boning knife.
There were no lights on in the living room. What little illumination there was came from candles and the fire in the big stone fireplace, which did next to nothing against the chill. A chesterfield sofa and two battered leather wing-backed chairs were set before the fireplace, which was flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. An antique rolltop desk was parked before the windows, an old Underwood manual typewriter set upon it.
But by far the most striking thing about Wendell Frye’s living room was the pair of virtually complete suits of armor standing on pedestals in the center of the room.
“My proudest possessions, Big Mitch,” Hangtown declared, returning with two large pewter mugs filled with dark beer, one of which he handed to Mitch. “Late fifteenth century. You want to talk about mm-rr-honest metal work, by God, they made these by hand. Hammered each part from a goddamned lump of metal. Missaglia family of Milan made ’em. No bogus fluting or scalloping either. Their beauty comes strictly from the form itself. And wait until you get a load of this
…” A look of childlike glee lit up his creased old face as he raised the visor of one of the suits.
Mitch heard a click and the entire wall of bookcases to the left of the fireplace rotated slowly open to reveal a secret passageway laced with cobwebs. It was like something right out of an old haunted-house movie.
“Leads straight down to the dungeon,” Hangtown explained, cackling. “Now get a load of this…” He went over to the rolltop desk and pushed a button under its middle drawer. Now a section of the bookcase on the other side of the fireplace popped open to reveal a secret wall safe with a combination lock. “Perfect place for storing secret documents, am I right?”
“Or maybe counterfeit plates,” said Mitch, who found himself wondering what, if anything, the old recluse did keep in there.
Hangtown moseyed his way back over to the suits of armor now, a sly expression on his face. “How would you like to help me choose a wine for dinner?”
“Why, sure. I’d be happy to.”
“Father, no!!” cried out Moose, who had just joined them. She wore the same homemade outfit she’d had on that morning, her sleeves turned back to reveal forearms that were uncommonly muscular. “Mitch, move three steps to your left this instant,” she commanded him urgently.
“But we’re having fun, Moose,” Hangtown protested. “Besides, he’s a healthy young buck and he’s-”
“Just do it, Mitch!”
“Tell her it’s okay, Big Mitch,” Hangtown pleaded. “Tell her you want to see what Jim and I have done.”
“Well, sure I do,” Mitch said uncertainly.
“Okay, fine,” Moose said to him with weary resignation. “Hand me your beer. Give it to me.”
Mitch gave her his mug just as he noticed Hangtown raising the right gauntlet of one of his suits of armor…
And suddenly the floor was gone under Mitch’s feet.
He’d been standing on a trapdoor.
And with a whoosh he was gone. Falling feet-first down a fun-house slide, an involuntary roar coming out of him… Faster and faster he fell-unable to see, unable to stop, out of control… Faster and faster… All of the blood rushing to his head…
Until suddenly he landed with an oof on a cushioned surface of some kind, gasping for breath. Somewhere, he could hear Hangtown cackling with maniacal laughter-either it was Hangtown or Vincent Price. But Mitch could see nothing. Everything was pitch-black. He lay there like a lump as heavy footsteps slowly descended a creaky wooden staircase. Then he saw a faint light. A pair of lights, actually. Kerosene lanterns. Hangtown was clutching them as he made his way toward him down the basement corridor, still cackling with delight.
“How did you like it, Big Mitch?”
“This is the coolest house I’ve ever been in,” he replied, taking in his surroundings in the lantern light. He was lying at the bottom of a chute in a bin that was filled with pillows.
“See? I told Moose she didn’t have to worry about you.”
Mitch got gingerly to his feet. His sweater and khakis seemed to have rearranged themselves and his feet felt numb. But once he’d stamped them on the concrete floor a few times they were fine. The narrow basement corridor they were in seemed to be part of a network of corridors. The walls were damp and slimy. It was like being in a catacomb. He accepted one of the lanterns from his host and said, “I’m half-expecting to run into The Creeper down here.”
“Sure, I remember him,” Hangtown exclaimed, wheezing as he led Mitch down the corridor. “What was that poor fellow’s name who played him?”
“Rondo Hatton. He suffered from acromegaly.”
“By God, you’re a useful man to have around.”
“I’m a waddling encyclopedia, all right.”
Now they passed through an arched doorway and Hang-town flicked on a light to reveal an extensive wine cellar. The old man was quite a connoisseur. Hundreds of bottles were stored there in row upon row of wine racks. Three of the walls were of fieldstone and mortar. The fourth, a load-bearing wall from the oldest part of the house, was made of rough oak planks that were at least eighteen inches wide and were buttressed by hand-hewn chestnut posts.
“What’s your pleasure, Big Mitch? A nice Medoc?”
“Sounds terrific.”
Hangtown slid two bottles under his arm. “Oh, hey, get a load of this,” he said, hobbling over toward the oak-plank wall. “Can’t claim I did this one. Been here since Prohibition…” He lifted a dusty bottle of port from the top shelf of the wine rack. A section of the oak wall immediately popped open. It was actually a dummy wall that had been artfully built out from the original one so as to conceal a hidden cupboard. “They used to store their hooch in here,” he said proudly, opening the cupboard doors wide for Mitch to see.
Not that there was anything in there to see. Just empty shelves coated with cobwebs and dust. Although it did appear, on closer look, that something had recently been stored on the lowest shelf-a distinct outline marked its place in the dust. It was the outline of something like a rolled-up rug, maybe eight inches wide and four feet long.
Hangtown was staring at it. He seemed startled. Almost transfixed.
“What is it?” Mitch asked him.
“Nothing.” He swung the cupboard doors quickly shut, anxious to change the subject. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Big Mitch. We were joking about it this morning, but this is serious
…”
“Okay…”
“You really wouldn’t mind if I came over to watch Celebrity Deathmatch?”
Mitch gazed at the great artist with openmouthed surprise. He couldn’t believe how unassuming he was. “Are you kidding me? Come. Any time.”
“Great,” Hangtown exulted. “Just great.” Now he led them out of the wine cellar and down a clammy stone passageway, halting at a recess in the stone wall where there was a narrow wooden spiral staircase. “This goes all the way up to the second floor-there’s a secret chamber behind the master bedroom where they used to hide the slaves. A whole secret corridor runs along behind the upstairs bedrooms. In the back wall of each closet there’s a way in. The girls keep theirs bolted shut, so don’t get any sneaky ideas, heh-heh-heh. On the other side of the house it connects up with the old service stairs. You go that way. Take the wine. I’ll close up down here, okay?”
“Wait, this is another trick, am I right?” Mitch asked, as the old man started to hobble off.
“No, no. Trust me, it’s not, Big Mitch. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be giving you the wine, would I?”
Mitch supposed not. Clutching the bottles carefully under one arm, he slowly climbed the steep, narrow spiral staircase, his lantern held out before him to ward off evil spirits and vampires. Up and up he climbed, up and around, up and around, until he finally arrived at a narrow, airless wooden corridor. It was barely as wide as his shoulders, and the ceiling was so low he had to duck or he’d get a mouthful of cobwebs. There were many spiders. A million spiders. Every ten feet or so he passed a closed door with no knob-the secret doors to the bedrooms. Each had a peephole in it. Mitch tried looking through one, half-expecting to find another eye staring right back at him. There was nothing. Only blackness.
