Now she paused to examine her own emotions. She was aware of feeling, rather than fear, a kind of curiosity. These dark tunnels, which in the average person would elicit great anxiety, were not that different from some of the passages that ran beneath the old mansion on Riverside Drive—save for the vile stench and the unsettling symbols that covered the walls.
She listened intently. She could hear the crying again now, the faint echoes strangely distorted by the underground twists and turns. She moved slowly in their direction. The sounds slowly grew clearer, and now she could hear a second voice: hoarse, ragged, but somehow motherly.
The tunnel made a sharp turn and passed beneath a low arch—and then Constance found herself in a long corridor, broad and high-ceilinged, with a ceremonial feeling to it. The walls had been plastered and were excised with demonic symbols, every square inch carved in precise, maniacal detail with symbols the likes of which she had never seen, even in the Daemonum or the numerous other occult books into which she had delved. An even fouler smell hung in the air here, of filth and feces and suppurating flesh. Along the walls stood small stone reservoirs, brimming with oil, each with a floating wick. Clearly this was used for some kind of processional. But a processional to where? The corridor ended in a stone wall.
She heard a girl’s cry, much louder and closer. She turned toward it, startled. The sound had come from behind her, past a low archway leading from the long corridor. She slowly approached the archway and shone her light down the passage beyond. It was short and ended in a stone cell, barred with rusty iron and locked with a shiny brass padlock. Inside the cell huddled what at first glance looked like two heaps of filthy rags, topped by brushy, tangled hair. As she stepped closer, staring in horrified fascination, Constance realized she was looking at human beings—an old woman and a girl. Mother and daughter? The way they were huddled together in the chilly cell made it appear so. They stared at her, suddenly hushed, their hands raised against her light, smudged eyes wide with fear. Their faces were so dirty, Constance could not make out the features or even discern what color their skin was.
She lowered her light and approached. “Who are you?”
No answer; two silent stares.
She seized the padlock and gave it a shake. “Where is the key?”
This question, instead of receiving an answer, triggered an unintelligible wailing and sobbing from the girl, who stretched a hand out through the bars. Constance stepped forward to grasp it, the filth causing her to hesitate for just a moment. With a cry the girl seized the proffered hand and grasped it with tremendous strength, as if it were her only lifeline, and began babbling. It was not a language Constance understood, and after a moment she realized that, in fact, it wasn’t a language at all—just an outpouring of quasi-human vocalizations.
The older woman remained eerily silent and passive, her face expressionless.
“I can’t free you until you let go of my hand,” Constance said.
As she pulled away, the girl kept up a frantic wailing. Exploring with the flashlight, Constance looked everywhere for a key—walls, ceiling, floor—nothing. Apparently, the jailers kept the key with them.
Constance turned back to the cell, where the girl was still mumbling and weeping.
“Stop that noise,” she said. “I’m going to get help.”
More moaning. But the mother seemed to understand, and she placed a restraining hand on the girl, who fell silent.
“Who are you?” Constance asked the mother. She spoke slowly, enunciating the words. “Why are you here?”
A voice spoke from the darkness behind her. “I can answer that question.”
50
Bradley Gavin stood in the archway, his heart hammering in his chest. He was deeply shocked and surprised at finding Constance Greene in this most unexpected of places. She was dressed in a heavy, long, old-fashioned dress; her hair was wet and the dress sodden. He made a mighty effort to suppress his amazement, collect his thoughts, and project an air of calm and control. As his shock wore off, he felt a growing feeling of…what? A sense that fate had played a deep hand in this. A sense that the universe had created this opportunity, and now it was up to him to make good on it.
He took a step forward. “Miss Greene. Constance. What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” she said in a low voice. “What is this place? And who are these women?” She held a flashlight in one hand, and a wicked-looking stiletto in the other. He was impressed, even inspired, by her coolness.
“Good questions.” Gavin gestured, holding out his arm. “But this is not the most pleasant place for an explanation. May I show you something?”
He offered his arm but she did not take it. Undaunted, he turned and walked back into the long central hallway, heading toward the cul-de-sac at the end. He was aware, with a tingling glow in his chest, that Constance was indeed following him. He paused at the far wall, pushed three loose bricks in, and slid wide the secret door and fastened it open. With a lighter he quickly circled the room, lighting the candles in each of the four sets of candelabras.