Soul of the Butterfly Read online

  “Yeah, it looks like something a bunch of students would argue over in art history.”

  Lilja presses her lips together, moving her eyes away from her colleague to study the piece. It reminds her of the Infernal, and something in it also makes her think of the image on the wall of the burnt-out church. She recalls Skothiam once mentioning that sometimes people with an artistic bent may be more prone to sensitivity to the Infernal. She wonders if that may have been the case here. Perhaps Mr. Barrington had been a lure.

  She glances over, noticing the hostess entering with the most recent arrivals, so she blinks her eyes to Zoe. “Let’s go,” she murmurs, giving a slight tilt of the head and making way out of the room.

  The heels of their boots resound over the wood floor in the main hallway, pace slow, dictated by Lilja. More pieces of art are displayed, some framed canvases on the walls, pedestals supporting sculptures. They spare some time in perusal. Lilja feels captivated by the otherworldliness of the work. She rises up from a closer look at a tiny piece, the detail stunning, to see Zoe looking like a bored teenager.

  They pass by another room, peeking in to notice several guests milling. A few heads turn their way, and she can all but feel the sneers. They end up in another chamber that holds no occupants.

  “Lots of fireplaces in the house.”

  Lilja blinks her eyes to Zoe, nodding to the assessment. Though it may seem premature, all the rooms thus far seen have borne impressive such sections. Lilja is reminded of the time she found a secret passage in such a one. She wanders to the mantle, moving her hands along it, not disturbing any of the trinkets and décor resting atop the wood. She finds no hidden switches, but she still feels this place brims with secrets.

  “Ah, hello.”

  They both turn to see a well-dressed man of likely holding age somewhere in his third decade. He carries himself with a certain, obvious degree of confidence and charm, the light curl of his lips adding to this.

  “Hello,” Lilja finally returns after some time of the two women just looking at him. Zoe continues to hold her tongue, seeming more taciturn than the generally quiet Finn.

  “You two are here for the showing?” he tries, perking dark eyebrows as he shifts focus between them, the warm smile still on his mouth.

  “Not exactly,” Zoe grates.

  “I … see,” he obviously doesn’t, but he continues, resetting himself, “I wonder what Mr. Barrington would think of all this.”

  Lilja just looks back, her manner one like stone. She finally blinks, the fraction of a motion and tilt to her head as response.

  “Aaahh, he wasn’t much for social gatherings,” the man elaborates.

  Lilja nods slowly, feeling the same.

  “It’s like a haunted house.”

  Both slip their eyes to Zoe.

  “Mm, yes, I suppose it is,” the man admits after a short silence, then almost musing, something of sincerity finally catching in his solicitous demeanor. “Full of memories.”

  “Hmm?” Lilja responds.

  “A haunted house is full of ghosts, yes? Well, some, at least, and ghosts are memories,” he elaborates, then extending his arms a bit, palms upward, gesturing like a salesman to encompass the room. “All of this is his memory … uh, Mr. Barrington’s.”

  “It’s like a funeral,” Zoe continues her dry commentary.

  It takes a short moment, but the grin snaps back to the man’s face. “I suppose it somewhat is. Mr. Barrington was one for the somber and dark, that’s for sure. You ought to see the rest,” he adds, giving a little teasing twist to the final words.

  “We intend to,” Lilja remarks, then heads out.

  Zoe gives the man a smirk, a silent taunt regarding the one that got away, then she heads to follow.

  They find more rooms, some with fireplaces, confirming Zoe’s speculation. They locate the kitchen, gaining some looks of confusion and surprise from the few workers there. One approaches, beginning effuse apologies and direction to points other than the work space, but Lilja gives a light, warm smile and single nod, leaving with a silent passage of comprehension. Such aimless wandering is how they end up in the dark, narrow hallway.

  It doesn’t seem like the rest of the house, from what they have explored. It is lit by spaced-out, recessed lights, the glow soft yet without the feeling of warmth found in the rooms comprising the party. This light is utilitarian, and there is not much of it. The hallway does not come to a dead end, but it does show a simple wooden door at a bend. Lilja tries it, but it proves locked. She stands there a moment, pondering.

  “I’ve got it,” Zoe murmurs, moving in, managing to displace her partner without any untoward collision.

  Lilja watches, quickly noticing Zoe’s intent. The younger girl merely picks the lock, quite adeptly, then slips the tools back into her pocket, standing and looking at Lilja as though the most mundane of chores has been done. Opening the door reveals a set of stairs heading down into a basement.

  The area is quite dark, large, though they locate switches that lead to similar illumination as the hallway that brought them here. The chambers are vast, and they do not hold the sort of dank incompleteness one might expect from a basement. There is also the artwork.

  “Wow, this guy really was weird,” Zoe breathes as the two examine the pieces.

  Lilja had spied the first shape when the lights had come on, wondering for a split second if someone else lurked down here, but they realize it is a strange collection of sorts. First the one, then another, yet another, and more – all held in acrylic glass cases, as though to keep them from escaping, showing predominately anthropomorphic shape, though obviously not entirely identical to humans.

  One is of a woman, wearing a dark gray, nondescript dress that covers from wrists to ankle, but her face hides behind a mid-twentieth century gas mask. Close examination shows the mask to actually be part of her face, giving forth a meld that is quite out of the ordinary. Her hair is stringy in some places but others seem of ridged rubber. The combination is so well done as to somewhat trick the eye.

  “Look at her fingernails,” Zoe mentions, giving further personification to the statue.

  Lilja notes the cracks and chips, the detail again as she had seen in the smaller works.

  “It’s like she tried to get free.”

  The redhead glances at her companion, noting a mingling of interest and awe that Zoe has not yet shown. She thinks back to the remark that the drawing in the church might depict a sacrifice.

  “I think he was trying to escape.”

  “What?” Zoe asks, eyes narrowing a bit.

  “I think this house is not just haunted, but it may have been his prison. Maybe he felt strangled by whatever visions compelled him to create.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess he’s free now.”

  Lilja does not care for the quip, but she says nothing further, moving to examine more of the curious mannequins.

  She finds one set up to appear as a ballerina, toes of the left foot en pointe, right tucked up and held just so. The form seems quite perfect, and though the piece holds beauty, the grotesquery shows as abundant as all of them down here. She begins to realize the displays they saw on the ground floor found themselves chosen due to being more palatable, this lower “dungeon” locked to hide the more disturbing things.

  “It looks like skin …” she barely whispers, close enough to the transparent box that her nose almost touches, and she wonders if such material had indeed been used.

  In her life as a librarian and curator of rare books, she knows of human skin being used as cover in bindings. It might not be the most lauded method, but she is not even sure if it would be against the law, depending on how one acquired such. Still, certainty hides behind the glass, examination prohibited. She snaps from the near-hypnotic study, remembering she is also not here as an admirer of art. Surely, if the dead artist proves a lure, his work may hold some clue, but they are not sure of that.

  She turns, then, hearing Zoe cal
ling, and judging from the intensity, it is likely not the initial summons. She heads over, giving a rapid pace to her steps to make up for getting lost in thought.

  “What is it?”

  “Check this out,” the other girl replies, pointing to an open section in a wood wall.

  Zoe has found a hardly hidden secret portal, opening it to reveal a small room, the area tight like a restrictive closet. Though one may be inclined to perhaps even think of the tiny chamber as such a room for storage, its innards tell otherwise.

  There hang no clothes, stand no shoes, clutter no other forgotten objects. The space is empty. The wall, though, holds a drawing that appears at first blush to be by the same hand as painted the bound deer-woman in the burnt-out church. The lines are again thick, showing discontinuity as though of a careless or rushed manner, but something in the overall appearance screams deliberate intent.

  The main attraction is a large star, covering a goodly portion of the back wall. It is crudely done, some of the points careening out further than others, though the topmost holds the most prominence. A quick scan counts seven points, and Lilja’s mind immediately begins to seek for references. The one that hurls to the fore regards using such a symbol for the summoning and controlling of spirits.

  But the star is not alone. Covering nearly the remainder of all walls is a word, repeated over and over. The manner of it feels unsettling, both in the appearance and its repetition. The scrawl of the letters holds aesthetic of its own, seeming the hand of one with as precarious a hold on sanity as the brush. Her memories again find Ernst as well as more of what she has learned of those who hold sensitivity to the hidden world populated by the Infernal and such mysteries. Without proper training or fortitude, mental unbalance often results.

  “Do you know what it means?” Zoe asks, her voice a whisper, as though she has finally encountered something requiring care.

  “No.” Lilja slowly shakes her head.

  She reads the word, over and over, taking it in, etching it into memory, but even with her background, recognition eludes her. What does ananael mean?

  “It looks fresh,” Zoe remarks, stepping in closer, her small flashlight picking up the shine on the markings. She even dares to dab a fingertip on one portion, and Lilja finds herself suddenly tense, ready to forbid the action. When Zoe pulls the digit back, it shows nothing.

  They snap some quick photos with their phones, moving away from the cramped chamber.

  “I’m going to send this to Skot now and see if he …” but Lilja’s voice trails off, face pinching up a bit as she looks at her phone.

  “Yeah, the reception’s pretty much gone down here,” Zoe informs.

  The underground level does indeed prove to be as large as those above, and for a time, they seem to be lost in another world. The sudden rise of a clomping noise pauses them instantly, eyes shooting upwards then slowly looking at one another.

  “Maybe we should get back upstairs,” Lilja suggests.

  Sher turns to head to the stairs but pauses after nary a few steps, looking back to see Zoe just standing there.

  “What is it?”

  Zoe does not answer. She seems rapt with some concentration. She moves her light, angling the torch to the side, then back, then away, bringing it to bear on Lilja each time. She finally ceases with it away, leaving only the meager light from the bulbs in the ceiling.

  “Lilja,” she says, voice not quite a whisper but husky with some alarm, “your shadow is upside down.”

  The redhead freezes for an instant, then shifts her face to the cast from the lights. Her eyes widen, tension taking her form as she spies her silhouette. It stands on its head.

  “We have to get to the car, get our gear,” she begins, still staring at the inverted form, but her calmly issued orders are interrupted by further noise.

  There comes another thump from above, and they hear reactionary cries. A louder, sharper sound then chews on the heels of this one, a brash strike and resultant crack followed by similar. This has arisen from down here in the basement.

  Both pull their sidearms, Lilja expertly gripping a Glock 19 while Zoe holds her Kahr P9, each loaded with the specially crafted and treated rounds which promise pain to demons. Not rushing, handheld lights shine the way, sweeping gently for threats as they move back toward the staircase. More noises from above, thumps and shouts, even a crash. Zoe’s eyes veer upwards momentarily only to return to the path ahead. A light catches something, stopping in its motion as does the carrier, knees bending a bit as feet hold place, eyes studying.

  “What is it?” Zoe asks, moving in closer, her own light staying in a different direction, increasing coverage.

  “One of them got out,” Lilja mutters, and Zoe then looks over, seeing what had recently caused the ruckus here- a container holding one of the many disturbing-looking mannequins has been broken, its occupant nowhere in sight.

  The younger Huntress does not bring her light around to add to the glow, instead keeping it angled away as she steps forward, eyes narrowing a bit then widening with outré intent. She sees now with more than normal sight, scanning. Lilja has moved her own torch aside, knowing that such is not needed for Zoe to engage this ability. She continues to sweep the area, offering protection.

  “Nothing,” Zoe finally whispers, gaining a quick glance. “I don’t see any signs. Maybe this whole … thing,” she opts, looking up for the word, “is just some distraction to steal this art.”

  “No,” Lilja calmly assesses, still looking around the dark room, “something else is going on.”

  Zoe’s shrug shows slightly, but Lilja does not see, for she continues her careful movement. Though she does not entirely agree with her own flippant suggestion, Zoe wonders what really is happening here. She holds a singular adeptness at tracking and finds it odd that she sees nothing coming from the case. This makes her think there is nothing of the Infernal involved. Just because something odd or dangerous is happening doesn’t mean it has to be them. Still, there was Lilja’s shadow.

  But it seems they are not the only ones gifted at tracking and silence, and only because she had turned back to speak to Lilja does Zoe spy the motion in the direction from whence they have come. Whatever it is must have circled around in pursuit.

  “Contact rear!” Zoe cries out, firing quickly, two rounds shooting in the direction of that motion, brief lines of amber tracing the path and giving hint of the bullet’s imbuement.

  Lilja reacts instantly, instinctively, bending at her knees, turning in the direction of the possible threat. She sees something in the flash from the shots, some motion in the darkness, something dark itself. She hears the noise, a whispered skittering, and she also opens fire as Zoe adds more bullets.

  Both now have flashlights shining unerringly on the attacker, and as they step closer, Lilja feels confusion rising from the seeping leak of adrenalin. She is nearer, and she sees quite well the form of the mannequin, sprawled now down on the ground, a portion of its upper body and one arm up along the wall. There doesn’t seem to be any fluid of any kind, but there is obvious damage. It looks as though they merely shot the inanimate thing, leaving it broken and ruined.

  “What’s going on?” she dares to whisper, hesitant to even utter the question.

  Zoe glances at her, and even if this scenario were not doubtful enough, there still emerges the clamor from above.

  “We’d better get upstairs.”

  Lilja nods, turning to lead the way, Zoe keeping a sharp eye behind as they mount the steps.

  The ruckus comes louder here, but it still proves somewhat muted by the distance created by the narrow hallway. They carefully traverse the length, noticing more than a rise to the chaotic sounds.

  “It’s warmer,” Lilja mentions, and she thinks she knows why.

  She peers about a corner, keeping low. A scream peels forth from somewhere, then rapid footsteps, those closer. She shifts her eyes about, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. She hears whimpering. A moti
on of her head serves as silent command, and they move, walking into a nearby room to find a woman crouched behind an overturned, antique-looking sofa.

  The desperate, repeated words of denial flutter up like dancing petals on puffs of coiling wind. The woman is so lost in her fear, she does not realize someone else is right there.

  “Ma’am?” Lilja tries, voice calm, though she maintains some distance. She knows that people in the grip of such panic may also prove a threat, even if unintended.

  The woman sucks in a sharp breath, eyes opening, going back, head following in stuttered motion, and when finally seeing the other two, she screams, scampering to her feet, heels giving poor purchase on the hard floorboards.

  “It’s okay,” Lilja delivers, but the woman’s wide eyes seem to gulp in more terror than anything her ears might hear. “We’re here to help. Everything is going to be okay.”

  She gets closer, both their handguns diverted. Though there may linger the nagging doubt of possible possession, the woman shows none of the signs they’ve learned to seek. Lilja holds up a hand, leaning a bit closer to give a placating touch. The woman’s trembling grows, head shaking slowly, as though breaking free from some frozen hold. She then exhales a forced, stuttering breath through her mouth, air crashing over bared teeth, and she turns to flee.

  “Hey, wait, stop!”

  The woman does not heed, but her escape is short-lived as she collides with a window so harshly as to render herself unconscious. Lilja rushes over, crouching to the crumbled form, checking for a pulse. She then looks up at Zoe.

  No words are exchanged, for both recognize the signs of sheer panic and ruin, mental instability that comes with a demon attack. Confusion still clamors regarding the encounter in the basement, for it did not show what they’d consider the usual signs, and were it not for the situation in these other parts of the manor, they might think themselves the butt of a practical joke.

  “Let’s get to the car,” Lilja says, gaining a single nod of compliance from Zoe.

  They make it some ways down the main hallway before the ceiling collapses.