.”

Without responding, Billy presents a piece of folded paper, holding it up between his fingers. In his surprise Vin fails to notice from where Billy had produced the page but takes it quickly and attempts to decipher the face of the parchment to no avail. Without speaking, Billy offers his book light. Bemused, Vin takes the tiny lamp, turns it on with a click, and holds it over the page.

“Why didn’t you show this to me before?” Vin exclaims with exasperation.

“Because,” Billy snaps, “this isn’t a fucking field trip, and you’re not our goddamned scout leader!”

“What is it?” Agnot asks, anger already bleeding into her voice as she leans forward to look over his shoulder.

Vin holds the book light over the message again. “Ravenword, please excuse the means of transport in delivering you to the abbey. It was the best I could arrange on short notice. Despite the disposition of the van and driver, both are sound and will provide you a safe journey through the mountains. I look forward to welcoming you upon your arrival. Sincerely, Fichtenberg.”

“Goddamn you, Billy,” Charlie rebukes as Agnot kicks the back of the bench behind him spitefully.

“Billy!” Julia cries disapprovingly from the back bench.

Parson, already positioning his travel pillow, tosses his hand in the air. “Who cares? At least now we know we won’t get molested in our sleep.” With that he props his pillow against the window and closes his eyes.

The communal grumbling continues only as long as they can spend the energy, but soon, one by one, they are lulled into slumber by the drone of the road.

II

Motisha falls against T. J., laughing amid the lights and music drifting through the streets of Milan as they walk arm in arm under the dazzling lampposts casting warm hues over the boulevard. Simply being seen strolling the passeggiata has lifted her sense of worth more than any excursion America could offer, and T. J. has rarely seen her so exuberant. The sight of her luminous face partnered with her uncensored laughter is an effective shield against the barbs of his foreboding, and he relishes the moment with a wide grin. Yet a fleeting flash of the ruby pendant catching the light slips through the moment of bliss to plant a splinter in his mind.

“Let’s go to Café L’Atlantique!” she gasps happily.

“I’m not sure I’m dressed for it,” he pauses, presenting himself with a self-conscious smile. “You said it’s really chic.”

Motisha steps back to assess him, her bright demeanor flickering with the examination. Although dressed in the black slacks and blazer she chose for him, the open-collared shirt gives her pause. “You may be right.”

He teases her with a hurt expression, and she taps him playfully on the arm as they continue along.

“To be honest,” she admits, “I could use a good night’s sleep. We will have plenty of time to enjoy Milan’s delights, and tomorrow we can tour the shops and find you something stunning for the most exclusive clubs in the city.”

T. J.’s jovial response is abruptly cut short by the brazen lungs of a clock striking with a sound which is clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that it riddles his heart with a dread that his denial cannot negate.

“Don’t worry,” Motisha says, her giddiness faltering at the sight of his tainted countenance. “Consider it my way of thanking you for this,” she continues, kissing the pendant with her fingertips.

As T. J.’s eyes fall on the ruby teardrop, the disconcerting clang rings a second time, and the insinuation of the gem’s true expression pushes against the shutters of his mind.

“What’s the matter?” Motisha’s eyes follow his burning gaze to the pendant on her breast as her joy evaporates.

The muting of her felicity brings T. J. back to his senses, only to be sacked by a third unnerving sounding of the toll. “Nothing,” he soothes. “It’s just that weird sounding clock striking the hour.”

Motisha shifts stridently to face him. “Why must you insist on allowing your imagination to run away with you?”

A fourth clang scratches its fingers across the chalkboard of his brain, and he grimaces.

“We’re in Milan…together,” she pleads over the fifth resounding clang. “Why ruin it?”

“You hear it!” he exclaims, taking her shoulders.

“I hear nothing!” she retorts, pulling away, yet even she winces as the sixth toll sounds.

T. J. checks his watch urgently.

Midnight.

“Yes you do!” he growls back at her, his own anger at her obstinate repudiation surging.

Clang!

“You stupid man!” she rages. “You’re too stupid to realize you don’t have to hear it or see it or feel it if you don’t want to!”

Clang!

“That’s right,” he shouts. “I should keep my brain locked up in your little ivory tower!”

Clang!

“How dare you speak to me like that!”

Clang!

“Yeah? Well, fuck you!”

Clang!

Motisha’s eyes flare. Smack! claps the night air from her swift strike.

Clang!

T. J.’s cocked arm is caught and held by figures ambiguous in his rage, thwarting his balled fist.

His vision clears to find a crowd of gawkers encircling them as a gang of brawny men pull him from the sidewalk. Motisha’s face is buried in her hands, cowed and comforted by a cloud of women chattering like a pen of agitated hens.

The venom spent, T. J. breaks and collapses. “Motisha!”

The men corral him into a chair at the street-side café, patting his face and searching his intentions while gabbling in Italian and French.

“Terrence!” Motisha cries miserably.

A clamor rises in the throng. Motisha pushes through the men caging T. J. and throws herself into his arms.

T.J showers her with kisses and impassioned apologies, shaken by the power of the spell.

The crowd disperses, but the men hold guard, wary of T. J.’s temper should they leave. The rescuing sorority, however, glare, prattle, pet, and fawn as they wheedle Motisha off T. J.’s lap. As the scene quiets, two glasses of water are set on the table for the stricken lovers by an intervening matriarch. One of the men, her husband by the look of scorn she shoots him, sets two tumblers of bourbon next to them.

Grabbing the amber tonic, T. J. throws back the burning liquid in a gulp and is surprised to find Motisha doing the same. Sputtering, she waves back the bottle, which is poised for a refill, and focuses on T. J. with tearstained makeup.

“Take me home,” Motisha pleads hoarsely, reaching across the table to clutch his hands.

T. J. nods emphatically, glancing at one of the burly sentinels as he replies, “I’ll get us a taxi to the hotel.”

“No!” Motisha exclaims, sending an uneasy rustle through her hovering guardians. “Home!”

Any allegiance to Ravenword in T. J. melts away at the grievous sight of Motisha so broken. His heart sinks as he yields to her grief with a somber nod.

III

Parson shivers against the draft antagonizing his slumber like icy fingers. His body’s attempt to shift against the chill is thwarted, however, by a weight pinning him to the window.

Ca-lunk!

The abrupt and oddly familiar sound penetrates his unconsciousness to prod his lethargic mind from its nocturnal cocoon. His reluctant brain yawns to a dull stupor. Julia’s petite form curled up against him is a Picasso-esque contortion of fabric, hair, and odd angles shrouded in the night. Bleary-eyed, he squints and blinks heavily as the setting begins to clear. An elusive peculiarity about the scene tugs at his atrophied facilities. Other than the breathing and murmurs of his slumbering cohorts, it is utterly peaceful.

His attention piques.

Where’s the noise from the road and motor?

As his brain shakes off the grogginess, a strange sensation registers.

Gravel begins to crunch ominously under the tires.

“Are we here?” he mutters with a dry voice, trying to sort out the position of the driver.

There is no driver!

Parson’s eyes flap to their margins like the window blinds in a noir film.

The van’s center of gravity lunges, jostling the others out of their comfort.

A benighted world of blotchy, animated voids and nebulous shapes fills the windshield.

“We’re moving!” Parson screams, struggling to free himself from Julia’s rousing form.

Ravenword bolts to the alarm, dazed and confused by the violent pitching and jumbling of the groaning suspension contending with a pocked and pitted path.

“Brakes! Brakes!” Parson screeches at the bewildered faces of Billy and Vin.

As Agnot peers out the window, their plight becomes unanimously clear.

The cabin explodes with screaming mayhem as the building momentum dashes them against the innards of the van. Vin is fighting to get past Billy, who is grappling between the two front seats while Agnot scrambles over them both—each vying frantically to reach the controls. Julia sirens as Charlie recoils, pointing at the windshield in terror!

“Tree!”

Their collective perception slows to play out the remarkable scene in an exaggerated moment. Vin, Billy, and Agnot are tangled in a nightmarish constellation. Charlie is erect and reaching. Julia is shrinking behind the bench seat screaming.

The freeze-frame is shattered by a crash and a force that hurls them out of the suspension.

The ensuing silence is broken by Agnot’s sharp exclamation. “Shit!” From the driver’s seat, she rises in dismay and disgust in search of Charlie.

Beside her Billy has splattered the dash panel with vomit, the bile having been squeezed out of him by the seats between which he is wedged.

Charlie is already heaving the sliding door open as Vin moves quickly to pull Billy free.

His ashen face meets Agnot’s as Vin strong-arms him out of the wedge, and each checks the other with a dazed nod. Ravenword pour into the open night as Parson confirms that Billy is uninjured.

“Hey,” Agnot calls in a shaken and wounded tenor, “what about me?”

“Door, door,” Vin rambles, indicating the driver’s side door.

Agnot turns sharply, throws it open, and leaps out of the van and into a pummeled scream.

Ravenword race to the far side of the van only to be arrested by an inscrutable abyss.

“Agnot!” Charlie screams.

“Goddamnit,” her voice trails over the blackness.

Relieved, her friends try to trace her to the exclamation blindly.

“Where are you?” Vin calls.

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Check the van for a flashlight,” Vin directs Parson.

“Like that’s going to happen.”

“Fuck you, Parson!” Agnot’s sardonic voice sails. “It’s okay. I see a light.”

“Don’t go into it!” Parson quips loudly.

Billy taps Parson and Vin on the shoulders.

Charlie and Julia turn with them.

Standing on the meridian between the uneven ravine and nebulous pitch of sky, a cadaverous figure is illuminated by the yellow cast of the lantern it extends over the edge. The features of the gaunt face are disfigured by the stark radiation and exaggerated by the black frame of hair lost in the night. Its lower extremities are likewise relinquished as the creature peers into the abyss.

Vin steps from the wreckage, trying to reconcile the unsettling visage. “Romero?”

“Ravenword?” The voice carries as if drifting through the long years to seep into the shrill sphere of the fiasco.

“Professor Fichtenberg?” Vin calls in a wary tenor.

“I cannot come down,” his frail voice, strained by force of volume, leaches down the slope. “Is anyone hurt?”

At that moment rustled footfalls and curses emerge from behind the tenebrous tree that had caught the van before it could plunge into the unseen depths. Hugging the trunk, Agnot circumnavigates the gnarled breast until finally stepping onto the narrow ridge upon which they had so unceremoniously been deposited. “Take a fucking picture,” she growls at her gaping companions as Charlie launches into her arms.

“I think we’re okay,” Vin answers with a resolute shout.

Fichtenberg does not reply, nor does he move. Like Chiron on the bank of the river Styx, he stands extending the lantern as the six students pry open the back door of the van and collect their luggage. Within minutes they are scaling the tumultuous incline, tripping on stones, hollows, and branches.

Upon cresting the ledge, Vin finds the harsh and weathered face of their host, whose skeletal hand is held out in welcome. Taking the hand gently, Vin scrutinizes the haggard face.

“I assure you,” the withered man muses, “I am Fichtenberg.”

As the old man turns to greet the rest of Ravenword, Vin is struck by the semblance to Romero and the fact that Fichtenberg is not actually an old man.

“Where’s that goddamned driver?” Agnot snarls, shaking the professor’s hand as carefully as she can manage in her seething.

“I’m afraid I cannot say,” Fichtenberg replies weakly. He lifts the lantern and pivots toward the road. “We mustn’t linger outside the gates,” he insists. “Come, quickly.”

Only when they turn to follow are the black iron tendrils of the gate in the imposing stone wall impressed upon the company. As the margins of the great rampart recede into obscurity, the ruined towers and scowling facade of the stygian castle behind stare resentfully down on them against a mat of ashen clouds.

Crossing the road, which is no more than a stain of dirt and gravel, Fichtenberg leans against the iron bars.

A piercing screech splits the dank atmosphere.

A bead of frost trickles down the backs of each as Ravenword steps across the boundary and into the benighted expanse of the courtyard.

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” Julia squeaks.

Parson reaches around her shoulder and gives her a reassuring squeeze.

Billy looks back at the black gate. “Should I…?”

Before he can finish, however, the hinges creak, and the thick, scrolling bars drift shut with an unnerving clang.

The trespass on silence is answered by the rising call of a wolf not distant enough for solace. In seeming obedience, the light of Fichtenberg’s lamp expires suddenly, swamping the Gothic landing in night.

“You gotta be fucking kidding,” Agnot whispers, an uncharacteristic treble in her tone.

“Yes, yes,” Fichtenberg warns gravely. “We are deep in the mountains, far from any villages. Wolf country. I would advise against wandering beyond the walls, even in the day.”

A second howl seals the warning.

“Watch the steps,” the professor directs.

A moment later Billy is heaving the heavy wooden door shut as quickly as he can manage as the company is swallowed by the cavernous foyer. A stone fireplace illuminates the chamber with the dancing light of a blaze substantial but, strangely, less comforting than disconcerting. Opposite the granite mantel, a massive staircase fashioned to complement the grandeur of the hearth rises to a landing of long shadows out of reach of the firelight. Appending the flight, a small passage sinks beneath a Gothic arch into enigmatic depths. Each of these features, however, is only briefly visited by the eyes of Ravenword. Looming from across the forbidding chamber, enormous and ancient ill-grained doors oppress their very senses as if ravenous with an evil and insatiable want.

The professor nods nervously, wringing his bony hands. “The original doors into the castle,” he whispers, looking from the spiteful panels to the transfixed faces of his guests. “This entry house was built in the nineteenth century by a local baron who had hoped to restore the castle and open a spa.”

“What happened to the baron?” Julia asks dreadfully, providing Ravenword with the reprieve of distraction.

The professor surveys the group as he makes to answer, but suddenly his eyes burn more keenly than his drawn features should present. “There are only six of you!”

The abrupt shift in his demeanor and the sharpness of his rebuke quells any ease massaging their harried minds. Amid the passing of anxious glances, Vin clears his throat, looking at the wizened professor, whose nebulous shadow shifts by firelight on the stone steps.

“Motisha chose to stay in Milan,” he begins, watching for clues to the professor’s reaction. “T. J. decided to stay with her at the last minute.”

The haggard lines of Fichtenberg’s face are suddenly transformed by craggy madness with eyes wild and raging. “Eight! Eight!” he screams as if accusing them of some heinous crime.

Ravenword stand dumbfounded, tightening their ranks.

“Not six! Eight!”

His shrieks reach a nerve-shattering crescendo that slaps every stony corner of the hall and tumbles into every black recess.

“Ruin!” he howls. “Ruin!”

With a knot churning in their collective gut, Ravenword watch in a harrowed stupor as Fichtenberg slumps into a stream of ravings. Pacing fitfully, he rants as if reviling some invisible presence until his mania is spent, and he subsides into a silence even more unsettling.

For a moment, the hall is animated by only the crackling fire.

“Professor?” Parson intercedes carefully, studying the withered man.

Fichtenberg lifts his tormented face, his eyes fading into a malaise. “Ravenword, yes, all is prepared.” With a weary gesture, he ascends the yawning staircase to the disjointed cadence of a soundless dirge. Pausing midway, he turns stiffly to find the company framed by the glare of the hearth and staring up at him with faces awash in uncertainty. “Your rooms.”

The six uproot their reluctance and follow him up the wide staircase as if marching to the gallows. They settle upon the landing with a marked unease to find the corridor hence stretching narrowly to a reclusive black window. To either side, the passage is lit by candles resting on pedestals that flank opposing doors lining the hall in succession. The passage is drab and comfortless with walls papered in a dingy pattern bereft of warmth even in the glow of candlelight.

“The power is untrustworthy here.”

The six nod uneasily in the dim glow, remaining in their huddle.

“You will find your rooms assigned by name,” Fichtenberg mutters with a hopeless sigh, shifting his form toward the descent.

“Where will you be?” Julia mewls.

“In case we need anything,” Parson interjects quickly.

Fichtenberg pauses, his long black hair obscuring the features that remind the group forcibly of their missing driver. “You’ll not be needing anything tonight.”

The six exchange nervous glances as he descends like a decrepit phantom before turning to survey the rows of dark wooden doors. Vin is the first to step up to the threshold of the closest chamber to the left, where he finds Motisha’s name penned rather elegantly on a weathered card that has been pinned to the grain. Grasping the knob as his apprehensive companions pool around him, he pushes against it as if braced for some ghoul waiting on the other side.

The door swings open on the creaking of atrophied hinges to reveal a room consistent in scale to most of those found in Europe. It is very small with an equally small bed and an ample window framing the nocturnal pitch. A small chest of drawers grimaces beneath the pane under a candle lantern that casts a strange hue to the coordinated midnight-blue dressings of the chamber. Beneath the tapestry draped across the wall opposite the bed, the glow of embers shines through the ornate grille of a small inset wood-burning stove.

“I smell a theme,” Parson chirps from over Vin’s shoulder, stepping across the narrow hall and opening the door opposite the blue room. The hinges whine likewise, and the chamber behind would pass for a mirror image of the first except that it is dressed in a purple lustered by candlelight.

“Built to suit,” he chimes, offering Julia a reassuring smile while pointing at the card on the door. “Looks like someone knew you were coming.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Julia bleats, stepping into the doorway to view the chamber as Parson delves into the hall. The rich purple hues wash over her in a wave of welcome despite her trepidation and the baleful odyssey of their journey.

Ravenword move to the next set of doors to find two tiny lavatories tiled from floor to ceiling with chipped and dulled mosaics depicting quaint scenes of refined country living. As Parson checks the sink and tub for hot running water, Agnot leads Charlie, Vin, Julia, and Billy to the next set of doors.

“Green and orange,” Parson calls over the gushing faucet.

“Green and orange,” Charlie’s confirmation sails back. “Me and T. J.”

Parson shuts off the water and examines his weary image in the mirror. Tszujing his hair, he notices a series of letters tiled into the mosaic in the mirror’s reflection. With a disconcerted frown, he turns and peers at the mosaic before returning to the glass.

Set within the depiction of the pastoral gentry is agnus. The unsettling aspect of the discovery, besides the inference to Agnot, is that it is written backward and can only be read from the mirror.

“Hey, guys,” Parson calls, staring into the mirror as the creeps crawl up his neck.

“White for you, Parson, and violet for Vin,” Julia’s voice answers with the enthusiasm of one playing a game.

The lack of a retort from Parson brings Ravenword to the doorway of the tiny lavatory with curious but relaxed faces.

Parson looks to them, then turns and points at the mosaic. “Agnus.”

Agnot growls at him, “I am way too tired to be fucked with, Parson.”

“No,” Parson insists, pointing at the tile. “It’s written here—backward! Agnus.”

The declaration sends a chill down Agnot’s back and roots her to the floor.

Sensitive to the pale expression of dread on her face, Vin steps next to Parson and examines the tile. He looks back at Parson for any hint of humor. “You’re pointing at a lamb.”

“I’m what?” Parson blurts, confused. He pivots quickly to search the mirror, feeling Agnot’s glare. Where he had read the word a moment before, a black lamb rests in the mosaic. Parson leans back, squinting. Agitated, he turns to inspect the tile directly to find the script has been replaced by the dark lamb in a cluster of white sheep.

“That’s really not funny,” Vin rebukes warily, assessing dreadful insinuations of Parson’s confounded expression.

“I guess we’re just too tired to carry that kind of joke,” Parson placates, attempting a chuckle as Vin offers a supportive nod.

“Not cool, Parson,” Agnot says, leading Charlie and the others back into the hall.

As their companions retire to their chosen rooms, Vin lingers. “You really saw something, didn’t you?”

Shaken, Parson nods. “I thought I did. Who the hell knows? I’m so exhausted after all this shit that I’ll be seeing Chippendales in the walls soon.”

“Lamb,” Billy announces from the doorway, startling them both.

“What?” they chorus.

“Agnus is Latin for lamb,” Billy states, stepping in and pointing at the mosaic.

As the two men stand puzzling over the significance, Billy lumbers into the hallway and disappears, leaving them to ponder the disconcerting connotations before summoning the fortitude to take possession of their respective chambers.

“What the fuck?” Agnot exclaims from the end of the hall with an exasperated sigh.

Billy emerges from the black chamber bearing his name as Ravenword rallies around Agnot and Charlie, who stand at the grimy door opposite him.

“It’s locked,” Charlie explains.

“So everyone gets a room but me?” Agnot huffs irritably.

“Maybe there’s a problem with the room, and he knew you and Charlie would most likely being sharing anyway,” Vin offers, noting the absence of a name card on the door.

“Yeah, maybe,” she relents, looking at Parson with an unsettled check.

“Don’t get your tighty-whities in a twist,” Parson quips. “With Miss Bitch and her beau off in Milan, I don’t see why we can’t have our pick of the rooms.”

“I want to keep mine,” Julia states quickly.

“Of course you do, sweetie.”

“There were only seven rooms in the story,” Billy alludes. “In the ‘Red Death.’”

“So, what, I’m not supposed to be here?” Agnot spurns, unnerved by the dark, and increasingly personal, serendipities.

“Just sayin’,” Billy retorts before retreating.

“Come on,” Charlie heaves, leading Agnot by the hand.

The promise of bedded sleep and a fresh perspective vanquishes the imaginations, and the company disperses to their respective chambers to surrender to the night.

IV

Charlie wakes to the blue room, lost between the unyielding wall and the bastion of her slumbering lover. The anemic, gray morning waxes enough to brighten the cerulean wallpaper and prevent her from drifting back into the fretful and disjointed dreams now dissolving into the haze of consciousness. A sobering yawn betrays her stillness as well as the expiration of the fire sometime in the night. The hope of the clarity of a new day beckons, yet she is reluctant to abandon the warmth of her shared bed.

Within the false gloaming of the violet room deep in the gloomy hall, Vin is braving that snappy cold to stoke the fragile flames beneath a fresh bundle. Wrapped in a handcrafted comforter that matches the lurid pattern of the walls, he draws the blanket against the chill and relieves his soles of the aching frigidity of the floor with the reprieve of the bedside rug. With a stare symptomatic of the stupor between waking and alertness, he tries to will the fire to life. Regardless of his mental prowess, success follows in a span of time indeterminate to his grogginess, and the bowl of the stove is soon aglow and luring him back to shut the grille. Opening his wrap like a vampire his cape to glean the welling heat, Vin shivers under warm goose bumps and turns his head to gaze at the misty spine of mountains beyond the window.

Lulled by the increasing comfort and the misty tendrils massaging the vista, he wonders if the van is visible from the vantage of his second-floor casement. Perhaps he’d be able to determine where it had left the road and piece together the circumstances of their harrowing deposit.

With a few icy steps, he is leaning over the chest of drawers and surveying the dilapidated environs of the medieval castle. The width of the fallow courtyard and height of the sagging wall encasing the abbey prevent a view of the road or the ravine, leaving the impression that he has come to the very edge of the world. Movement draws his gaze to a clear view of the huge black gates, where the waiflike form of Fichtenberg is crouched and reaching past the bars.

Vin’s burnished brows furrow. He leans against the cold glazing.

Bang!

Vin’s heart leaps to his throat.

An explosion of beating black and scratching and screeching throws him from the window. His startled brain grapples with breath and tangle as he topples backward.

The forbidding clamor translates, even as his backside hits the floor, into a stark and startling form.

A raven.

Vin’s start eases, and the fists that threaten to rend the fabric of the comforter relax as the corvid finds its footing.

Expelling the fright with a nervous chortle, he moves to sit on the bed without breaking his gaze.

The unblinking raven cocks its head to track him with sinister intensity.

Vin bows over the foot of the diminutive bed to reach for his duffel but, as he turns away, the raven raps the glass willfully with its thick, stabbing beak.

He turns sharply and surveys the bird with an uneasy curiosity. The story of Bhusunda echoes as he retrieves his sweatshirt, but there is no sense of wonder in the ominous manifestation.

The watching raven remains in the scope of his vision, staring through the glass with a ruffling of feathers.

Allowing the blanket to fall around him, he pulls the green hoodie over his head and draws it down to his waist, revealing the university emblem.

A second tap at the window nags his attention, dogged by a caw muted by the watery pane.

Trying to ignore the increasingly unsettling scrutiny of the bird, Vin pulls his jeans to his waist before reaching back into the duffel and pulling out a pair of clean socks.

Again the raven taps, but twice and more resolutely.

Resolutely?

Vin scoffs at himself. Yet as he dons his socks and shoes, the corvid’s agitation grows into harried, Morse code-like rapping, incessant cawing, and frantic ruffling of wings.

“Good gods!” he groans, rushing the window to shoo the annoying creature away.

His attempt only fuels the raven’s mania until he can no longer tolerate its cacophony and throws open the windowpanes and, in doing so, pushes the raven off the ledge and into the air where it swoops and circles before disappearing verbosely beyond the Gothic gables.

With a sigh of relief, he reaches out to close the panes when a glint on the stony sill catches his eye.

V

“Babe, grab my gun,” Agnot grumbles, the frantic cawing of the raven stoking the annoyance that pries her out of her rest.

“I wish,” Charlie whispers, sliding her arms around Agnot.

“Cold,” Agnot yawns, nestling into the warmth of her lover’s body.

“You want to call room service?” Charlie quips.

Agnot’s body quivers with subtle laughter as she surveys the woodstove. “With our luck it’d be Parson in a French maid’s uniform.”

“Who cares?” Charlie chuckles. “As long as he can start the fire.”

Agnot rolls over in the small bed mindfully and kisses Charlie before issuing a determined sigh. “I’ll get it.” She bounds out of bed and dances atop the icy floor, scouring the hearth for matches.

“There!” Charlie trumpets, pointing to an ornate box hiding on a reclusive shelf within the folds of a coordinated tapestry.

Agnot grabs the box with a shiver, finding wood matches within, and crouches to open the grille. “Ooh, we’ve still got some pretty good embers,” she croons happily, reaching for the box of wood resting inconspicuously in the corner.

Soon the stove is welling with heat, and Charlie and Agnot are dressed but for bare feet yearning for the comfort of socks. As Agnot sits on the disheveled bed, Charlie stands at the dresser to select a pair. Looking out the small window in an attempt to determine how the weather might turn out, she is struck by how starkly the castle and towers rise from the wild, patchy earth. From her vantage she can see the ruin of an elegant chapel and the spoiled cloister encased between the harsh walls of the castle. Interrupting those pale walls, like gaping black maws, arched windows follow the succession of the unseen pathways within.

Charlie’s gaze lingers absently on one of the casings. The morning clouds have cast it in somber hues and she wonders if all castle windowpanes were painted in black. Maybe it’s tar to help seal the panes, she considers. It’s strange that no light seems to reach beyond those black mouths. Perhaps it’s a room and not a passageway.

But it is a passageway, long and crooked, following the odd angles above the garish apartments garnished to host the masquerades of the prince’s guests. Come hither to the grand stair, and I will show you the varied colored parlors. The prince has such a mad eye…

Blue, powder blue, cascading into a dress tied at the waist with a navy sash. Drawing closer, it seems worn. Not worn but tattered. Her hair, not so chestnut nor kempt, frosts. Her face…! Her face!

Charlie gapes in horror at the spoiled beauty shriveled over a grime-spackled skull and gruesome jaw twisting in the ghastly narrative. Her quaking shriek, however, is arrested by an anchoring strength.

Agnot is shaking her by the shoulders. “Charlie! Charlie! Charliesse!”

The horrible face vanishes.

Charlie swoons, her eyes batting thickly through the passing of the spell. As Agnot whisks her to the bed, the full horror of the vision breaks over her, and she lunges into her lover’s arms, trembling and choking back tears.

“It’s okay, babe,” Agnot coos, unnerved by the ominous possession. “It’s okay.”

VI

Vin’s fervent fist knocks against the door to the blue room, but he is mindful to avoid sounding panicked. Parson and Julia, still in her Hello Kitty pajamas, stand on either side of him, their antemeridian stupor scrubbed away by the disconcerting quiet that has fallen behind that door. The three step back expectantly at the sound of the latch. The thickly grained door opens to the consternation and careworn features of Agnot. She slips into the hallway, shutting the door smoothly behind her as she meets their worried faces.

“She’s okay.”

“What happened?” Julia asks, wide-eyed.

Agnot shifts her weight, shaking her head. “I don’t know. She was looking out the window, then got real quiet before freaking out.”

Vin takes a deep breath, his determined expression offering Agnot an unspoken prod.

“Yeah,” she says resolutely. “It’s time to get some fuckin’ answers.”

“What about Charlie?” Parson checks in a paternal tenor.

Agnot sighs, her eyes glancing at the door. “She’ll want to be in on it but give us a couple of minutes.”

The three nod and Agnot slips back into the room, leaving Vin, Parson, and Julia thinly framed in the frail gray light intruding from the window at the end of the hall.

“I guess I should get dressed,” Julia fidgets.

“I’ll be right across the hall,” Parson reassures. “Just come on over when you’re done.”

In less than half an hour, Ravenword are descending the grand staircase. With Agnot at her side, Charlie’s composure belies any traumatic residue lingering from her grisly encounter. Below, the expansive foyer is empty, and Vin is surprised to find the fire within the gaping hearth blazing just as fiercely as the night before. Julia leans into Parson under the oppression of the mammoth doors sealing off the original body of the castle and shivers. As they reach the floor, the faint echo of voices leads them into the dim passage between the staircase and the Gothic threshold.

The passageway opens up to a large gallery paneled with embossed wood and adorned with molding paintings consistent in theme with the mosaic tile in the baths, namely pastorals. To the right tall, arched windows pour the sullen light of the overcast sky onto a long, bare dining table that could easily accommodate a score of guests. The backs of as many chairs rise like sentries along the perimeter where, at the end of the table, Billy sits across that width of the polished wood conversing with the professor.

“Good morning,” Fichtenberg hails, his voice carrying even more thinly than in the night. “There is a kitchen of sorts,” he continues, gesturing to the open gallery to the left. “It is well stocked.”

His amiable countenance falters with the decided approach of his former students, who take up the chairs around him and Billy. Fichtenberg examines their collective demeanor wisely, facing off with their returned scrutiny in the dull light of morning. His long, thin hair, no longer black with the pitch of night, exaggerates the skeletal gauntness of his features and matches the gray stubble that peppers the face textured with lines and wrinkles too numerous and entrenched for a man of his age. Within the exceptionally deep and crinkled sockets, his once sparkling blue eyes, now prematurely faded, stare back at them with a cold hawkishness.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Agnot salvoes.

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean,” he deflects, checking each of their faces.

“Ever since we left on this little excursion, horrible things have been happening to us,” Parson states, making a concerted effort to sound less inflammatory.

“The world can be a horrible place,” Fichtenberg replies pensively, as if his mind were suddenly wandering.

“Even before we left,” Julia interjects. “As soon as we got the invitations.”

The professor perks with the mention of the ivory notes.

“Nightmares, people dying in the streets, creepy drivers who abandon us to roll over cliffs,” Charlie charges angrily.

Professor Fichtenberg nods slowly. “Pedestrian accidents are common in Italy. As for Romero, it was very foolish of him to leave the van parked along the ravine.”

“Fuck Italian drivers and pedestrians,” Agnot bellows. “We’ve been seeing things, fuckin’ awful things.”

“Perhaps your imaginations have simply taken hold of visiting this place.”

Ravenword bristle at his inference, and Vin levels his suspicion at the professor. “Why did you bring us here? Was it to find something for you?”

The furrowing of Fichtenberg’s brow is the first genuine indication of engagement. “What do you mean, Mr. Singh?”

“Are you familiar with the l’Ordine degli Intercessori?” Vin asks flatly.

Recognition blossoms on the professor’s countenance, much to the satisfaction of Ravenword. But their gratification quickly turns to dread as the change in his features begins to exceed concession.

Darkness stains the frosty pallor of his irises like crude befouling a winter pond. Spreading from those defiled orbs, the shadows leach, blackening the recesses of their sockets.

With a collective gasp, Ravenword recoil as the maleficence seeps from the rings bagging his anguished eyes into the lines and features of the changing face. Even Billy is raked by the black manifestation bleeding into the gray of his hair.

Romero’s tortured eyes widen upon the company. “La grazia di vita ci libera dal destino del nostro egoismo e dall’ignoranza!” he bellows like an induced confession. “La clemenza!”

Julia slaps her hands over her ears, tears streaming down her horrified face. Agnot and Charlie stand dumbfounded and shocked, mirroring Vin, who stares with eyes blazing in terrible astonishment. Parson, cringing under Romero’s agonized pleading, wrestles with his dismay as he backs to the wall, watching the emaciated figure lurch in the chair as if subject to unspeakable pain.

“La clemenza!” His wild screams resound through the gallery like a deafening chorus of phantoms. “La clemenza!”

“Help him!” Julia cries, throwing her pitiful stare to Agnot and Charlie.

Finding his wits, Parson rushes upon Romero, as the creature’s frail form begins to convulse violently. He takes the man’s face in his hands, peers into those tortured black eyes.

“You’re okay!”

“La clemenza!” Romero pleads, sweat and tears tracing lines in his contorted features.

“Si!” Parson echoes firmly, “La clemenza.”

Romero calms, his haunted gaze fixed on Parson.

“See if there’s any alcohol in the kitchen!”

Vin darts into the kitchen, pausing suddenly. “Antiseptic or drinking?”

“Drinking!” Parson shouts, waving Julia and the lesbians to assist him.

“We’ve got to keep him calm,” Parson states urgently. “Rub his arms, try to make him feel safe and comforted.”

Romero turns his pooling eyes and wet face to Agnot. “Perdonarci!” he begs, “Perdonarci!”

Not even Agnot can deflect the waves of despair and grief drowning the miserable soul. “Si,” she chokes as she rubs his shoulder. “Si.”

Vin arrives swiftly with a glass and bottle of absinthe. “It was the strongest thing I could find.”

“That oughta do it,” Parson quips softly.

Filling the tumbler quickly, he lifts it to Romero’s tortured lips, still pleading in hoarse whispers. With his dark eyes begging the faces surrounding him, Romero draws from the liquor, wincing and gasping it down.

“Okay,” Parson coos, petting Romero’s hair as he administers the spirit in measured pours. “You’re okay.”

“Do you know where he sleeps?” Vin asks, turning to Billy.

“Yeah,” Billy says, pale and shaken. “Well, I mean, I know where Fichtenberg’s room is.”

Romero soothes noticeably, and Parson gently pulls him forward in the chair. “That’ll do.

“Help me get him up.”

Agnot and Vin move quickly to support the creature’s frame, realizing only then the true frailty of the man.

Billy leads them through the kitchen and into an adjoining hallway that is a nearly perfect replica of that which hosts their own rooms. He opens the first door on the left, where a small room dressed in blue receives them. As Vin and Agnot lower him onto the small bed, Parson cradles his head to the pillow.

“Glass,” he urges, hand reaching.

Charlie, having taken up the bottle and glass, sets them on the chest of drawers next to the bed, where Parson pours out another measure.

Romero, semiconscious and muttering his supplication, lies listless on the blanket.

“Hasn’t he had enough?” Vin checks carefully.

Parson throws him a scowl. “We need to get him unconscious,” he replies like a mother speaking to her baby as he tips the glass at Romero’s lips. “That’s the most likely way of getting the professor to resurface.”

Ravenword watch Parson’s ministry with curiosity and awe. Romero’s heavy lids droop and close before willing one last peer into Parson’s eyes.

“Perdonarci.”

Romero sinks into desperation, then into a frailty, and finally into an induced slumber.

Parson rises and turns to his friends. “I think it’s safe to go.”

Shaken and tearstained, his companions nod and begin to retreat into the hallway.

“Shouldn’t somebody stay to watch him?” Julia whispers, still trying to catch her quivering breath.

Parson shakes his head as he closes the door, leaving the man to the bed. “Have you ever had absinthe?”

VII

“Where’s the phone?” Vin asks as Ravenword shuffle back through the kitchen toward the extensive table.

“I don’t think there is one,” Billy answers, interrupting their survey of the rustic kitchen. “That’s what I was trying to get out of him when you guys stormed in.”

“Did he say there was no phone?” Agnot presses impatiently.

“Why were you trying to find out about a phone?” Vin follows, too quickly for Billy to respond to Agnot.

“Are you gonna pull the fucking van out of that ravine?” Billy snaps under the crush of eyes. “Unless there’s another car around here, we’re shit out of luck without that van!”

The realization leaves his companions thunderstruck, the unimaginable expansiveness of the mountains dawning. Any sense of connection with the closest villages has now evaporated with the discovery that Romero is actually Fichtenberg, and neither seems to be in any condition to help.

Billy shoves his hands into the pockets of his grimy jeans, his steely eyes waiting on their answer.

“Maybe there is,” Vin announces, pulling a bright brass skeleton key out of the pocket of his own jeans.

The declaration and production of the mysterious key fractures the group’s growing dread as they gather round to gaze at it like the starved over the last morsel of bread.

“Where did you get that?” Julia gasps excitedly.

“Do you really want to know?”

Agnot and Charlie exchange expressions of incredulity.

“Hell fuckin’ yeah,” Agnot declares.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Vin sighs bracingly, “but a raven left it on the windowsill of my room this morning.”

“Now why would we find that hard to believe?” Parson surrenders sardonically.

Ravenword manages half-hearted chuckles, the underlying truth in Parson’s point exaggerating their apprehension.

“It seems pretty modern,” Vin continues, eager to pull away from the implications of the key’s delivery. “Maybe there’s a garage or radio house somewhere on the grounds.”

“He had to have some way of contacting the outside world,” Agnot adjoins.

“Absolutely,” Parson trumpets, taking a seat at the small butcher-block table in the center of the rude kitchen.

“Or,” Billy interjects in a dry tone as he recedes to lean against the counter, “it stole it from one of the villages.” The onslaught of silent reproofs prods him to explain, and he continues as if weary of being the voice of reason. “Ravens are attracted to shiny things.”

“Why would it bring the key here?” Vin rebuffs, annoyed with Billy’s latent sabotage of their enthusiasm.

“Castle ruins would be a pretty good place to nest,” Billy retorts with a condescending glare.

“Have you seen any ravens nesting around here?” Vin spurns.

Billy crosses his arms and locks his gaze. “We haven’t been outside yet.”

“We will be when we search the grounds.”

Vin’s retort brings a wave of anxiety over the group, with the exception of Billy, who stares back at him defiantly. Julia shrinks into the chair beside Parson under the contention of the confrontation. Intrigued by the exchange, Agnot sinks back against the far counter, considering the weight of Billy’s reasoning.

“Do you really believe this bird was delivering this key to you?” Billy scoffs incredulously.

“Um,” Parson interjects, “have you been in la-la land since we left San Francisco?”

“Either way, we need to be sure just so it doesn’t drive us crazy,” Charlie mediates coolly.

“Fine.” Billy sneers. “Then we should check the rooms first—unless you want to ignore the professor’s warning about going outside.”

Vin’s contemplation is polluted by the struggle over relinquishing his argument. But as his reasoning can produce no justification for pressing the issue, he relents in a conciliatory tenor. “It would make sense for a phone or a radio to be close to his room.”

“And it won’t take long,” Charlie offers.

“Providing that key works,” Agnot amends, gesturing.

“Why don’t we just wait for the professor to wake up and ask him?” Julia proffers, reluctant to be exposed to the openness of the courtyard.

“He was death warmed over even before he flipped over to Romero,” Parson replies gravely, looking around at his friends, “and needs a doctor more than a sailor back from shore leave.”

“He could still tell us when he wakes up,” Charlie argues.

“That could be a while,” Vin counters as Billy opens and closes the cupboards behind them.

“And it could be Romero who wakes ups,” Parson adds. “Leaving us stuck in the same boat.”

“He’ll have a lot of explaining to do, whenever he does come back, but I don’t think we should waste time hanging around and waiting,” Vin states.

“What about breakfast?” Julia peeps from the chair between Vin and Parson.

“Well, there’s plenty of food,” Billy answers, gazing into the antiquated industrial refrigerator.

“Good, then let’s have breakfast and get going,” Vin prods enthusiastically. “Are there eggs?”

Ravenword spread out in the kitchen as Billy reaches into the refrigerator and retrieves a basket of chicken eggs.

“Hey, Parson,” Agnot calls as she rifles through a cupboard for a frying pan. “How come you handled that freaky shit so well? I almost shit a brick!”

Parson pauses over the drawer set with flatware in neatly contoured rows and looks at Agnot with a puzzled expression.

“Because he was a nurse!” Billy retorts, punctuating his disdain by thudding a block of cheese on the counter. “I swear to fucking god, don’t you people ever listen to each other?”

Agnot turns on Billy like a viper but is stayed by Charlie’s hand on her arm.

“Student nurse,” Parson corrects with a nod to Agnot. He scoops up a handful of spoons and counts them out, hoping against knowing that his friends will not pursue the subject.

“I thought you were in business school?” Julia chirps, her nose crinkled with puzzlement.

Parson sighs heavily, dislodging the burden of his scholastic history. “I am, sweetie. I started off in nursing but then transferred to business because I saw how fucked-up the system is. So, I thought I’d be helping a lot more sick people by running a place right than being under a bullshit bureaucracy.”

“I knew it was something like that,” Vin offered from a cupboard packed with spices, teas, and…“Coffee!”

“Oh yay!” Julia sings happily. “Where’s the coffee pot?”

“I think this is it,” Charlie says, holding up two glass carafes.

“This’ll be interesting,” Agnot adds, looking at the brewing system dubiously.

“You’ll need to boil some water,” Parson states quickly, eager to distract his companions.

Within moments Parson has left the kitchen to set the table, thankful to be free of the subject. Charlie and Agnot are at a butcher block, dicing vegetables as Vin stands at the stove trying to ignite the burner without causing an explosion. Julia, fanning her nose at the smell of propane, sits on the counter watching the vacuum brewing of the coffee with fascination. The setting brings a sense of normalcy to Ravenword, which in turn allows their fortitude to recover and their courage to mend.

VIII

“How are you going to find it?” Motisha asks somberly as T. J. packs his duffel bag on the elegantly dressed bed.

The warmth of the red and gold suite seems depleted under their long morning of deliberation after a night of especially restless sleep. T. J.’s insistence on regrouping with Ravenword was met by Motisha’s plea for them both to alert the authorities before return to the United States. T. J. countered with the incredible nature of their journey, which no one is likely to believe, insisting that Motisha return to California without him.

T. J. answers without pausing to look up into Motisha’s sullen face. “I’m not sure. We were supposed to catch a bus to a little town at the foot of the mountains called Colle. There’s got to be somebody in Lucca that knows how to get there.”

Motisha sets herself gracefully on the edge of the bed next to him, bracing her composure and reaching out to lay her hand over his. The gesture stays his frenetic packing. “Why must you do this?”

Instead of meeting her earnest expression, he sighs and hangs his head. “Because,” he states softly, “they’re my friends. I know you’ve never thought much of them, but they’ve never made me feel like I have to be anything or anyone but who I am.”

Motisha’s rich brown cheeks flush, and she lowers her eyes. “I apologize if I’ve ever made you feel pressured to be someone that you aren’t.”

“Hey,” T. J. coos, taking her hand and gazing into her face. “Don’t do that. You make me feel like the man I want to be every day.”

“Is that why you’re going?” she asks carefully. “Out of a sense of nobility?”

“No,” T. J. answers firmly, turning to seek out his backpack. “I can’t shake the feeling that we were invited for a reason, that I’ve got to be there, like there’s something I’m supposed to do.”

“Are you implying that I should be there as well?” Motisha queries in a stronger tone.

Finding the backpack on the other side of the chair, T. J. rises and looks at her with an uncertain smile. “No. I think your invitation was more of a case of graciousness.”

Motisha crosses her arms and glares at him as if he has just insulted her. “I see.”

“I’m just saying.” T. J. chortles, setting the pack next to his duffel bags and offering her a consoling grin.

“I understand what you are saying,” Motisha counters indignantly.

“Look, you barely knew Fichtenberg,” T. J. backpedals, entertained by her reaction. “And nothing will make me happier than knowing that you’ll be on your way home by the time I get to Colle.”

“Very well.” Motisha relents, rising from the bed. “Since I have been relegated to the red-eye tonight, I will accompany you to the train station.”

T. J. grins. “Fine, but go straight to the airport after,” he insists tenderly, reaching out to pull her into an embrace and a kiss.