Chapter Four: Camp Crypt-o-Night
Santa Cruz, California, September, 2019 (Twenty-four years later)

“You should go,” Mom said, setting down her magazine.

It was a beautiful morning and we were having breakfast on the deck high above the beach and the sparkling Pacific Ocean.

I was going through my typical dog’s vomit of morning emails – solicitations, invoices, trade press articles, more solicitations, the occasional bits of correspondence, and still more solicitations. Today, I’d received something from Colonel Holweard, which came as quite a shock. If I’d thought about him in years — and I probably hadn’t — I’d likely have assumed he’d have passed away by now.

“Whatever for?” I turned my attention away from the surf to look at her directly. “I only met the guy once.”

She took a measured sip of orange juice, apparently considering the best approach to her self-appointed task. “It’s been six months, and you're still acting like a mangy old cat who’s been dumped in a puppy farm.”

“Am not,” I retorted, trying to sound indignant but failing to put much energy into it.

“Really? You’re going with that?” Her fond smile should have been endearing.

“Okay, maybe that was a little prepubescent.”

“Just a touch.”

The girl slipped outside and discreetly started clearing our breakfast things.

“Thank you, Addie. I’ll keep the coffee for a bit,” Mom told her with a smile.

“Of course, Mrs. Litton,” the young woman murmured before retreating into the house.

“Nice girl,” Mom remarked.

I shrugged. “Seems competent.”

“See what I’m saying? The old Luigi wasn’t like that.”

I had trouble keeping my annoyance in check. “Like what?”

“Dismissive. Uncaring. ‘Competent?’ Really? She works hard, goes above and beyond, and you never give her so much as a kind word!”

“I pay top dollar.”

“Would you listen to yourself? Being kind — being decent — is more important than money!”

“That’s astonishing!” I laid it on thick as hot asphalt on an interstate. “I can’t wait to tell the staff what they’re getting in place of a bonus this year!”

She rose abruptly. “Be that way!” She followed Addie into the house, righteous indignation flowing from her like the Nile at full flood.

I returned my attention to the sparkling blue water, grimacing as I replayed the scene in my head. By the third replay of my mental Blue Ray, the conclusion was inescapable. Yeah, Weej, you really ARE turning into a dick.

I’d managed to avoid that, mostly anyhow, through twenty-plus years of non-stop work. I’d been the boy wonder without being a dick, and even the wise-assed ideas guy, and the hottest commodity in the valley of the IPOs. As time went on, partners and colleagues had left, pursuing dreams of their own, but always with regret and on good terms. They were replaced, one by one, with employees I’d selected myself, until we’d gotten too big for even that individual touch.

Then suddenly, almost overnight, I discovered I’d become the old man. The wise and understanding guy who kept the teams going. Who led by example, being the first one on in the morning and the last off at night. I learned how to bring the right people together so they could achieve creative heights. But by then the only thing I was creating was an organization so perfectly balanced and so carefully maintained, that it no longer needed me around.

So I sold it.

Now all I had was money and more time than anyone could want. Of course I was miserable. And naturally, I was taking it out on everyone else. Like I said, a dick.

I sighed, got up, and went in search of Mom.

“Go away.” Her annoyed voice was muffled by the thick bedroom door she had locked behind her.

“Can we talk?”

“I’m not speaking to you.”

“Ectually,” I said, purposefully mimicking my Uncle’s barely-remembered accent, “you are speaking to me.”

“Telling you to go away doesn’t count.”

I’m easily diverted, and couldn’t resist. “How do you figure?”

“The way that most people figure. Only you wouldn’t get it.”

“Yeah . . . but I’m the only child you have. So isn’t that your fault?”

“My fault for marrying that fool of an Englishman.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Try to keep up, Luigi. Nature, nurture, he was there for all of it. Messed you up. Papa was right; I should have found a nice Calabrian boy.”

“Mom. Do we have to shout this conversation through a solid core door?”

“You could go away.”

“But I won’t.”

“If I ask nicely?”

“But you won’t. You’re in a bad mood, remember?”

“How could I forget?” The door opened and she gave me the evil eye. “All right. I’m all ears. So. What? What do you want to say, Mr. Ex-Big Shot Master of the Universe, that is so urgent?”

“That I’m sorry?” The “ex” rankled, stupidly, but I swallowed my pride and my perfectly natural urge to swap a biting retort for my planned apology.

My restraint didn’t impress her. “That, you could have shouted. Probably should have; everyone in the house could stand to hear it.”

“Would that get me out of having to apologize to everyone individually?”

“Is that how you were raised?”

“Well, honestly, there were some times —”

“You’re not helping your case.”

I felt my shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I know. Have I really been that bad?”

“Is the Pope Italian?”

“Ummmm . . . Not exactly?”

“Nonsense! He’s as Italian as I am!”

“Your family left Italy a hundred years ago.”

“See? You’re doing it again! And you’re changing the subject. Yes. Yes, the Pope, whose family name is Bergoglio, as you know very well, is as Italian as pasta, and yes —”

“— Pasta came from China.”

“— And YES, yes, a THOUSAND times yes, you’ve been that bad! You’ve been worse. Your whole life, I’ve worried about you. Been proud of you sometimes. Questioned your sanity? Yes, occasionally. No, make that frequently! But never, until these last few months, have I been ashamed of you.”

Ouch. “Momma . . . I guess I don’t know what to say.”

“Oh, thank you, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, Queen of the Angels! Then maybe — for once — you’ll try the listening thing!”

Time to take my medicine. “If I have to.”

“Try not to sound so enthused. Now. You’ve spent your life doing, doing, doing. You’ve forgotten how to just be. You need to get away from here, from everything that reminds you of who you’ve made yourself.”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere. Go to this funeral, if only because you’re family and that’s what families do. Then lose yourself somewhere. Find your mischief again.”

“Mischief?” I snorted. “I thought you wanted me to find a nice girl and give you grandchildren.”

“I haven’t given up yet! You aren’t even fifty, though you act like a grouchy old man! But the way you’ve been lately, no woman worthy of having my grandchildren would put up with you. Besides . . . .” She stopped scolding, and a smile played hide-and-seek across cheeks that lost their blush decades back.

“Besides?”

“Mischief comes in lots of forms, Luigi.”

* * * * *

That’s how I found myself, a week later, in a large church in the north of England, listening to a bishop in a funny hat wax rhapsodic about Geoffrey Hugh Nigel Litton, 9th Viscount Chingleput. Uncle Geoff, as I had in fact never called him.

I made it just in time for the service, having pushed my departure until the last possible moment in the vain hope that something might come up. It turns out my Silicon Valley “suit” didn’t pass for formal attire — who knew? — and I was the recipient of numerous disapproving looks from various no-doubt important personages. I hoped at least some of them were dowagers.

Getting frowned at by a dowager struck me as a good way to say, “I’ve arrived.”

The choir was probably better than they sounded. I’m not the best judge, being tone-deaf. Also, I discovered an allergic reaction to incense. After enduring two full hours of meaningless noise and eye-watering smoke, I was moved to offer my own earnest prayer of thanksgiving that Father hadn’t raised me in the High Church Anglican tradition.

I immediately recognized the man who seemed to be running everything, even though I’d only seen him once, when I was twelve. Colonel Holweard looked surprisingly sprightly, and unlike almost everyone else in the church, he had nothing but smiles for me. Sardonic smiles, to be sure, but smiles nonetheless.

“Well, there you are! Coming to the interment, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, Colonel. I mean, I barely knew him!”

He fixed me with a pale eye. “You’re family. All he had, in the end. A Litton should be there.”

And indeed, only a handful of us were there in the crypt, when Uncle Geoff was laid in the tomb that had been prepared for him. A portrait had been painted years before, in anticipation of this day, showing him in both his prime and his uniform. Remembering George’s story about the first Viscount, I thought at least Uncle Geoff had earned it.

Which reminded me . . . “What ever became of young George Deavers?” I asked the Colonel.

“Today’s not a ‘George’ day,” he replied cryptically. Which was fitting enough, I suppose, given where we were.

My eyes kept wandering to the niche that was different from all the rest. The portrait of the mysterious woman was every bit as compelling as I recalled. You haven’t aged a day, I thought. Wish I could say the same!

The churchman and his minions had followed us, and sure as God made fried green tomatoes, they’d thought to bring some incense. I barely made it through the incantations that accompanied the interment without asphyxiation, and beat a hasty retreat to fresh air at the last “amen.”

The Colonel found me there a few minutes later, my eyes still streaming, and joined me on the stone bench where I’d been quietly hacking up a lung. Well, maybe not so quietly.

He was silent for a while, to all appearances taking in the day. Holweard seemed to belong there, in a way that I couldn’t imagine belonging anywhere. “It’s yours, you know. All of it.”

A line from an old classic popped into my head. What, the curtains? But I doubted the Colonel would know the reference, and I didn’t feel up to explaining it. “Just like that?”

He waggled his fingers, still looking off into the middle distance. “Eh. Britain doesn’t have a continent’s worth of acreage, you know, so we tend to be a bit fussy when it comes to land transfers. There are formalities. Feoffment of Livery with Seisen used to be much more complicated. But it’s always something.”

I looked around, taking in the grounds. The old stone was no different than it had been the last time I was here. In Silicon Valley, thirty years is forever. Here, it’s barely yesterday. “What would I do with it?”

“Very little, I expect,” the Colonel replied promptly. “With these old historic buildings, everything that isn’t absolutely required by law is generally prohibited.”

A memory teased. “Strictly prohibited, I assume.”

“Just so.”

I sat for a bit, thinking. “It’s not my place,” I said, finally.

“It could be, though. And you wouldn’t have to stay here all the time. God knows, Geoffrey didn’t. Nor your grandfather.”

“What happens to it if I don’t take it? Does it . . . .” I ran the equivalent of a Boolean search through the midden-heap of my long term memory, and grinned when I hit paydirt. It’s amazing the shit you learn when you’re writing the lore for a video game. “Escheat?”

“To the crown? No. A third cousin twice removed is next up, I should think,” Holweard replied. “One of the McDonalds. Very much a distaff branch of the house.” He paused, then added, with evident reluctance, “Irish.”

“Would that be a bad thing?”

“I expect opinions differ,” he said diplomatically.

“Based on?”

“Whether you’ve actually met any of the McDonalds.”

The image of a clown in a yellow outfit and orange hair bubbled to the surface of my undisciplined brain. “I see.” I finally felt sufficiently recovered from airborne poisons to stand.

The Colonel rose as well. “Think it over. Why don’t you spend the night?”

The thought of sleeping in my uncle’s sick room had no appeal. “I’m booked at the Victoria.”

“Nonsense. Your uncle was remiss; he hasn’t been here in over a year. The staff got the master’s quarters ready for you.”

“Oh, honestly, they shouldn’t have!” They REALLY shouldn’t have!

“But they did.” He sounded almost smug. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would you?”

I opened my mouth to suggest that somehow, I’d see my way clear to doing just that, but he beat me to it. “Splendid, splendid! Just follow me, young . . . ah . . . Luigi. I’ll send someone to retrieve your bags.”

~o~O~o~

How on earth am I expected to SLEEP?

The “master’s quarters” didn’t refer to what any normal human would think of as a “bedroom.” Located in what had originally been the Church Quire, the ornate bed stood solitary and alone, flanked on two sides by Gothic stone arches, now filled with dry-cut stone and pierced by smaller doorways. Ridiculously high above, moonlight filtered through clerestory windows, shaded by the deep blues and reds of older stained glass. The thick rugs covering the flagstone floors did little to provide any warmth.

The staff had been delighted to show me around after my talk with Colonel Holweard, giving me the “backstage” tour that I had been denied when visiting back in the 90s. But even the ones who lived on the premises stayed in one of the out-buildings at night. I had the whole main building, which could easily have housed a regiment, all to myself.

I half-expected to hear the voice of Vincent Price, or maybe Bella Lugosi. Welcome, foolish mortal, to the Haunted Mansion.

I tried sitting up in the bed and reading. But my pad was low on juice, having had almost as long a day as I’d had myself. Somehow, no-one had ever gotten around to adding amenities like, I don’t know, electrical outlets, and the expression on the guide’s face when I asked for the WiFi password had been priceless. I checked my phone only to find it was already gone.

My screens went dark. I was left in the distorted moonlight, hearing every strange sound a building several centuries old can generate. Perfectly fine rooms at the Victoria. And, a cheerful pub with seriously good beer right ‘round the corner. What the hell am I doing here?

It felt like I lay there half the night, listening to the whispers of long-gone monks. It was probably only half-an-hour or so, but it sure felt longer. Long enough, anyway. I made a disgusted noise – which, naturally, echoed back at me from every stone surface in the whole damned place – and got out of bed, wrapping myself in a thick bathrobe the staff had thoughtfully provided and stuffing my feet in my LL Bean slippers.

I took to pacing. The “bedroom” was probably on the order of eighty feet long! Back and forth. Back and forth.

My father was born here. He’d grown up in this building, somewhere. Grown up with staff looking after him, catering to his every whim. No wonder he was so messed up.

Gradually I became aware of something. It wasn’t a sound, exactly . . . or, maybe it was. But something. I felt a pull . . . an urge to move . . . a call. Wrong number, I snarled, continuing to pace.

Back and forth, back and forth. The pull became stronger, like a memory that you can’t seem to shake. Eff that! Just watch me. Control-Alt-Delete.

Back and forth, back and forth. The sense of “summons” was growing more and more insistent. I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang “la la la” as I paced. But it wasn’t really a sound, unless it was. Whatever, my efforts to drown it out didn’t work.

The door in the arch closest to the church nave wasn’t actually closed. I hadn’t noticed it before, and I was sure I’d checked. But there was a little bit of light leaking from behind it, which was strange in and of itself. I padded over and checked. Pushing the door open just a bit more, I stuck my head through the opening to see where the light was coming from.

I couldn’t tell. There was a passage ending in a staircase, and the stones themselves seemed to glow.

“Uhn uh!!!” I was surprised at the sound of my own voice. But the door resisted my increasingly urgent efforts to close it.

I heard something . . . I was sure I heard something. It sounded like a sigh. On the floor of the corridor, faint blue arrows appeared, pointing towards the staircase.

“Are you fucking kidding me! I designed ‘Jiro’s Harrowing Halloween Heist!’ I know how this game ends!”

The light from the arrows grew stronger. Okay, so the summons was coming from below.

I deliberately turned my back on the doorway, set my jaw in my best attempt at an attitude of Churchillian defiance, and resumed my pacing.

On my third pass, I noticed that there was a card on top of the bedspread which hadn’t been there before. I paused, tempted to ignore it, but finally reached down and picked it up. It was addressed to “Lord Luigi Litton.” “Lord?” Seriously? Inside the flap, in neat and precise calligraphy font, it read, “The honor of your presence in the crypt is most urgently requested.” I ran a thumb thoughtfully over the card as I pondered this new development.

Engraved. Naturally.

A nice room, a fine pub, the company of normal people, good beer . . . all of it, not ten minute’s drive back in the village. But no, I’d decided to stay here. What a moron.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Growling at myself, I tied the bathrobe tighter and stalked over to the open door. The light from the arrows in the corridor was on a loop, starting near me and progressing to the staircase. Muttering “okay, okay, I GET it,” I stomped down the corridor.

At the top of the stairs I hesitated, thinking of a line from an insurance commercial. When you’re in a horror movie, you make bad decisions. It’s what you do. But setting aside – by which I mean, “aside from the setting” – I wasn’t really in a horror movie, was I? It felt far too cheesy for that. More like the kind of camp you might expect from Star Trek. Set phasers for peanut butter! Still, I’m quite capable of making stupid mistakes in almost any genre and I knew it.

“I cannot believe I’m doing this!”

But down I went, the stone staircase spiraling into the depths. The glowing arrows continued down the stairs, on the off chance I’d miss the point again. There was another door at the base of the staircase, but it was already open. And, sure enough, it led straight into the crypt.

Unlike the corridor or the stairs, the only light in the crypt came from the painting of the mystery woman – a painting which now glowed with eldritch light. I was drawn to it like a drunk to rotgut – enough that I was even able to ignore the stale residue of incense that still permeated the space.

The light somehow emanated from within the painting, making the stunning image incredibly lifelike. I half expected her to speak . . . and desperately wished that she would. Almost without volition, my hand rose and my fingers brushed her cheek . . . .

At my touch, the image faded, becoming at first translucent, then transparent. She vanished, leaving behind yet another doorway, with another staircase descending to the depths. The walls glowed, pale as ice.

I am SUCH an idiot! But I couldn’t stop now. Taking a deep breath, I plunged through the doorway and began to descend.

After two full circles of the spiral staircase, the nature of the stonework began to change. The neat, dressed stone gave way to something rougher, darker. Older. The stairs were less even and required careful monitoring. Some steps were deeper, others more shallow.

Another circuit, and yet another. Getting back up from here is going to be SO much fun, I thought. Followed by, I should be so lucky.

I don’t know how many circuits I took. With each turn, I felt like I was leaving my world further and further behind. By the bottom, the stairs were little more than rough boulders, not shaped so much as simply placed.

But at least there was a bottom – a small, dim, rough-hewn chamber with an opening opposite the bottom of the climb, framed by a fifteen-foot high trilithon and surmounted by a lintel that had to weigh twenty tons.

I thought about turning back. Really I did. Probably would have, too, but the idea of climbing that crazy staircase was enough to deter me. Fine. Whatever. Hell of a place to die.

I walked forward and felt a chill as I passed through the entrance into a cavern. I couldn’t tell its size; darkness filled the void. The only light came from what I assumed was the center of the chamber, an area that held a massive platform.

It was a bed. Not so ornate at the monstrosity upstairs, but no less large and imposing. Rather than a bedspread, it was covered by huge animal skins. Bear, I thought. Other pelts were smaller but more sinister; I thought they might be from wolves. Damned BIG wolves, too. But a garment of some sort was artlessly draped across the pelts – something considerably more modern.

I was drawn to it, like I had been drawn to the painting in the crypt. Before I knew it, I was by the bed, touching the most amazing creamy silk I’d ever encountered. Lifting it up, I found a floor-length robe with a gathered waist, full skirt, long sleeves and a deep, rounded neckline. What was very clearly hand-stitched lacework softened the lines of the neck, hem and cuffs. I ran a finger down the shimmering fabric. Out of nowhere, I thought, I bet it would feel incredible . . . .

“You took your time.”

The voice came from behind me. I spun to find a heavy chair between me and the exit, and on the chair, wearing nothing but a bearskin robe, was Colonel Holweard.

“Why am I not surprised?” And, truth is, I wasn’t.

“I was starting to think I might have to send vestal virgins to get you.”

I grunted. “Gotta be tough to find, these days.”

“Not that you’d know it from the old tales,” he replied, “but they always were. Still, we’ve wasted half the night. There’s scarcely time to do this properly.”

“Do what, Colonel?”

“Colonel!” He laughed – a big, full-bodied laugh that lacked the restraint I would have expected from him. It should have been lost in the vastness of the cavern; instead, it filled the space. “A title of convenience. I am Holweard of Holweard’s Hollow!”

Ummm. “Okaaaay . . . . That’s . . . nice, right?”

“Nice? Nice? What do you mean, ‘nice?’”

“I’m guessing a ‘Holweard’s’ a good thing to be? Maybe? Help me out; I’m not from ‘round here.”

“You have been called to this place. Summoned. Do you think that was some sort of parlor trick?”

I thought about that. Well, not about that, exactly. I thought about how to respond without hurting the old coot’s feelings. Nope. I got nothin’.

“Yes?”

He looked flummoxed. “The lights? The sound? The secret passage?”

“Dude. You need to get out more. I’ve designed stuff that’s way more advanced than that.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Swear to God.”

“You are referring to your ‘video games?’ Correct?”

“Well, yeah. Like, The Fall of Fus was way better. And then there was the battle scene in —”

“Have you in fact designed anything in the real world?”

“What’s ‘real?’” I looked around. “Warner Brothers could put this together in about three days.”

“Indeed?”

“Seen ‘em do it. C’mon, Colonel. What’s this all about? Some kind of scam?”

His pale eyes bored into me. “Well, I know a little something no set of brothers you know could manage.”

“You might be surprised.”

He leaned back in his heavy chair, looking extremely smug. “All you need to do is put on that delightful gown I’ve laid out for you.”

“Oh, that’s going to happen!” I scoffed.

“Humor me. I wouldn’t think it would be a problem for you.”

“Why would you say that?”

His eyes gleamed. “Remember the first time I met you, young Luigi? I assure you, I haven’t forgotten.”

“That . . . was a long time ago. I was just teasing Father.”

“Ah, yes. Your dear father. He wouldn’t do it, either.”

That certainly got my attention. “What did you say?”

“He wouldn’t complete the ceremony. Ergo, he couldn’t become Viscount Chingleput.”

I opened my mouth to blister the skin off him, but stopped myself just in time. “No. This is all bullshit. What’s your real game?”

Again, his eyes gleamed. “Put on the gown, Luigi. It will be easier to explain.”

“Try me.”

He shook his head slowly. “No, I shan’t. It’s apparent that you’re entirely too accustomed to having your own way. This is my hollow, and I am the master here! So if you’d like me to explain things, you’ll have to put on the gown.”

And just like that, all the light in the chamber vanished, plunging me into darkness.

“Hey!!!”

No response.

I tried again, sounding maybe just a little less sure of myself. I cautiously moved in the direction of his chair, fully intending to throttle him. But both Holweard and the chair appeared to be gone. He could have slipped away quietly, but that chair?

I had never experienced darkness so complete. Slowly, carefully, with much waving of my hands in front of me, I found my way back to the bed in the center of the chamber.

What to do? I didn’t want to climb that staircase at all; the notion of doing so in pitch black darkness was even less appealing. Wait for morning? I snorted. As deep underground as I was, there would never be a “morning.”

As reaction to the last few bizarre moments set in, my legs began to shake. What am I doing here? I plunked myself down on the bed, needing time to think. My hand, looking for purchase, landed on the damned gown and I felt the contact like I’d hit a high tension line.

It’s just fabric, for God’s sake, I told myself sternly, suppressing the desire to remove my hand like I’d burned it. Fabric!

Oh, but it wasn’t just fabric. It felt amazing. And . . . yeah. It had been years. A lot of years. Not since grad school. Almost a quarter century? Really?

Not since Heather.

And just like that, my memory brought me back to my old apartment, in the early morning after that long sleepless night, slowly, carefully and methodically removing every article of female clothing, every bit of makeup. Picking up the shears and raising them to my hair. Snip. Snip. Snip. No more, I had promised myself.

But that was so long ago, and I no longer had anything left to prove. Not to anyone. I could dress however I damned well pleased, and tell the world to stuff it. Couldn’t I?

The only thing holding me back in that moment was the knowledge that the crazy old man wanted me to put on the gown. But he wasn’t around, it was dark, and . . . what the hell.

I shrugged out of the heavy bathrobe, kicked off my slippers, and rapidly divested of the shorts and t-shirt I’d worn to bed. With trembling hands, I slid my arms inside the garment, found the sleeves, and pulled it over my head. I shivered as the fabric slid down my body like the most intimate of caresses. It took me just a second to adjust the bodice so that my full breasts were properly nestled in the . . . .

Wait. What??????

To be continued . . . .

~o~O~o~
Author's note: Many thanks to RobertLouis and AlisonP for their help reviewing this story.

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.