Epilogue: Goodnight
***
October came. It did not bring with it a happy Halloween. Keltie flunked two of her end of semester exams—trigonometry and world history. Also, her room in the south wing received a new bunkmate: Sadie. Green-haired, pierced, and tattooed, she smiled at Keltie one afternoon, from a new bed by the window, while outside a dreary drizzle glazed the streets.
“We’re roommates!” she beamed, as if this were a once in a lifetime occurrence.
Keltie sincerely hoped so. She welcomed Sadie best as she could, told her to make herself at home. Then she proceeded to go about the business of ignoring her with a handset and ear buds.
Also during that month came a new rule, implemented by the school librarian, that the library’s computer shall be used for study purposes only. Any student caught playing games or engaged in other activities deemed leisurely would be banned for three weeks. This put a serious crimp in Keltie’s time with Marty. Access to the internet now involved going to the public library, or using one of the computers at the Methodist church (where Cameron regularly allowed her to pop in).
But she and Marty did find time. She had his Skype ID and called it whenever the chance arose. His updates from Texas were fun if also a great deal wanting in a physical aspect. He claimed to love his new climate. Filipino that he was, the dry heat suited him. He also asked, repeatedly, when Keltie could come down for a visit. The weather was nice, but he needed her. Oh so badly, he needed her. Broken-hearted all over again, Keltie promised to find a way. Then she took a few discreet and rather daring pictures to tide him over.
“I’m going to check 4chan every night,” she warned, “and if I find myself there, you’re dead.”
“Deal,” Marty said.
From one of these sessions, near Halloween, she decided to walk back to school via Wooster-Boalt. It was still raining, and rather cool for the time of year, but she had an umbrella, and the crisp air felt good to breathe. Saying a final goodbye to Cameron, she struck off down West Main.
Wet leaves covered the sidewalks, making them treacherous. Decorations grinned from wooden porches. Before long the two of these—foliage and frivolity—conspired to distract her from the street.
Which was why she didn’t see the black van.
It roared to the curb like a jungle predator. At first Keltie spared it only mild interest. This was Norwalk, after all, and no one in Norwalk really knew how to drive well. But when two large men, also in black, jumped out and told her to stop right where she was, Keltie dropped her umbrella and ran.
She didn’t get far. She was in boots, and the leaves were slippery. Also, the men were much larger, much stronger. She never had a chance. One of them grabbed her, cupped his hand over her mouth. The other held the van’s sliding door open so she could be pitched inside. She landed on her butt and rolled, getting her feet tangled in the wheels of an office chair.
“What’s going on?” she screamed.
But already the sliding door had closed. A lock clicked. Keltie grabbed the handle, pulled. Nope. The door wouldn’t budge. She was trapped.
“Hush yourself,” one of the men said as he took the passenger seat.
What choice did she have? Hands shaking, Keltie took hold the office chair and climbed aboard. The van was rolling now. Purring along in the rain. Windshield wipers swished. Keltie tried to get a sense of who’d kidnapped her through observation of the surroundings. They were well financed. The van’s interior looked slick and clean. A desk was mounted on the wall. A computer, a keyboard.
They came to a stop at North Pleasant. To the right stood Wooster-Boalt, huge and dark as ever. The stoplight clicked to green. Much to Keltie’s surprise, the man driving turned right, drove a short distance on North Pleasant, then pulled into the driveway of Wooster-Boalt.
“Hey,” Keltie said. “Why are you taking me here?”
No one answered. The van stopped. Seconds later she found herself forced through the very same back door Bolt had forced her through months ago. A casket no longer greeted her, however. Indeed, the mourning room had been stripped utterly bare. This too in the hallway. None of Bolt’s old furniture remained. Everything looked empty, clean, polished. Hardwood floors echoed their footsteps beneath bare-bulbed ceiling lights.
The living room offered two minor differences. One was a tea table. The other, a frosty-haired old man dressed in a brown suit and pleasant smile. Upon notice of his new guest, the man stood up, extended his hand, and nodded.
“How do you do?” he asked in a rich, musical voice. “My name is Vincent Peters. And you, my darling, simply have to be Miss Keltie Burke.” His head tilted. “Tell me please that I’m correct?”
“You are correct,” Keltie said. “You are also guilty of assault and kidnapping.”
Vincent Peters chuckled. “Oh, my dear! I do apologize for the method I employed bringing you here. But how else could one convince you—you, Miss Burk, the vampire killer—to return to this house? It is, after all, a place of great if recent unpleasantness. Gentlemen?” His eyes leaped to the giants at Keltie’s side. “I believe we’ll be fine for now. Please retire to the mourning room until you’re called.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by vampire killer,” Keltie said once the men were gone. “It was more luck than skill. And how on earth did you even know—“
“Nonsense!” Peters huffed. “Luck alone does not defeat a creature old as Bolt.”
“Mr. Peters—“
But he cut her off again. “Please,” he said, gesturing the table, “sit down. Let’s have tea.”
After some hesitancy and distrustful rigmarole, Keltie took a seat. The room’s lighting was weak, with but a fireplace and two low-watt bulbs providing the glow, yet Keltie still managed to get a better look at this Vincent Peters from her side of the table. He wore a tweed jacket with white shirt. A maroon ascot, beneath which dangled a heavy silver chain. And it was near impossible to not almost gawk at his frosted white hair, shining brighter than anything Wooser-Boalt had on current offer.
“You look familiar,” she said.
Smiling, Peters poured her tea. “I hear that every so often. From those who appreciate the past. And observant young ladies like yourself. Sugar?”
“Two, please.”
Plop! Plop!
“Ah!” Peters said. “Such a satisfying sound! One can never drink too much tea.”
“You don’t want to say that to people like Reverend Jennings.”
Peters blinked at her for a moment, tea-pot in hand. His face registered total surprise. “And an avid reader as well,” he fairly gushed with appreciation. “Oh Miss Burke! I can clearly see I have chosen the right girl! Oh yes indeed!”
“Right girl for what exactly?”
“Ah!” Peters said again. He poured another tea for himself, sat down, sipped.
Shrugging, Keltie took a sip of her own. Then she waited. It didn’t kill her—at least not straight away. No odd abdominal pains came about, nor sudden urges to vomit.
Relax, girl, it’s tea; he’s drinking it, too.
“I’ll be brief,” the strange man continued. “Since goodness knows you’ve had enough mysticism in your world for the entire year.”
“More like a hundred years.”
Peters’ head gave a theatrical little nod. “Perhaps, perhaps. But there’s more, Miss Burke. Ever so much more. And I feel that you, my dear, are just the person we want as a”—he hesitated, hands waving for the right word—“restorer of banality and normalcy. For want of a more proper way of describing things.”
“Yes,” Keltie said, “you may want to find something more proper. Because I’m lost.”
“Miss Burke,” Peters replied, “I am head of an organization known as S.L.A.B. SLayers of Altered Beasts. And I would like to bring you on board as one of our hunters. How does that sound so far?”
She’d been about to take another drink of tea. Now the cup wavered. Peters couldn’t be serious. Yet his eyes, walnut brown, shined with enthusiasm for an answer. Keltie had none to give. She was utterly gob smacked by his offer.
“Do you need time?” Peters asked.
She drank her tea. “I don’t know what I need at this moment.”
“Take a look at these…”
Peters bent and unzipped a bag she’d not previously noticed. From it came two large pictures—about nine inches in length and six across—which the old man then placed before her. Both were black and white. One was of a man, tall, dark. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans. An ax rested in one hand. The other photo showed a large, ferocious dog with glowing eyes. Keltie recoiled.
“What the hell?” she said. “It’s a dog.”
“No madam,” Peters corrected. “It’s a wolf.”
She looked at the pictures again. “What’s it doing? Eating up this lumberjack’s sheep?”
“No madam,” Peters said again, his voice grave. “It’s eating up this lumberjack’s soul.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes you do. You’re just being stubborn.”
Keltie continued to stare at the pictures. Man and wolf. Wolf and man. Man, wolf. Man, wolf. Wolf…
“Stop it,” she admonished. “A wolfman?”
“A werewolf, Miss Burke,” the other said. “A silly word, I know. Silly to nonbelievers who like going to double-features on Saturday afternoons. But very, very serious to S.L.A.B.” He tapped the photos with one well-manicured finger. “This one in particular has been taking victims in and around the village of Martin’s Ferry, Ohio. Are you familiar with it?”
“With Martin’s Ferry? I’ve heard of it.”
“You’ll hear of it a great deal more, should you decide to join our team.” He put the pictures back into the bag, zipped it shut. “While you think it over, Miss Burke, have this…”
“Now what are you giving me?”
His answer came in the form of old silver key, slid across the table to ting! against her teacup. Then Vincent Peters rose to his feet, slinging the bag on his shoulder.
Keltie picked up the key. “What is this for?” she asked.
Peters gave her bow. Again, theatrically. For a moment Keltie had to wonder just where this man’s roots lay: Hollywood or New York City?
“That,” he said, “is for the front door of Wooster-Boalt. There’s one for the back door as well. Check the library. The house is yours, Miss Burke.”
At this her jaw fell wide open. “What?”
“If,” Peters went on, “you decide to join us, of course. Your first assignment would be Martin’s Ferry. Ah! One last thing!” His hand dove into the tweed jacket and returned with a slip of paper. From her chair Keltie could see a phone number written on it. “Call us,” he said, placing the number on the table, “as soon as you’ve made your decision.”
“Uh…”
“And in the meantime, enjoy the house. It really is a beautiful old place. Such history.” His eye went to the far wall for a moment. “Pity about the chalkboard, though. Was the vampire visibly upset?”
Keltie grabbed the teapot, refilled her cup. Would that the drink inside only be stronger. “Furious,” she told him.
“Of course he was. But then he too is a part of fallen history now.” His smile, which had disappeared upon lamentation of the blackboard, returned. “Right, Miss Burke?”
“Right you are,” she said, and slurped her tea.
“Shall I go?”
“Please,” Keltie nodded. “I gotta decorate this place. Then go kill a werewolf.”
The smile on Peters’ face became a warm, happy glow, rivaling the hearth. “Splendid, Miss Burke. Splendid. I know you’ll do well.”
“Thank you, Mr. Peters. Goodnight.”
The frosty-haired man left with his two assistants in tow. For a long time after, Keltie remained in the living room, staring at the fire, the phone number, the broken blackboard. Sitting and staring, all by herself in one of Norwalk’s oldest, largest, spookiest mansions.
“Boo!” she cried out at last, grinning.
Then she poured another cup of tea, raised it in toast of roads with many turns, and drank.
***
February, 2016-December, 2016