Previously in the Vines Inquiry— The gang settled in at the Big House, waiting for another Call to come so they could nab one of Feenuín’s Gifts and put a stop to The Inquiry’s plan…whatever that may be. Enjoying a few too many cocktails while they waited, Frank and Blevin argued about Frank’s parents and all the strangeness Frank had ignored in an effort to earn their love.
As tempers cooled and new understanding blossomed, something crept in through the unlocked swinging door.
“Not all of them could lock,” said Harlow.
Frank turned around slowly. He was sure it was worse in his mind. That was always the case, right? It was always better to finish the scary movie and find out the ghost was really just someone under a sheet. Or, like, an easily-managed ghost. Someone whose bones just needed a good salting.
The beast crouched low before him with its shoulders high and shaking. Frank might have been allergic to cats, but he was not completely ignorant to their ways. This one did not intend to join in their revelry like some sort of gritty reboot Tony the Tiger.
The large cat, a mountain lion/cougar (if Harlow’s coffee cup art was to be believed), was one of the several deadly felines that strut into the parlor. Frank thought back to the campfire stories, the town legends; that so many such lions, tigers and bears stalked the pines of Carlisle. The narratives often shifted between them fetching food for the Woods Woman or being her sworn enemy. Frank half-remembered one where the beasties were children who had masturbated too much, but that felt a little too Catholic to be real.
“What…” said Harlow, her lips barely moving. She took slow steps towards the boys. “Do. We do?”
Frank glanced towards the radio, frightened that the grind of his eyeballs moving would be enough to set the cats off. Their shoulders stretched like massage chair arms under sagging leather.
Not skinny, then, he thought. Starved.
“The one in front has eight ribs. Does that mean anything?” said Blevin. “Wait, no. Twelve.” He shouted at the cat. “STOP MOVING!” It snarled back, baring one broken fang and a mouth full of rot.
“I will push you in front,” said Harlow. “I’m sure your head alone is enough meat to slow them down.”
“Harlow…” said Frank.
“Francis?!”
Frank was in front, both of his arms spread to the sides (seemed as good an idea as any) and behind, corralling his friends as they sidled across the room. He’d angled towards the second door, the one with the dead bolt that led to the basement staircase. A worse option, but easier to unlock than the foyer with its two sliding rods.
“Just stay calm. Stay quiet. Nobody say a word. Stay calm…”
“You are the only one talking!” said Harlow.
“When we get to the door, either of you flick the lock and then we run. It leads to the cellars. We’ll get some distance and then find another staircase up.” They all nodded.
“Wait, did you say ‘cellars?’ Plural?” Harlow’s words reeked; the smell of warm blood spilled in a corn maze.
“The deepest I’ve been is two stories down. But sometimes Dick would come back upstairs soaking wet and be like, ‘I don’t know why you don’t use the diving pool more.’”
“What diving pool?”
“Exactly. Just stay together and we’ll be fine.”
They made it to the door as a fifth cougar sauntered into the room. They casually surrounded the human trio; the certainty of an impending meal outweighing starvation. It was almost like they were used to the cycle. One of them, with two crusty divots where its eyes might have been, easily dodged furniture and fire.
Blevin flicked the lock.
The cougars’ heads snapped towards him, and the manor held its breath.
“go.”
The gang spilled through the cellar door, half-falling, half-running down the stairs. Blevin tried to slam it closed and a cougar sacrificed its paw to block the latch. It screamed—a mix of meow and snarl—as he tried again. Two sharp claws scratched deep into his forearm and Blevin’s grip sprang loose.
All that was left to do was run.
Harlow was out ahead, but couldn’t find a light switch to save her life.
Oh. Damn.
Frank trailed a few feet behind her, searching the space where he thought a wall should be for the tiny plastic switch. The darkness had already swallowed everything, save the meager firelight that spilled from the parlor above. They ran on, like plummeting into a lake during a new moon. Behind, three of the cougars bounded down the stairs, drool and spotted tongues lolling outsider their mouths.
Frank found Harlow’s arm and the two of them made it to a wall. They searched together, hands scrambling over the uneven surface; vicious and hungry as the bared teeth chasing them.
One of Frank’s fingernails bent back, popping skin in the darkness as he raked his hand over a crooked nail. A quarter-ounce of spilled blood later, he found the switch.
He flicked it, illuminating a single lightbulb. It flickered twenty-odd feet to their left, deeper into the cellar. They ran for it, hoping for another door. Something that they could lock.
All they found was slabs of stone with crumbling mortar as the newer walls gave way to their ancestors. In the meager halo of the single bulb, Harlow searched; panicked fingers rummaging through spider nests and ancient cement.
A second switch!
The cellar flooded with diffused, sepia light and the humming glow of bulbs caked in dust. They looked old enough to be called artifacts.
The pair could see they were in a room now, not a hall. The first bulb they’d found was near a corner and a bricked-up, shoebox size window six feet above their heads. There were a few large wooden crates on the other side, ones that looked like they should be filled with hay and vases from a long-forgotten age. Instead, they were labelled ‘baby clothes, Alaric’s Treasures (Mediterranean), and Taxes-90s.’ They kept running.
Frank could see six more passageways branching from the room. They were so dark within that their inky nothingness spilled out from the empty doorframes, sapping any small light the bulbs offered. He had no idea where any of the paths led, but he knew they had to make a choice soon.
Now.
Staring back at them, eyes narrow and glazed, were so. Many. Cougars.
“How big was that truck?!” said Harlow.
“A freakin’ kitty cat clown car,” said Frank. “Oh god. Blevin’s rubbing off on me. Where is he?”
They scanned the room for the lug, but found only the cats’ delirious eyes.
“He must already be doing what we should be. Running. We pick a door and get back to the foyer.”
Harlow grabbed Frank’s hand. He squeezed hers back. Both of their palms were sweaty. Their bodies had taken the hint and were trying to purge any alcohol as quick as can be.
“And Frank. Just in case.” Harlow turned to him and stared deep into his eyes. “I want you to know you have absolutely said things like ‘kitty cat clown car’ before meeting the demonic librarian.”
“He has a name.”
“Yes, and it’s ridiculous.”
“That’s xenophobic.”
“He’s probably from Florida, Francis. And he worships demons.”
One of the cougars growled and clawed at the air.
“Remember to breathe through your nose and mouth!” said Frank. They ran.
Harlow’s ignorance of the basement worked well. Or at least that’s how Frank was selling his brain on it so his legs would keep working. She constantly improvised, dodging dead ends and flailing claws by having no plan. She didn’t seem to care what door they went through, as long as they were moving forward. The one she ‘picked’ was more stairs down. They managed with no broken ankles.
Frank slammed his heel hard into the next level down, a jagged rock surface, that came so suddenly he would have sworn it rose to meet them, mouth open wide.
The impact sent him tumbling forward. He caught himself and felt the layers of skin shredded off as he came to a stop. Frank propped himself up on his elbows, shuffling on all the while, and reached to grab Harlow’s hand again.
“Sorry if it’s bloody…” he said, waving his hand in the darkness. Frank kicked in a little extra speed, but only found empty air.
“Frank?!” Harlow called to him, already sounding so far away.
“Harlow!”
An echo was her only reply.