Colm & the Lazarus Key (7 page)

He took a deep breath, reached out and grabbed it from the shelf. It was lighter than it looked. The cover was scratched and stained, as if someone had spilled a cup of tea or coffee on it many years before.

He sat down in one of the leather armchairs – no point in being uncomfortable – and opened it. The first few pages were like a scrapbook. Yellowed newspaper cuttings about the opening of the hotel. Nothing too interesting there. He glanced over them then turned a few more pages until he found what he was looking for. The writing was thin and spidery, but just about clear enough to read. It was a diary of some sort. It told the story of a man who over a hundred years ago had been here to do some work on the hotel. He read through the diary entries until he reached the final few.

·•·

The Book of Dread (6)

April 15th, 1896

I have pieced the puzzle together! In 1817 the Red House was owned by a rich family known as the DeLancey-O’Brien’s. They had a son, Hugh, and everyone agreed there was something strange about the boy. He was a cruel child given to fits of vile temper. He was un-usual in appearance too – his eyes blazed red around the rim of his pupils giving him a fearsome look. An accident at the age of eleven left him with a scar running from the corner of his eye to his mouth. If he was a bad child, he was a brutish adult. He spent his days horse riding – his long black hair flowing behind him, his red eyes blazing – and his nights drinking and fighting. Whenever people in the village heard his horse’s hooves on the road they hid in their houses. At night he would prowl the streets of the village with his only friend, a giant, black dog who was as mean-tempered as his master, looking for trouble.

He grew bored of the countryside and his black heart longed for excitement and adventure, for even though he was merciless and spiteful, he was also brave and wild. He begged his father for some money so that he could travel the world and make his own fortune. His father agreed, yet he didn’t know that when he waved him farewell one cold winter’s morning that he would never see his son again, for it would be ten years before Hugh returned and his father was dead by then.

There was a knock at my door. My heart leapt, but it was only the owner of the inn telling me my supper was ready. I am nervous these days, yet I don’t know why. I should not be fearful when my fortune will soon be in my hands, yet every sound, every whisper frightens me. I shall continue my writing after I have eaten.

One hour later:

I have just had a most awful meal of boiled cabbage and cow’s tongue. When I am rich I shall eat like a king. Where was I? Ah, yes. Nobody knows for certain what Hugh did when he left Ireland. Once or twice a year his family would get a letter from some foreign land in which Hugh would tell them of the adventures he was having. Nothing was heard from him for almost eighteen months until his family received a letter from Africa. Hugh was excited. He said that he had little money left, but he had a feeling that he was about to make a fortune if his luck held. He wrote of a treasure he had heard about from a penniless ex-soldier he’d met on a sea voyage. I have found his letter among the items stored in the treasure chest in the Red House:

He is a low-born fellow of indeterminate age and of an appearance that is both displeasing to the eye and to the nostrils. The creature is riddled with cankers and sores. It sickened me to spend any time in his presence and at first I wanted nothing more than to be rid of his company. The wretch begged me for money. He held out his hands like one of those wastrel supplicants that have bedevilled my travels. Yet, though I was tempted to thrash him to within an inch of his miserable life, I noticed he bore a strange mark in Indian ink upon his index finger. I have seen this mark once before and I know what it represents – it is the Sign of Lazarus. I questioned him and for a few shillings the fool revealed all to me. It disgusted me to find how easily he gave up his clan’s secrets. Nevertheless, it was a most interesting tale and it took all my fortitude to stop myself crying out in delight and excitement. After he finished he swore we were now blood brothers. I did not enlighten him as to how unlike brothers we are, how his kind are more akin to rats than to the proud DeLancey-O’Briens. I let him believe that we were bound by blood because the creature will be of some use to me, as he knows the New World and I do not. We are to set sail for Boston on the morrow. The task that lies ahead of us is filled with peril but, if I succeed, when I return I shall have riches beyond compare (the poor fellow believes that we shall share these riches) and the name of DeLancey-O’Brien shall once again ring around the world.

April 19th, 1896

I have been lax in the upkeep of my diary since I attached the copy of Hugh’s letter. Too much has happened. My mind has been in constant turmoil. Darkness is all around me and I would rather be anywhere else in the world than where I am now. For the sake of innocents everywhere I must record what happened to Hugh DeLancey
-
O’Brien.

After the last letter his family never received another communication. They worried about Hugh and contacted everyone they knew in important positions in America, but he was never found. In the end they presumed he was dead, killed in his pursuit of the unknown treasure.

Then one day, a year after Hugh’s father had died, his mother was sitting in the library when she saw a stranger in rags walking towards the house. He appeared to her to be an elderly beggar and she went outside with a blackthorn stick in her hand to confront the vagrant. She was shocked when the old black dog of Hugh’s slowly padded up to the stranger and began to lick his hand. He usually attacked anyone who called to the house, even after his teeth had rotted away and he could barely walk.

‘Who are you?’ she called out to the man.

His hair was long and grey, he was missing an eye and he walked in a shambling manner.

‘Mother, don’t you recognise your own child?’ asked Hugh.

She could hardly believe it. It was her son. He was only twenty-nine and he looked like a sixty-year-old. She took him in and nursed him back to health and though his appearance improved he was a man who was forever changed.

When he had regained his strength he began to take walks in the village, but where once he’d have picked a fight with anyone he met, now he shunned all contact. He seemed to fear every shadow, every sudden noise. He was a broken man.

In the safety of his home he sat silently for hours on end and when he did talk it was always something about the village or the land; he refused to say anything about his travels. He grew angry at the mere mention of his time abroad. Nobody knew what had happened to him in America, although sometimes the servants would be woken at night by his screams. When they’d go to his room to calm him down he’d stare at them with wild eyes and say ‘The Lazarus Key. Why did I ever involve myself with the Lazarus Key?’ And night after night he’d sit by the fire trying to rub off a sign that had been tattooed onto his finger – a diamond with a horrible skull at its centre.

Years passed and he began to grow calmer, but he was always terrified of strangers. If he heard of a visitor in the village, he’d lock himself away in his room until he was assured that all was safe. ‘They’ll find me. Maybe not now, but some day they’ll come back for it,’ he’d say in a whisper.

He lived a long and unhappy life and when he died a maid was given the job of sorting through his things. She found a locked trunk in his room. Being a curious girl, she broke the lock and found that there was nothing in there other than a leather pouch. Inside the pouch was a small object. That evening she became unnaturally giddy, but shortly afterwards complained of feeling ill. She was found dead in her bed the next morning. The object was placed in Hugh DeLancey-O’Brien’s hand prior to burial. Several mourners said that they saw his hands move and a light come to his eyes. There were reports that the undertaker, the only other person known to have touched the blasted thing, came to a horrible end shortly afterwards, but I have been unable to verify that.

Date Unknown

My hands tremble as I write these words by candlelight. I do not know what day it is. Even the month and year elude me at this moment. I hear the men and women laughing in the next room and I envy them. If what I have discovered about this place is true then I shall be dead before first light. How I wish that I had never come here. My name is of no concern. My life is of no consequence. I only write to warn others. Beware of the Key of Lazarus.

My foolish thoughts led me to believe that if I could locate the Key I could sell it and make my fortune. I was convinced that it would be worth a vast sum of money. As for the tales I had heard about the Key, I did not believe them. I am a man of reason and I
do not
did not believe in magick. I thought the stories were arrant nonsense, ghost stories of the type you will find in any town or village in Ireland. I was wrong. Most dreadfully wrong. Fate was about to play its cruellest trick upon me.

Night after night I snuck back to the Red House after my uncle and his workers had left and I searched for the Key. I became a man possessed. My hair, once neatly combed, grew long and unruly, my beard unkempt. I did not sleep. After weeks of searching, I uncovered the Key of Lazarus. I will not relay to you where it rested. I do not want some other poor misfortunate to follow me down this dreadful path. When I held the Key in my hand I felt my heart leap with joy. I was consumed with a happiness I never knew could exist in this world. The happiness stayed only for an hour. The sickness followed. Now I know the truth. The Key is most powerful. If you take it in your hand it draws the very life from your body. You begin to fade away. And then the one who has power over the Key follows its signal. It will take the Key and steal all of your life from the wretched object. That is why the thing does not die. It feeds on the lives of others. I know this now. I know that the Key is in the wrong hands. It must be destroyed but I do not know how to destroy it. Instead all I can do is wait.

As I look out the window I see that dawn is less than an hour away. It will be here shortly. To take the Key and take my life. It cannot stand the light or walk in the day like a human, for while it was once human it is not any more. I do not know what else to write. Hark, I hear it. Its feet drag across the hall floor in a manner that chills me to the very depths of my soul. It is coming for me. I see the handle of the door begin to turn. It is nearly here. I cannot bear to look up from my page. It is in the room. I can smell its foul stench. My time on this earth is at an end. These are my final words. Do not search for it. Do not desire it. Run. Run for your life and never stop when you hear of the Key of Laz................

T
he writing ended there, the words unfinished. Colm closed the book. That was a cheery read, he thought. While he’d been reading
The Book of Dread
it was as if he’d been transported to another time, long since past, and now it felt peculiar to be sitting here in the comfortable armchair as the rain pelted against the window.

He wondered what had happened to the man who wrote the book. It didn’t look good. Had the creature got him? And if so, what was the creature? And what was the Key? Could it really bring someone back from the dead? He shuddered at the thought.

He flicked through the book again to see if there was anything that he’d missed. Anything that might tell him what had happened here in the Red House Hotel. Maybe even in this very room.

There was no other clue as to what had happened to the man. Nothing about the creature. Nothing about the Lazarus Key.

There was one bit of good news though. Unless he was hugely mistaken
The Book of Dread
wasn’t cursed. Everything the man had written in the book said that those who held the Lazarus Key in their hand died before the first light of the following morning. Not the book, the Key.

No,
The Book of Dread
wasn’t something to worry about. Lauryn must have got it wrong. Or else she was playing a trick on him. The book was fine. As long as he stayed clear of the Lazarus Key everything would be all right. And he had no intention of looking for it.

·•·

The Brute’s path was blocked with briers. He stomped down on them and carried on, but after a while they grew so high and tough that it was difficult to push through. It was obvious to him that no one had been here in years. It was too overgrown. The brambles were thick and strong and grew around each other and in a criss-cross pattern. He covered his hand with the sleeve of his jacket and pushed at the thorns, but they barely moved. He tried it a few times, but each time he was as successful as the last, which is to say completely unsuccessful. He grew more and more frustrated. The anger built up inside of him until it was a bubbling rage. Finally he let out a roar and swung his right leg high in the air and brought the heel of his trainer smashing down on top of the brambles. Some of them broke and the others were smooshed down enough for him to step over.

‘Superdude 1, Nature 0
,
’ he said with a smile.

He had no idea where he was now, but the rain was bucketing down and he was getting soaked. He pulled his jacket tighter round him, but it wasn’t offering much protection. He called out Lauryn’s name again, but just as before there was no answer. No sound except the rain splashing on the ground.

He needed somewhere to shelter from the downpour. He stood against the bark of an ash tree, but the water just dripped from the leaves and rolled down the back of his neck. He’d have to find somewhere better. Maybe if he dashed across to that tree over there. The big one. He didn’t know the names of any trees. He hadn’t paid attention in primary school when they were learning all that nature stuff. He’d been too busy firing spitwads at the back of Alan Murphy’s head. What did it matter now? Knowing the name of the tree wouldn’t make it a better shelter. How far was it? Ten yards? Fifteen? He’d sprint it.

Halfway there his foot caught in something and sent him sprawling. He slid through the wet the leaves and only came to a stop when his arm got caught on a thorny branch. He heard his jacket rip. He got to his feet and inspected the damage. The right arm of the jacket was torn and the lining was poking out. The knees of his jeans were drenched and covered in some sort of slime. His hands were filthy and he was certain he’d chipped a tooth. Why did everything bad have to happen to him?

What had tripped him? He wanted to kick it. It wouldn’t do any good, but it’d make him feel a lot better. Before he’d even had the chance to look he heard someone call his name.

‘Michael
.
’ The voice was soft, yet rasping.

‘Hello?’ The Brute called out. He couldn’t make out which direction the voice was coming from.

‘Hello. Lauryn, is that you? Are you hurt or something?’

‘Michael.’

It didn’t sound like her. Not at all. But who else could it be? There wouldn’t be anybody else in the woods who’d know his name. Unless it was Colm. The little twerp wouldn’t have followed him, would he? Surely not. He was scared of his own shadow, that fella. But what if he had? His cousin was annoying, but he didn’t like the thought of him being stuck out here. Even he didn’t deserve that.

‘Colm,’ he said. ‘Is that you?’

‘Help me
,
’ said the voice.

The words seemed to be coming from nearby. As if … no, that was a stupid thought. But even so, The Brute had to admit that it sounded as if they were coming from under the ground.

He dropped to his knees. The rain teemed down but he didn’t notice it anymore. If one of his family, even Colm, was in trouble he wasn’t going to leave them there. That wasn’t how it worked.

The forest floor was a mess of overgrown brambles and weeds.

‘Where are you?’ The Brute asked.

‘You’ll find me,’ said the voice.

No, it didn’t sound like Colm at all. Unless he was weak and injured. Maybe that’s why he sounded different.

He tore away at the weeds and briers, pulling them out of the ground with his bare hands. Soon his fingers were cut to shreds but The Brute didn’t even notice the blood dripping from them. He worked in a frenzy, clawing at the weeds, dragging the briers out and throwing them over his shoulder. Finally he felt something.

He bent down to have a closer look. It was a ring of some sort. A thick metal ring bigger than his hand. What was that doing here in the middle of a wood? He lifted it up, but it didn’t come very far. It was attached to something. If he didn’t know better he’d think it was a trapdoor. He did know better and it was still a trapdoor. He pulled at it. It was stuck.

The rain began to gather in pools around his feet. He gave the metal handle another tug. Nothing doing. How had Colm managed to get himself imprisoned under there? He didn’t have time to think about that.

He swept his hand around it, breaking through the weeds and moss until he found what he was looking for – a groove in the soil. The outline of the door. He tore the last of the moss away – how long had it been growing for – centuries? – until he could see it clearly. It was about two feet square. Not much room for someone of his size to squeeze through. Why was there a trapdoor in the middle of the woods?

‘Hold on. I’ll be there in a minute,’ he shouted.

He grabbed the ring with both hands. He heard his father’s words in his head – let the legs do the work, save your back. His father was a builder and well used to lifting things. He was a real man, not like Bald Seanie. All he ever lifted was a pen to correct homework.

The Brute pulled with all his might. He could feel his face grow red with the effort and his legs began to buckle, but the thing didn’t move. Not even an inch.

He relaxed, took a deep breath, and tried again. This time he made progress. He heard the roots of whatever plants had grown around it ripping and screeching as they were torn away. Come on, he told himself, you can do it. Captain of the hurling team. Captain of the rugby team. Undefeated in five school fights and fifteen after-school fights. No one could beat him. No one. His teeth ground together. He could feel his shoulders begin to burn as if they were going to be ripped from their sockets. He let his mind wander to a different place. Block out the pain.

The trapdoor began to open, centimetre by agonising centimetre, but he was already exhausted. He felt the strength drain from him. His arms began to shake with the effort. The handle slipping through his fingers.

‘Come on, Michael
,
’ he shouted, but it was no good. He was losing the battle.

Then from somewhere deep down inside of him he felt the strength return. It was an odd feeling. Not like when he was wrecked in a rugby match and got a second wind. This was different. As if somebody was helping him even though there was nobody there.

He felt a surge of power sweep through him.

And suddenly he was sitting on his rear end and the trapdoor was open. He didn’t even remember the last thirty seconds. He just sat there letting the rain wash over him. He didn’t feel like himself. He slapped himself on the face and shook off the feeling.

He got to his feet and peered down into the gaping maw below and saw absolutely nothing. It was too dark. He wished he’d brought a torch. He lay down on his stomach and reached down into the black void. There was something there. Wooden. A ladder?

‘Colm, can you hear me?’ he asked.

There was no reply.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be with you in a minute
,
’ he said.

Without thinking, without wasting another moment, he began to climb down the ladder until the darkness wrapped around him like a cloak.

·•·

Colm had almost reached the bedroom door when he noticed the wet, muddy footprints on the carpet. The Brute must have been out for a walk in the rain, he thought with a smile. Serves him right if he got a good soaking.

The door was unlocked. He went in, but didn’t find The Brute lying on the bed watching television as he’d expected. Was he in the bathroom again? Maybe he was sick after all. He knocked on the bathroom door a couple of times, but there was no answer.

‘Michael, are you in there?’ he asked.

Still nothing. That’d be just like The Brute. He wasn’t even polite enough to reply.

‘All right, have it your way
,
’ he said.

He sat down by the dresser, picked up his book and began to read. The words didn’t blur together this time. He smiled with relief. He was glad the whole worry of
The Book of Dread
had lifted, but there was still something nagging at him. Unanswered questions. He didn’t like this hotel. Not one little bit. He couldn’t wait until morning when they’d be far away from here. He never wanted to come back to this place, not as long as he lived.

He turned his attention back to the book. Reading would take his mind off things, although he was glad he wasn’t reading a horror novel.

He’d only read half a page when he saw the white folded piece of paper on the ground. It looked like someone had slipped it under the door. Had he walked past it when he’d come in? Then he remembered the muddy footprints in the corridor. Probably some trick of
The Brute’s. He’d bend down to pick it up and his cousin would kick him up the bum. But he still hadn’t heard any sound from the bathroom.

He marked the page in his book, placed it on the dresser, then went over and picked up the piece of paper. He opened it up and read:

Leave the hotel now

Before it’s too late