Part 33 (1/2)
”And according to Mrs. Butler, there aren't any children staying there,” Sute presumed.
”Exactly.”
”And if you heard the voices of the children, you must've heard the dog as well.”
Collier thought his face had just hardened to the density of the Caesar bust.
”The dog is heard more at the inn than the children.”
”Was it brownish, sort of a dark mud color?”
”No references to its color, coat, or breed. It was the girls' pet. Its name was Nergal.”
Nergie. Nergal. Collier sought a link to logic but could find none.
”Peculiar name for a dog, but when you consider that the farthest extremes of the Gast lore are founded in demonology, you have to wonder. The name *Nergal' is referent to a Mesopotamian demon. A devil of pestilence and perversion, though I don't put much credence in that.”
Collier had to ask the next question right away. ”Were the girls named Mary and Cricket?”
”Yes.”
He's lying. He's jerking me around for fun.
”But of course someone else could've told you their names,” Sute added.
”No one did.”
”Are you absolutely certain?”
”I swear.”
Sute pointed to the box of paper. ”Look on page thirty-three.” Collier turned to it and saw the heading.
CHAPTER TWO.
DAUGHTERS OF DARKNESS: MARY AND CRICKET GAST.
”Cricket, of course, was a nickname. The birth certificate cites Cressenda. She's described as dark-haired and mildly r.e.t.a.r.ded. She was fourteen when she died, while Mary was chubby-more squat-bodied-and blonde. Four years older than Cricket. They both died on the same day, incidentally. April 30, 1862. And, yes, they were murdered by Harwood Gast. Their bodies were discovered on May third by the town marshal.” Sute's eyes thinned. ”Where did you see the girls? In the hotel?”
”I never said that I did see them,” Collier commented, feeling sick.
”I'll be blunt, Mr. Collier, if you don't mind. My impression is that you're a very intuitive man...but your face is easy to read.”
”Great.”
”The girls' ghosts are typically only heard inside, but they're usually only seen outside. Where did you see them?”
Collier could only peer at the man. ”You're talking about ghosts as though you personally believe in them.”
”Oh, I do. Very much so. And though I may not have been totally honest with you during our lunch, I very much believe that Mrs. Butler's inn-the Gast House-is full to bursting with ghosts. I believe that it is permeated with the horrors of its original owner. A moment ago you were confident I'd be *laughing' you out of here, but as you can see, I'm not laughing.”
Collier rubbed his brow. ”Well. At least I don't feel so idiotic now.”
”No reason to. You see, Mr. Collier, it's pure human nature. Even for those who don't admit it, human beings love a good ghost story.” Sute smiled. ”The only problem is that some of them are true.”
Collier sighed in a strange relief.
”And some people are more susceptible than others-you for instance. But I'm most curious now. I take it you saw them outside the building somewhere?”
”In the woods,” Collier admitted. ”There's a creek. And the dog was there. But I was really drunk, so-”
”You doubted your perceptions-a normal reaction, I'd say.”
”But I guess the question I have to ask most”-Collier could refrain no more-”is...was the room I'm staying in either of the daughters' bedroom?”
Sute nodded. ”It was both of theirs.”
I knew it. ”But at least they didn't die there,” he said, relieved.
”I guess I should tell you now what I deliberately neglected to mention previously. Both Mary and Cricket's dead bodies were found in that same room on May 3, 1862.”
Collier fumed. ”You told me no one died there!”
”No one did. Gast murdered them on the property, on April thirtieth, then had some of his men transfer the bodies, to their beds.” A low chuckle. ”Don't fret. The bed you're sleeping on isn't one of them. The original beds were burned.”
Collier felt accosted now by sickness and confusion. ”Why would Gast kill them somewhere else and then move their bodies to their beds? Where exactly did he kill them?”
Sute pointed again to the ma.n.u.script. ”It's the absolute worst part of the story, Mr. Collier. But you can read it there. Flip to the account in italics. It's the marshal's. But if you're certain you want to do so...then, please, let me advise that you have a drink. Something stronger than beer.”
Collier slouched. It's not even noon...”Sure.”
”What'll you have?”
”Scotch on the rocks.”
Sute lumbered up to the cabinet, while Collier's eyes flicked down to the dusty ma.n.u.script. Several paragraphs down on page thirty-three, he found a transition heading: EXCERPTED FROM THE PERSONAL JOURNAL OF MATHIAS C. BRADEN, TOWN MARSHAL, MAY 3, 1862. But before he could begin, Sute brought him his drink. ”Thanks,” Collier said after the first cool sip.
”Those papers there in your pocket,” Sute noted. ”It looks like alkali rag.”
Collier had no idea what he meant.
”A lot of printing paper during the first part of the nineteenth century was part rag pulp mixed with wood fibers. An alkali-soda base was used in the process. It bears a distinctive appearance.”
”Oh, these, yeah.” Collier reached to his breast pocket and withdrew the checks he'd discovered in the desk. ”I brought them to show you. I found a bunch of them at the inn. They look like paychecks-from Gast's railroad company.”
Sute examined the ones Collier had brought. ”Oh, yes. Mrs. Butler has one of these on display, doesn't she?”