“Now, start walkin'.”
Mrs. Overdose prodded
Patton with the shotgun once more.
“Better get a move on. I got an
itchy trigger finger, and a lot of accidents
tend to happen when I’m around. So yeah,
pushing your luck? Not a good idea.”
Patton didn’t even
bother looking back, or giving her his common growl (one whose rumble had been
noted to scare off tigers). He just
started walking toward Haldane Manor, hands clenched into fists, and the veins
in his bazooka-sized arms thumping heatedly.
As his slow steps made the ground tremble, JP and Trixie -- flanking him
with eyes fixed on the old manor -- matched his movements. As they approached, the manor almost seemed
to grow before their eyes; it loomed well above them, widening and lengthening,
to the point where it could likely hold ten houses within its walls. The sky itself seemed to darken, and with it
came a frigid wind unbefitting a summer day.
Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you? JP asked, looking up at
the sky. All that’s missing are a few lightning bolts and flapping bats, and
we’d be in the middle of a B-movie’s set.
Trixie looked back at
Mrs. Overdose. “I don’t get it. I’m the one ya want, right? So why’re ya gettin’ these two involved? They didn’t do a thing.”
“I get paid when I have
the full set. And even if I can’t get that…well, at least I
still have Elly May. I’m sure once I get
you back to Rockwood your head’ll fetch a pretty penny.” Her finger stroked the trigger. “So in a way, you can think of these two as
insurance. You so much as take a step out
of line, and I’ll turn these two into the worst Jell-O you’ve ever seen.”
“Ya no-good little --”
“Better keep your
cool. I can see your muscles gettin' all
hopped up and ready to lash out. One
more twitch, and the kid gets his head blown off.”
“You want me to tie her
up for you?” JP asked.
But Trixie ignored
him. “How’re ya so --”
“I’m a bounty hunter,
and a damn good one at that. I wouldn’t
be where I am today if I didn’t pay attention to the little things in life --
like the cells shifting around in your calves.”
She tapped a finger against the side of her head, gracing a few subtle
crow’s feet. “I may be old, but I’m a
lot more skilled than your entire generation’ll ever be. So be a good little girl and don’t try
anything stupid.”
Trixie covered her face
and moaned. “Sure wish I could get some
respect ‘round here.”
The quartet stood
before the mansion’s front doors at last -- massive slabs of wood, befitting
its castle motif. “So do you want me to
knock?” Patton asked. “Or should I just
rip the door off the hinges and club you with it?”
“Just try it, big boy.”
“Oh, sorry, I guess I
should mind my manners when I’m with elders.
Tell you what -- I’ll feed it to you instead.”
“Just push the damn
doors already. Seriously, what part of
‘I have a shotgun’ do the three of you not understand?”
Patton shoved the doors
open; as the hinges squealed, Mrs. Overdose herded them all inside, and kicked
the doors shut on entry. JP had a point
-- if the mansion’s exterior looked like a B-movie’s set, then its interior
practically had them thrown into the film’s world. Decaying brown walls, with crumbling
balconies and stairs affixed to them.
Tattered paintings so faded they held little more than inky
blotches. Candles that had melted ages
ago, leaving cold, hardened puddles of wax within mottled trays. At least a dozen halls, all blacker than the
dead of night, leading to unknowable -- or unwanted -- depths of the
mansion. And as if to mock the entrants,
a burgundy carpet -- faded and frayed, but a carpet nonetheless -- stretched
from the staircase onward. It did little
to cushion their feet; if anything, it sent a glacial chill up their bodies.
JP, Patton, and Trixie
all tried looking around to regain their bearings and dissect the situation, but
with little success. Even with the
morning sun shining outside, only a few slivers of light helped to brighten the
room. JP held a hand in front of his
face. Bad enough that the darkness
half-obscured it; worse that the color had practically been sapped from his
skin. “Is it just me, or does it feel like we stepped into a completely
different story?” he wondered aloud.
“Yeah, I know what ya
mean,” said Trixie, likewise inspecting her body. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Both of you, do me a
favor, and don’t say ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’ It never leads to anything good.”
Patton nodded, and slid
an eye towards Mrs. Overdose. “So? What do you want from us now?”
She didn’t bother
answering, of course. She just headed
toward the doors, and sat down pretzel-style in front of them. Of course, she kept the shotgun cradled like
her baby; sensing no threat, she lowered her head a bit as if to rest, and
started swirling her reed around rapidly.
“Kids today are such dimwits.
Haven’t you noticed yet?”
“Noticed what?”
Mrs. Overdose pointed
her reed at the ceiling. “He’s here.”
A metallic rattle rang
from above, immediately drawing the captives’ eyes. The source?
A massive chandelier, somehow managing to sway smoothly on its weathered
chain. But amidst the threaded jewels
and curling metal, something more sat upon it -- a cloaked figure, barely
distinguishable from the shadows. “Now,
now, there’s no need for such harshness,
Mrs. Overdose,” he announced, deciding to stand atop the frail metal. “Ku fu fu…those who have yet to open their
minds are sorely lacking in
perception.”
“Quit yer yammerin’ and
show yerself already!” Trixie yelled, taking a step forward in spite of the
shotgun-toting sentry. “I’m the one ya
want, so here I am! So get down here and
--”
“Miss Walters, you’ve
misunderstood me -- vastly so. I’m not
just here for you. I’m here for everyone.”
“What?”
The figure took hold of
the chandelier’s chain, and held fast to it as it lowered him to the
ground. “Let me be perfectly clear for
you, Miss Walters. And for you as well,
you Hoigleheimer kin. And yes, even you,
my fair Mrs. Overdose. You see…” He leapt off the chandelier, and drew himself
back up as it reeled back toward the ceiling.
“Everything will proceed as I dictate.”
He snapped his fingers,
allowing a spotlight to shine upon his magnificent form. “I am Gaston Leroux. And the world will be mine.”
He stood a fair bit
above six feet, but looked even taller thanks to his top hat. And he looked taller still thanks to his horrifically
gaunt frame; his limbs, his hips, and even his ribs all seemed crunched
together, or at least a bit too familiar with a torture rack. As if to compensate for his sickening form,
he had appeared before them in an almost inappropriately dapper costume -- a dark
carmine jacket and slacks, laced and trimmed with white frills and seams. He left his jacket wide open, the lapels’
edges as sharp as knives and framed by an array of gold buttons; beneath the
jacket, a white vest, accented by a plume-like black scarf. A gold cord extended around his neck,
fastening a high-collared cape to his body, and letting the black-shelled fabric
drape over his shoulders’ edges.
And the mask. JP, Patton, and Trixie hadn’t taken their
eyes off it for a moment; even Mrs. Overdose, in spite of her disinterest,
glanced up at it every now and then. It
begged to be stared at; it beckoned to them like a siren’s song. The white shell, just barely reflecting their
faces back at them; the vine-like patterns, violet and thorny, creeping up its
left side; the eyes and mouth, each curled like crescent moons into a haunting
grin…
If the captives needed
any proof that the man before them could spell their doom -- once, twice, and
three times over -- they only had to look at that mask. But in case they needed just a little bit more proof, Gaston provided
with ease.
A knife -- almost a
sword -- had been thrust through his heart.
“Whoa. Didn’t see that coming,” said Patton. He folded his arms. “Nice costume, fancy entrance…I’m impressed. You’re manly, in a twisted sort of way.”
Gaston bowed
gracefully, his white-gloved fingers lashing like power lines. “Why, thank you. I aim to please.”
“Mr. Hoigleheimer,
don’t compliment the bad guy!” Trixie yelled.
“I gotta give credit
where it’s due. Besides, a compliment
isn’t gonna stop me from ramming my fist down his throat.”
“Ku fu fu…my, my, such
bestial impulses…you’d best calm down, good sir,” said Gaston, moving his arms
through the air with needless flourishes.
“After all, I AM quite familiar with your southern companion. Aren’t I, Miss Walters?”
“If yer tryin’ to say
we’re pals, ya got it all wrong, ya no-good sonuvabitch,” Trixie growled. “I dunno why yer so crazy about givin’ me
hell, but if ya keep it up, then I’ll --”
“Oh? What’s this?
Have I neglected to tell you my master plan? My, oh my,
this is quite a misstep on my part.”
Gaston turned around and started pacing, his cape rustling about as he
continued his deliberate motions. “How
embarrassing. Calling myself a villain
seems like little more than an unwarranted boast. You would think that I, with so much
preparation beforehand, would tend to such an obvious matter well
beforehand…” He shot a glance back at
them, his neck craned at an unsettling angle.
“Given my ‘unique situation’, I had more than enough time.”
“S-so spill it
already!” JP yelled. He took a step
forward, and thrust a finger at Gaston.
“Go on! Go ahead! Tell us!
Put us all at rest, then! T-tell
us who you are, because OBVIOUSLY there’s NO WAY you’re what we think you
are! Because that’s impossible!”
Patton looked down at
his quivering child, and then turned to Trixie.
“He’s afraid of ghosts,” he explained.
“Oh yeah. I was startin’ to think that myself a little
earlier.”
“I…I am NOT afraid of
ghosts!” JP crammed his hands into his
pockets -- though that did little to hide the shaking…or his simultaneously
paling and bluing face. “Obviously, it’s
impossible -- IMPOSSIBLE -- to be afraid of something that CLEARLY doesn’t
exist!”
“He’s really scared of ‘em, huh?” Trixie
asked.
“Yeah. Halloween’s always a real problem for him,”
said Patton.
“Hey! HEY!” JP
forced his (teary-eyed) face into his typical scowl. “Talking time is over! Finding-out-who-the-villain-is time is now!” He pointed at Gaston again…who in the
interstice had started lying on his side like a Frenchwoman waiting to be
painted. And with his back turned to
them, no less.
“…Oh, are you
finished? I scarcely noticed; your
performance was just so boring I
could hardly be bothered to pay attention.”
He waved a hand through the air, his fingers lashing about as
usual. “Ku fu fu…your only saving grace
is that I’m not a critic.” Gaston spun
to his feet, his cape sweeping about as he threw out a hand. “I am an entertainer -- an actor, and
craftsman of the highest caliber. And
this show -- this very world…”
He clamped his hand
into a fist. “It will dance until the
bitter end.”
Mrs. Overdose sighed
and shook her head. She’d started to
wonder if she’d ever get paid.
TO BE HEARTINUED…
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