Odd's Door

ODD’S DOOR

  BY

  W.S. LACEY

  COPYRIGHT 2013 W.S. LACEY

  Chapter One3

  Chapter Two18

  Chapter Three24

  Chapter Four36

  Chapter Five43

  Chapter Six54

  Chapter Seven62

  Chapter Eight68

  Chapter Nine74

  Chapter Ten86

  Chapter Eleven95

  Chapter Twelve102

  Chapter Thirteen106

  Chapter Fourteen112

  Chapter Fifteen124

  Chapter Sixteen136

  Chapter Seventeen140

  Chapter Eighteen149

  Chapter Nineteen168

  Chapter Twenty181

  Chapter Twenty-One190

  Epilogue196

  Chapter One

  Lewis Spender sat upright in the passenger seat and allowed his nerves to work on him. Beside him, Roger F. North hunched forward and narrowed his eyes as if the change in posture would somehow enable him to see through the driving rain that swept across the road. As they drove on in silence, gusts of wind sent sheets of rain slanting down in a regular, torrential cascade. Of the world around them, they could only see dark grey trees whipping around indistinctly in the teeth of the storm. Spender looked out his window with the private and well-contained enthusiasm that comes of being in a car travelling through horrendous weather. (This is not to be confused with the cozy and content feeling associated with lying in a warm bed while a storm rages outside. It is even quite unique from the nervous, giddy excitement that accompanies the shutting of all the windows in the house just minutes before the heavens issue forth an awe-inspiring summer storm. Although these are marvelous and noteworthy sensations, they are not what Lewis Spender felt as he watched the rain coursing in fat rivulets down the windows, casting long weak shadows on the inside of the car that shifted and undulated in the pale watery light.)

  Without removing his gaze from the road or relaxing his grip on the steering wheel, North spoke for the first time in nearly an hour.

  “He’s mad, you know.” Spender looked over in mild surprise.

  “What?” The car sped on past a grove of trees, their pale leaves shivering and blowing away in the wind.

  “At least I think there’s a good chance he might be mad. The last two places we stopped for directions, did you see the way they looked at us? They sent us on with an amount of bewildered pity that I’m not sure I’m comfortable with. It would have been one thing if they hadn’t known who he was but they acted like he was infamous.”

  “North, you’re not afraid of him?”

  “I’m not afraid,” he said, “I’m not. There’s just a good possibility that he’s mad. It’s something we should consider.” A cliff had reared up on the right side of the road and towered over them as the road began a gradual but pronounced incline. As the car climbed, the storm became more intense. The wind howled down along the cliff face and nudged the car as if contemplating hurling it off the road and down into a rocky ravine.

  Fortunately, the wind did no such thing and they drove on, passing a black gnarled tree that clung grimly to the sheer rock face and weathered the wind and rain with a certain sullen defiance. In front of them, a long circuitous fork of lightning flickered and branched in the sky, its purple-white light flooding the road, the cliff, and the stubborn tree. A moment later, a long and magnificent peal of thunder roared and rolled along the cliff and gave the car a shiver.

  “I’ve just remembered,” said North, “I forgot my umbrella.”

  Of course, Spender was just as anxious as North, if not more so. When the cliff they had been accompanying ended and the road took a sudden turn to the right, he felt his anxiety lurch from a passive sort of worrying to the short-breathed variety immediately preceding either a schoolyard fight or a public address. As the cliff fell back, an exceedingly tall and forbidding house reared suddenly into view, its narrow gables stabbing up at the dark sky in a humorless manner. The trees that surrounded the house and the road had bare, black, crooked branches and bore a strong familial resemblance to the stubborn tree they had seen not too long ago. Another fork of lightning split the sky and Spender and North shared a look of trepidation.

  They went at a crawl through a wide wrought iron gate and came, at last, to an entrance paved with flagstones. Leaving their car, they ran up the stone steps and pressed the bell by the great black door. The rain at this point was coming down so fiercely that their dash did nothing to prevent their being completely soaked. Spender had remembered his umbrella and so was spared the worst of it, though the wind was sending icy buckets of rain flying sideways in such a manner as no umbrella could completely overcome. North had had no choice but to brave a good drenching.

  The door opened to reveal a small, stooped man with wispy colorless hair. He greeted them in a whisper and, without noticing, Spender and North began to whisper as well.

  “We’re here to speak with Mr. Webley; we called earlier,” North said.

  “Ah, Messrs. Spender and North, you are expected.” The man hobbled to one side and gestured in a less than expansive way for them to enter. The hall they entered was high ceilinged, severe, and would have looked down on frivolity if front halls could do such a thing. A chandelier provided a subdued light that faded into gloom as it reached feebly into the corners of the hall. As Spender gazed at the altogether very imposing staircase that swept down on both ends, the man closed the door behind them with some effort. North had just reached out to touch the nose of a somber and jowly bust when an imperious voice shattered the silence.

  “Imbecile!” A man whose appearance was very much in keeping with the storm and the house had materialized at the top of the stairs. He looked pointedly at North, “Refrain from dripping water on the parquet!” Spender and North both started, either due to Mr. Webley’s appearance or to the particularly well timed and dramatic crack of thunder that heralded it. North attempted an ‘I beg your pardon’ but was cut off.

  “Speak up, you,” Mr. Webley said. “Why are you whispering; are you simple?” He descended the stairs and looked critically at Spender. “Your colleague seems to be a simpleton.” Spender murmured an abstract kind of apology and looked at North with a (by now familiar) look of bewildered pity. North was by no means a fool but, under the circumstances, they felt ill equipped to argue the point. As such, for the duration of their interview with Mr. Webley, North was treated as an idiot. (This put him out for quite some time. Anyone who has ever been suddenly and forcefully misunderstood can understand the amount of indignation he felt all that day and the next morning as well.)

  Mr. Webley turned and directed his rather intimidating attention elsewhere. “Shapwick, show these young men upstairs.” He went half way up the staircase and stopped with his hand on the banister. “And send Mrs. Minting along, will you.”

  #

  Spender and North sat in front of an admittedly impressive fireplace, faced by Mr. Webley who, instead of sitting, stood with his hand on the tall straight back of his chair in a proprietary manner.

  “Would you like Turkish coffee?” he asked.

  “I would, sir,” North said.

  “Well we haven’t got any,” Mr. Webley said frostily. “Mrs. Minting, will you bring two cups of tea? Two lumps each, I think.” Mrs. Minting, a conscientious and relatively unremarkable woman who will not appear again, drifted away, presumably to the kitchen. When Spender and North had their tea, Mr. Webley sat and steepled his fingers in exactly the way a person like Mr. Webley would. “I understand that you wish to visit the asylum,” he said.

  “Yes sir,” Spender said, “as an important histor-” Mr. Webley cut him off.

&nb
sp; “I am aware of the significance of the institution. It is due in large part to its storied history that it has not been razed to the ground. After its dissolution by my father, it was to be developed,” this he said with a certain amount of distaste, “but due to an outcry by a dedicated few, I thought better of it and have retained the property to this day. The asylum at Quartersoake remains privately owned, as it has been for generations.” Spender made a dogged attempt to reenter the conversation.

  “My colleague and I would like the opportunity to-”

  “I rarely allow anyone to visit the asylum due to the sensational nature of a series of events that unfolded late in my father’s tenure there. I will have no thrill seekers.” He narrowed his eyes at Spender and North.

  “Our interests are purely academic, sir,” North said.

  “Quiet, you!” In the ensuing silence, Mr. Webley looked fiercely at them. After a short while, he folded his hands and put his chin down on his chest. What he said next had a practiced, well-worn sound, as if he had said it many times before or perhaps had spent long hours thinking about what he would say.

  “Ten years before the war, a man with modest success as a playwright and great notoriety as an occultist was admitted to the asylum due to a number of unhealthy predilections.” Spender and North, both having heard something of this (though they had only gotten scraps and distortions and had neither of them found a source half as good as Mr. Webley), were sorely tempted to interject but, knowing what they did of Mr. Webley, wisely maintained their silence.

  “While at the asylum, Adelard Odd was given a great amount of freedom. This proved disastrous. Before an ignominious death brought on by pneumonia, he caused two disappearances and one death, all from the confines of his cell. They entered his room and never came out. Shortly thereafter, the asylum was closed for unrelated reasons. The public believed otherwise and the passage of time has done nothing to dull the rumors that surround the place and the man.”

  As you may have already guessed, this scandal was the sole reason for Spender and North’s interest in the asylum (their carefully worded and painstakingly dry letter of inquiry to the contrary). It took considerable self control for them to only express as much interest as was polite.

  Mr. Webley stood and faced the fireplace. Just as Spender had begun to wonder if he had forgotten that they were there, he spoke again.

  “Tomorrow at eleven o’ clock, you will meet a Mr. Harris in Quartersoake. He will accompany you to the asylum and will give you instructions regarding your conduct. He has been given care of the property and is responsible for its upkeep; as such, you will heed him as you would me. Shapwick,” he said in a conversational tone, “escort them to the door.” Shapwick, who was suddenly and disconcertingly right beside them (Both Spender and North would have been prepared to swear that he had not been in the room a moment ago and it was, truth be told, a very large room with very little to hide behind), nodded deferentially.

  “Thank you, sir, for seeing us,” Spender said. Mr. Webley looked at him oddly for a moment.

  “Eleven o’ clock sharp. Good day gentlemen,” he said.

  The night that had fallen during their interview was wild and black, filled with the howling wind and lashing, frigid rain. As North wrapped his overcoat around himself and turned up the collar, he did so with the bleak resignation that attends long trips home through bad weather at a late hour. (A feeling not unlike that experienced when waking up very early in the morning with the knowledge that a return to bed can not be effected for a long, long time.) Beside him, Lewis Spender was conscious only of a keen and unmitigated anticipation.

  #

  Quartersoake was tucked away in the back corner of a sleepy countryside. It was the sort of town that had little to offer to outsiders; not by any fault of its inhabitants, who were mild and retiring, if extremely elusive, but for the sole reason that there was very little in it.

  They met Mr. Harris in front of the church, which was the only real landmark in the town. He sat, feet dangling, on the low churchyard wall with his hands in his pockets and his eyes squinted against a stiff breeze. He wore a brown coat and muffler and, as he alit from the wall to greet them, he pushed a pair of atrociously scratched and dusty spectacles higher on his nose.

  “Hello,” he said, “I’m to take you to the asylum. Arthur Harris.”

  “Roger North.”

  “Lewis Spender.” They shook hands and promptly shoved them back into the depths of their pockets.

  “The asylum is several miles from Quartersoake proper,” Mr. Harris said. “I’ll take you there.”

  It was a blustery day and the winding road out of the town was a sodden mess, covered with expansive mud puddles that reflected the white-grey wash of a sky that seemed one gigantic cloud.

  “It makes good sense to have an asylum secluded in such a way, I suppose,” Mr. Harris said. “I can’t imagine many people wanting lunatics for neighbors, not that you can avoid that under normal circumstances anyway. I once lived beside a man who would carefully and deliberately water his front step with a watering can every day of the winter. For the longest time I thought he was stark raving mad. I came to find out he just hated visitors.” Mr. Harris paused and chewed his lip pensively. “It’s also well situated for the peace and quiet a disturbed mind craves. That’s very often all a lunatic needs, you know; a good lie down and some hushed tones. At any rate, it’s as quiet as the grave there.”

  “Do you live on the grounds?” North asked.

  “Oh good Lord, no,” said Mr. Harris. “It’s creepy as all get out. I have the hardest time even getting someone to come out and fix the place up and no one will so much as set foot in the Broken Wing.”

  “The broken wing?”

  “But that’s what brings you here, isn’t it?” Mr. Harris looked over confidentially.

  A long row of cypress trees lined the roadside, swaying and susurrating in the wind. The asylum sprawled just beyond. Even at a distance it looked utterly deserted. Its shadowy, recessed windows and dark, lichen stained stone walls listed slightly above a wide circular drive, in the middle of which was a large fountain filled with dry leaves. Spender thought that it did not appear to be “creepy” so much as sad and derelict.

  Mr. Harris drove them through the gate and they debarked, again braving the blustery morning that sent chilly drafts up their trouser legs. He stopped them just outside the entrance.

  “Right; before you go in, these are Mr. Webley’s rules and stipulations: you aren’t to take anything out or leave anything there. If you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, you are to leave immediately. You are not to go into the Broken Wing. You are forbidden from entering Adelard Odd’s room in the Broken Wing and, above all, you are not to touch or in any way interact with Odd’s Door. Upon completion of your tour, Mr. Webley desires you to return to him for an interview.” Mr. Harris looked skyward. “I do believe that’s everything. Do you have any questions?”

  “What’s the broken wing?” Spender said.

  “And why the particular emphasis on Odd’s door?” North said. Mr. Harris stopped short and looked at them as quizzically as one can.

  “You don’t know?” He turned away. “They don’t know.” He turned back. “What do you know?”

  “Very little,” North said. “We know that Adelard Odd managed to murder three people in his cell and that two of them were never found.”

  “And Mr. Webley told you that, did he?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not the half of it. I mean to say, that really isn’t true at all. The actual circumstances were substantially more…” He trailed off. “You’d better come with me.”

  They followed Mr. Harris back down the drive to the gate. There was a small, vine covered, crumbling gatehouse at the bottom of the drive and it was to this that he led them. After trying several keys with no luck, he tested the doorknob and found that it had already been unlocked. Sheepishly, he let them
in and began clearing great stacks of yellowed paper from a table. The room was incredibly cluttered and was lit by a single shaft of light that struggled through the begrimed window and was filled with shining dust motes that swirled as the still air of the gate house was stirred by their arrival. Mr. Harris drew chairs from the corner and swiped at the seats with his handkerchief.

  “I suppose it shouldn’t come as a surprise that you don’t know; so few do. I believe Mr. Webley himself is ignorant of the facts. As you may know, it was Mr. Webley’s father that ran the asylum when Adelard Odd was committed. Webley the elder made the bad mistake of not taking Odd seriously. I wouldn’t say that he necessarily humored him, humor not being in the Webleys’ repertoire, but he did allow him books, projects, and callers. He even let him have some of his own furniture brought in to spruce the place up a bit.

  “The whole time, Odd seemed content to take short walks and do a bit of writing in his room. He kept to himself for the most part and, to all outward appearances, was the picture of sanity. The first sign that they had horribly misjudged him came when a Dr. Fitzroy searched his room and read what he had been writing.”

  “What happened?” North asked.

  “He went blind. It was very terrible and one would think that it would have served as a warning, but no one could force themselves to make the connection. To accuse someone, even Adelard Odd, of striking a man blind, would seem unforgivably backwards. They were medical men and wouldn’t be caught dead entertaining a superstitious or unscientific thought. Not so with the orderlies. They stopped cleaning his room and wouldn’t even look directly at him. That may have been the greatest mistake of all.” The gatehouse groaned and settled.

  “One day, Dr. Webley entered Odd’s room with the intention of speaking to him. Odd wasn’t there and, in the middle of what had previously been a blank wall, was a door. He immediately called in several of the orderlies and, as they hadn’t entered the room for some time, no one could really say how long the door had been there or how it had gotten there.”

  “Did they open it?”

  “I believe they did, yes. The wall it was on was directly adjacent the cell of a man named Wood, who sometimes thought himself invisible and sometimes couldn’t recognize his own face in a mirror. At any rate, the door didn’t lead anywhere; it opened to a wall covered in what could only be described as hieroglyphics. They shut the door in a hurry, remembering, I imagine, what had happened to Dr. Fitzroy and went off in search of Adelard Odd at once.