The Gift of Illusion: A Thriller (28 page)

He could already taste the metal inside his
mouth. The hollering cackle had returned, louder than before, but
Isaac ignored it. He had already decided what he would do, and
nothing would change his mind.

Nothing.

The gun sailed out of his hand, smacking
against the wooden pew beside him and spinning to a stop against
the right wall. Even without his wife, without Amy, he had decided
he would face the dusty shelf, and with all his strength, try to
take it apart and rebuild it. And he would begin now.

He buried his face in his hands. Tears
formed a swamp of his eyes. Laughter was all around, circling in
his head, taunting him as he wept.

Virginia knelt down behind him, put her arm
around his waist, and softly rested her head down on his back.

Tears fell and laughter echoed.

There seemed to be no end to any of it, yet,
at some point, while his head was in his hands, completely unaware
of what was happening around him, Isaac had cried out.

He only spoke two words, but they were
enough.

It was all they needed to hear.

“Help me!”
he had cried.

14

Silence fell over the sanctuary. The tears
quickly left with the laughter. Isaac raised his head, stood up,
and peered around the silent room. Virginia and Simmons were behind
him, their heads turning in every direction, their eyes carefully
searching the environs. He looked to the stage, at the illusionist.
The white balls of light weren’t glaring at him anymore. The long,
dark blue hood swayed left and right, surveying the room with the
rest.

A presence was here, everywhere, and it was
something the group recognized, but more importantly, it was
something that remembered the illusionist.

Soft whispers began circulating in the air.
The whispers came from the floor, the ceiling, and everything in
between, even the orange smog above.

The voices grew louder, closer.

The group huddled together in the center
aisle and looked across the maroon carpet at the illusionist. His
hood had stopped swaying and the glowing white inside were once
again focused on them, however, this time the eyes weren’t filled
with laughter, but a deep, consuming fear.

The whispering had now reached its pinnacle
of volume, and as it did, there came another sound, an acute, yet
subtle swish of heavy chains dragging against stone—the sound of
slavery.

Moments later the first of the prisoners
appeared from behind the stage, chained together at their necks,
crawling through the red curtain.

The illusionist turned around and saw the
pale figures behind him with their black mouths open, hissing. He
gradually stepped backwards down the steps, not turning his
attention from the prisoners.

Another set of ghosts climbed from the
maroon carpet, cutting off his path. He fearfully stepped back on
to the stage, now surrounded from all directions, and forced to
face the wretched things that haunted him. Some of the prisoners
were close enough to claw at his feet, but as they did, the
illusionist would swipe them away with the back of his hand.

The ghosts flew backwards, shrieking, with
their arms crossed in front of their pale faces shielding
themselves from the poisonous swipe of the illusionist’s hand.
Lucius was determined to keep the hissing spirits at bay, but more
came.

Isaac glanced up.

A group of prisoners appeared from the
ceiling and crawled down the walls, their vacant sockets locked in
the direction of the stage. Many more followed from the ceiling,
and then some crawled from behind the double doors, passing around
the group.

They came from the walls.

The floor.

The air.

With each second that passed, six more would
appear, always hissing, always chained.

“My God,” Virginia muttered, hand over
mouth. “There are hundreds of them.”

The spirits were passionate about being back
on the stage, about being a part of the show. This was their moment
to enact a bit of vengeance upon the thing that had delightfully
tortured them, and they would not let the moment slip. But the dark
cloaked illusionist wasn’t slipping either. It would take all of
them, working collectively, if they were to carry out the
reprisal.

They packed around the stage, each ghost
tightly clenching the one before it, pushing the herd closer toward
the goal in the middle. For once, since the show began, the
illusionist appeared to be losing ground. He could no longer fight
them off so easily, there were too many of them now. The poison was
rapidly losing its effect, unable to permeate through the wall of
prisoners.

Then, accompanied by a gasping sound, which
swooped over and across the packed sanctuary like a drowning wind,
the first ring of ghosts reached into the body of the illusionist.
Their hands formed a large fist inside of him and began tugging
outward, with each ring after clutching the one before them.

The illusionist writhed back and forth,
roaring.
His hooded head fell backwards, gazed up at the
ceiling. He tried to shake the hands away, one by one, but the fist
would not break. The prisoners pulled relentlessly, gathering more
and more strength as a group, determined to free the mortal from
their master’s grasp.

The final act had come.

The illusionist let out one final roar,
exerted one last futile tear at the internal fist, before a fiery
breath of smoke exhaled from his body launching a transparent
shadow of him into the air. The circular mass of prisoners toppled
backwards like a chain of dominos as a cold draft parted from the
center of the stage.

All eyes in the sanctuary watched the
cloaked shadow slowly rise into the orange fog above and break
apart at the ceiling. After the last vestige of air departed, the
assembly of prisoners faded away, together in peace, for the last
time.

15

The group was still huddled together in the
center of the aisle, waiting for the thick smoke to clear. When the
smoke finally settled, Isaac stepped forward and saw that the
ghosts had left something behind, curled up on her side in the
center of the stage. It was their way of saying
thank
you.

Isaac ran across the maroon carpet, up the
three steps, and stopped in front of his daughter lying motionless
on the hardwood floor. When he knelt down, he could see her eyes
were closed. Virginia and Simmons ran up from behind and stood over
Isaac, looking down as he touched his hand to Amy’s cheek. Her face
was cold and wet with sweat, as were her blue pajamas. Isaac
brushed her hair back from her face with his hand and softly said
her name.

A moment later, her eyes opened.

Amy picked her head off the stage and stared
up at her father. “Dad?”

Isaac smiled down at her then leaned over
and held her tightly in his arms. “Are you okay?”

“I’m tired.”

“I know. I’m tired, too. But we have to go
now.”

“Are we going home?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, still holding
her in his arms. “We’re going home.”

The group strolled to the double doors at
the end of the aisle. Isaac had his chin down, holding Amy’s hand
the entire way. He noticed the pistol lying against the wall to his
left, fully loaded, but he had no desire to pick it up.

When they arrived at the double doors, Isaac
stepped to the front of the group and unlocked the dead bolt. Here
he was again staring down at the brass handles. Just moments
earlier, he was certain he would die here, perish with the rest of
the prisoners in this torturous place, but somehow he had survived.
He would leave the mansion with his friends behind him and his
daughter’s hand nuzzled comfortably inside his own. He would walk
out of here a changed man.

The trial was over.

Isaac leaned over and rested his hand on the
brass handle, but when he turned it downward, the lock slammed back
into place. The bolt quivered between the doors like a tired muscle
straining to stay flexed. He reached up from the handle and tried
to turn the lock back to the left, but it wouldn’t be as effortless
as the first time. He fought with both hands to turn the rebellious
lock, yet every time he reached the halfway point, the bolt would
slowly pull back stronger and more resistant than before. But it
wasn’t until he heard the stone mansion yawn, that he finally gave
up.

The sonorous aching sound shook the stone
walls. The mansion was filling its lungs, stretching its legs, and
preparing to bury them under its enormous weight. The group turned
from the double doors and looked high up on the walls at the
flaming torches jumping in the metal rings.

Virginia swallowed.
“He’s still
here.”

Seconds later, the group of four ran up the
aisle with only one thing on their minds.

Escape.

16

The sanctuary steadily darkened, as one by
one, the flaming torches fell to the floor throwing sparkling
orange embers into the air. Two rows of pews quickly caught fire.
The hardwood stage collapsed as the knocking feet trampled over it.
The ceiling clattered, cracked, and crumbled, sending large chunks
of gray stone plummeting down from above like meteorites.

The group was halfway through the backstage
area before Virginia realized they now ran in the dark. The lantern
was spent, dry of fuel. She dropped it to the floor, passing the
table of tortures. The glass smashed then jingled and bounced up
and down on the pulsing floor. Scalpels spun off the table, teeth
fractured under their feet.

They could hear the house crumbling from
above, fearing the walls would soon close while they ran down the
winding passageway to the study. From the study door, the group
turned left and ran down the cellblock. The cells were empty. The
prisoners could not help them anymore, not even light their way
through the darkness.

The black pane windows shattered sending
glass sailing through the chamber. The iron bars twisted from their
holes and battered against the floor. Ahead, the silver chains
swung in circles, viciously beating against each other. The group
would have to crawl underneath the chains if they were to pass
through without being strangled—worse, decapitated.

Isaac sent Amy first, promising to follow.
She pressed down against the cold floor and slowly crawled
underneath the swinging chains like a soldier slithering under
barbed wire. There was nothing but darkness before her, and a loud
clanging sound above. “Dad, are you there?”

“I’m here, honey,” said Isaac, glancing up
at the sharp, metal neck braces circling inches above his head,
eager to slice into the roof of his skull. “I’m right behind you.
Keep your head down.”

“How much further?”

“Not far. We’re almost there.”

Moments later, Amy stood up, free of the
chains, and waited for her father to appear underneath. Soon after,
Isaac crawled out and wrapped his arms around his daughter, warming
her cold, damp body. Then he released her, knelt down, and pulled
Virginia to her feet. He wanted to throw his arms around Virginia
as well, let her know how grateful he was that she stayed by his
side, but he resisted the temptation.

Simmons was by far the heaviest of the group
and it took him longer than the others to free his body from the
possessed chains. He breathed hard and clasped a hand to his chest
as he stood up. “I don’t know how much more of this I can
take."

The group turned the corner to the left and
hurried down the long, dark hallway. The laughter had quieted, but
the rumbling grew stronger. The stone mansion was quickly losing
its support, in minutes it would cave to the pressure supplied by
the illusionist.

Virginia was the first to climb the ladder
leading back up to the second floor. Amy followed, then Isaac and
Simmons. Dust filled the cramped space. A few of the metal rungs
broke off as they ascended. One by one, they reached the top of the
ladder and slid through the whole in the wall, back into the
upstairs bedroom.

They ran down the hall as fast as they
could, swerving around and over fallen blocks of stone, past the
empty rooms, and then rushed down the large staircase. To the left,
the locked double doors. On the right, the bar. The door to the
entranceway ahead. They were almost free of the destruction, just a
little further, when Isaac heard a terrifying shriek, a voice he
almost mistook for his dead wife’s.

He stopped running and, through the thinning
dust, saw Amy lying on her stomach just beyond a mountain of stone
that was the stairs. She reached her hand out, cried for him.

Over her head, the ceiling cracked
apart.

The laughter filled the room, bellowing
louder—
taunting him.
Isaac would never be able to reach his
daughter before the ceiling collapsed.

There was only one person who could.

Simmons heard the earthquake and knew what
he had to do. The voice inside was quiet, no longer doubtful. This
was his moment, his part to play.

His fate.

Simmons lunged toward Amy, grabbed her hand
and pulled her to her feet, but as he turned to run, he slipped and
fell forward. His face slammed against the stone floor. He lifted
his aching head and stared down at a crack, the crack Amy had
tripped over, and then turned to see if she was okay. Isaac had her
in his arms, backing away.

And with that, Daniel Simmons was
satisfied.

He never felt the weight, or the lack of
breath. There was only silence and darkness.

Amy screamed in her father’s arms while the
group watched the high ceiling collapse on top of Simmons, choking
him beneath the rubble. When the large chunks of stone finally
stopped falling, Amy peered up at her father. She had a frightened
look in her eyes. “We have to help him.”