Inkwell of Shadows 12: Pies, Lies, and Other Appetites
November 9, 2024. There and back again in Gloamstead, Alabama. Sometimes it takes a piece of sweet potato pie to cut fact from fiction.
Author’s Note: Inkwell of Shadows is a serialized fiction story in Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, set in Blighridge County, Alabama. A quiet corner of the world where old ghost linger, cursed objects refuse to stay quiet, and some secrets never stay buried—at least, for long.
New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…
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Previously. A trip into the wall, turned into a long flight of stairs to a hidden basement. The hidden office was filled with books and knick-knacks of questionable lineage. On a roll top desk, Daniel and Cassidy uncover recent journals and more by Daniel’s uncle. Clear evidence that not only did Elias Hawthorne know about the supernatural goings on, but actively tracked it… along with elements that may not have wanted to be tracked at all. Which brought the couple back around to their employer, Dorian Callix, and how much did he—or did he not—know?
November 9, 2024. There and back again in Gloamstead, Alabama. Sometimes it takes a piece of sweet potato pie to cut fact from fiction.
The next morning we talked the idea to death over breakfast and coffee; resurrected it, then murdered it again. Tracking down Dorian was the best way to get some answers, even if ‘best’ was miles away from ‘good’.
Then there was the shop, and my uncle’s hidden office below it. One kept a roof over us. The other might help unravel this mess without us winding up dead—or worse. After all, sleepy town or not, in Gloamstead, there’s always worse.
So naturally, we split up.
I took Dorian. Cassidy took the underground office and our shop. If I hadn’t found him by noon, we’d swap. Which was how I wound up on a lonely drive that wanted to be more pothole than road.
Gravel crunched under my tires like brittle bone as I slowed to a stop in front of the weathered Rawls’ house. The old Victorian home watched me approach with a dead-eyed stare. Not to be outdone, I stared back, daring it to try something. A crow on the porch railing chatted with the light wind off the graveyard.
When nothing leaped out at me, I drew a long breath, stepping out of the car. The crow tilted its head, letting out a squawk.
“Thanks for the commentary,” I told the crow. It cawed back, ruffling its feathers, apparently pleased at being noticed.
The only car in front of the house was mine, which made me wonder if Dorian had a car. I didn’t see one the other night. But a dim yellow light wept around the living room’s sheer curtains, suggesting life—or Dorian—might be home. I crossed the dark, damp grass to the porch, then knocked on its whitewashed front door.
No one answered.
“Dorian?” Still no reply.
I peered in the front parlor window, then prowled along the porch to the amusement of the bird. It cawed again as a larger one joined the first to watch my one-man show. Finally, I threw up my arms and sighed.
“Damn, where is he?” I asked aloud. The idea of searching Dorian’s attic crawled into my mind. I frowned, glancing at the door, then nearby windows, as if testing them with a look.
“Attic’s a bad idea, but maybe Dorian wouldn’t mind if I looked around the grounds,” I said to the crows. They didn’t offer any comment.
I walked the length of the wraparound porch until I reached the back. Crabgrass off the porch’s back steps crunched under my hiking shoes. I crouched down—it was broken glass. Frowning, I carefully examined the shards, then looked over my shoulder. There was a boarded-up, broken window on the second floor.
“That wasn’t there the other night,” I mused. “That window’s in sight of the attic access. Cassidy and I would’ve noticed it smashed open.” Then I paused, narrowing my eyes at the memory. “Dorian would’ve, too. All he said was that a window was open.”
I stood, wiping my hands on my jeans, as I looked around. The Rawls’ home came with a spacious backyard that complemented the building’s Italianate style. It wasn’t that wide, but it was certainly long. Like the house, the yard had seen brighter, better days.
Formerly manicured hedges braced the property, partially obscuring both the cemetery and the nearby bayou’s cypress trees. A small sitting area with a rusted bench and a round, mold-stained fountain with a leering satyr was a short walk from the porch. Beyond that, a feral collection of lilies and roses fought for control of round flowerbeds, with no clear victor.
To say it all needed a trim was an understatement.
“I bet whoever attacked me ran for here. Two steps into this jungle and anyone could vanish.”
A light gust of damp wind off the bayou brushed the tall, green strands of goosegrass between the flowerbeds. The faint, musty odor of fresh cemetery soil drifted in its wake. I inhaled. Memories of being attacked in the attic lingered like an unwanted ghost.
“It sure was interesting I got attacked the moment I opened that safe.” I put my hands on my hips and stared into the middle distance. “There was an ink stain in there, too.” I squinted at the yard. “That’s really interesting.”
Goosegrass whispered against my jeans as I picked my way across the yard, studying anything out of place. Hints of the original property lay here and there. Rotten, narrow buildings peppered the line where yard met cemetery; the occasional forgotten tool shed or chicken coop put to rest with the long dead.
Then something caught my eye near the back corner of the yard. A small patch of dirt, no wider than my hand, had been disturbed under the chaos of the hedgerow. I knelt down.
“It’s almost half a footprint.” I nearly touched the indentation, but decided against it. “Not a tennis shoe… maybe a boot?”
The print was narrow, far smaller than my own footprint. It wasn’t like I had experience at tracking anything that didn’t involve a digital map and a coffee shop. But this looked as if someone had run out of the yard. I glanced in that direction.
“Right into the graveyard,” I sighed dryly. Tension skittered up my spine with a thousand tiny legs.
I stood, navigated a cleft in the hedge, and followed the tracks. The path wound between the faceless headstones and into the oldest part of the cemetery. A musty wind picked up as the graves gave way to stone-gray cypress trees under a cloudy sky. The trail opened into a waking nightmare trying to pass for an old campsite. Desiccated squirrel corpses were an unwelcome touch. An uneasy sigh drained out of me.
“Four squirrels. I really could do with a lot less mummified corpses in my life, please and thank you so much,” I grumbled uneasily at the world.
Dead animals or not, I carefully poked around the little clearing. The four squirrels were like so many flat, furry raisins scattered around the space. Other than the wreck of the ground, nothing else leaped out at me, alive or dead. Small favors.
“What’s this?” I murmured when I turned to leave.
A torn bit of black cloth dangled from a low clump of thorn brambles near a tree. No larger than my finger, I plucked it off the hooked brown thorns, rubbing it between my fingers. It was thin like silk but felt like cotton.
“Black linen?” I frowned, rubbing the cloth as I stood.
Wind stirred the trees, making the Spanish moss sway overhead. Leaves shifted behind me as the wind died down. I turned, squinting at the cypress trees. There were vines, holly bushes, and other plants with more thorns than I was comfortable with.
Each one shivered—there wasn’t any wind.
I licked my lips, then bolted for the car.
Tension relaxed its death-grip on my nerves by the time I turned my Corolla down the main road through Gloamstead. Ancient oaks and elms, heavy with curled gray fronds of waving moss, lined the middle median between traffic lanes. Long branches scattered shadows over my car while I drove.
“Where is he?” I muttered. “It isn’t like Gloamstead is that large.” A traffic light later, I sighed. “Fine, I give up. Cassie can have a turn at playing Where’s Dorian.”
As luck would have it, that’s when I spotted him.
Dorian strolled down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Styled as if starched for a fashion cover, he was a thin, gray-clad predator wandering among knots of unsuspecting victims as if studying a buffet. With an uneasy breath, I pulled into the closest parking space, then hurried to catch up. He casually turned on the sidewalk toward me before I was even ten steps away.
“Good to see you, Daniel!” All smiles, Dorian spread his arms wide. “I was going to stop by in a bit, seeing as I was curious if you and Cassidy had dug up anything else delicious. But first, I thought I’d hunt down a bite of something tasty.” Dorian’s gray eyes twinkled with a feral gleam. “Care to join?”
“Anyone I know?” I deadpanned with an arched eyebrow. Between corpses, crows, and bushes with the shivers, my patience had headed home for a blanket and a hot tea.
Dorian belted out a rich laugh that earned him a few suspicious looks from people nearby; not that he cared.
“No one alive,” he winked. “Just normal food. I do eat like everyone else; it’s just that I need to nibble on brain food delicacies from time to time.”
Grinning, he patted me on the shoulder, guiding me along the sidewalk. A block down the street, we snagged an outside metal table at the Magnolia Cafe—also called Miss Milly’s. Two glasses of water and coffee later, Dorian glanced up from the menu, setting it down casually on the white tablecloth. He sipped some water, eyebrows arched.
“Daniel… not that I mind the company, but I’ve the feeling food isn’t what brought you by.” Dorian set the glass down, fingers brushing the sides. “If you’d care to share, I’m a good listener.”
I sipped at my coffee, squinting at the well-dressed bloodleech across from me and his offer. It wasn’t so much what I wanted to say or ask, but where to start. The fact that a needle-toothed horror lurked behind that calm, human exterior didn’t help me decide. I glanced up at the faded, dull red cloth of the overhead awning with its merry string of Christmas bulbs lining the edge.
“Just a moment,” I said, pulling a tiny, clear plastic pouch from my jeans pocket. “Pain pills. It’s only been a week since your friend tried to claw Cassie and I to shreds.” I tapped a wrap of gauze on my left arm for emphasis, then swallowed the pills with water. “Cassie heals a lot faster than I do, but I’m alive and getting there.”
Dorian scoffed. “Calling her a ‘friend’ is being generous. I gave enough lip service to her ego for it to count as ‘loyalty’, as far as that went. Valeria Moffet was more interested in control and a body count to feed her appetites.” He swapped from water to coffee, taking a slow sip. “Ah, now that’s a lovely dark roast.” He gestured at me with the cup. “So, back to the topic… this isn’t chance, is it?”
Sometimes the only way out is right through. So I picked the middle of my thoughts and dove in.
“It’s about the fountain pens, Dorian. Remember when we mentioned that most of the past owners died badly?” I pursed my lips a moment. “It was nearly all of them, all the way to the first owner of record we can find, one Henry Vanil.” A pause settled at the table. “How are you on curses?”
Dorian’s eyebrows rose gracefully. “Vanil? Curses?”
The smile didn’t leave his face, but I noticed his fingers tense against the coffee cup.
Dorian was a bloodleech, so no less dangerous than Valeria was. But damn, did the man have a fantastic poker face. I almost couldn’t read him… almost. There was something in his eyes. As if he wasn’t surprised at what I said, just that I’d said it. I couldn’t tell if it was over the name Henry Vanil or mentioning curses.
“So you knew,” I said in a flat voice, because nothing says ‘questionable life choices’ like verbally poking a bloodleech. Fortunately, Dorian still didn’t seem inclined to plan my untimely demise.
He gave me a measured look, then chuckled, waving a hand.
“Oh, not as much as you’d expect. Valeria mentioned the name, Vanil, once or twice. Not enough that I cared. I was busy keeping her away from my rare book collection because I was afraid she’d tear pages out as napkins. Now, the curse?” Dorian raised his eyebrows with a ghost of a smile, sipping his coffee. “I’d heard plenty of rumors, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up.” His eyes shone with delight. “So the pens are cursed? Well, your uncle did have a rare eye for detail.”
I paused as my thoughts screeched to a halt. “Wait. You knew my uncle?”
“If only,” he replied, shaking his head. “Valeria did, though. Way too well. She wrote quite a lot about Elias Hawthorne in her journals. Seems she tried all manner of bribery to get something out of your uncle. Some of it spicy.” My spirit withered at the saucy grin he gave me, but he pushed on. “But from what I read, your uncle was a man of firm principles. That frustrated Valeria to no end, mind you. She never wrote why, though.”
I squinted, remembering the few times I’d met Valeria Moffet. There were conversations, even offers for the antique shop, before I was nearly a body in her basement. I thought about the pens, then my uncle’s hidden office.
Did Valeria know? I studied Dorian for a quiet second. Did he suspect, or even care?
A server arrived with two slices of sweet potato pie, distracting me from those dark thoughts. Dorian grinned at the slice, then gestured at me with a fork like a conductor.
“So, tell me everything,” he prompted with a mischievous grin.
Everything was a dangerous word, from dead bodies and curses, to me snooping around his house.
I wasn’t sure what to say. So, once again, I picked the middle and dove in—even if it felt like I’d gone off the deep end.
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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. To be honest, it’s a bit creepy, if not spooky, when is isn’t beside itself with nerves. It tends to be a little shy. Did I mention it likes to needlepoint because there’s lots of stabbing? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Which means, really, he gets all the blame.
Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or why-aren’t-they-dead-YET is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot. Like daily.