Inkwell of Shadows 13: Trust and Consequences

November 9, 2024. Magnolia Cafe. Gloamstead, Alabama. Just a spoonful of pie makes the bitter truth go down…

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. Questions were popping up like daisies, but as mysterious as the hidden office was, it lacked answers. Daniel and Cassidy knew just where to find some of those answers—the bloodleech, Dorian Callix. The trick was tracking him down. No small task by any means, even in a small rural town like Goamstead. Where to start? Why Dorian’s old house next to the the graveyard…

November 9, 2024. Magnolia Cafe. Gloamstead, Alabama. Just a spoonful of pie makes the bitter truth go down…

I could have said there was too much, but I was afraid even the summary would need cliff notes. Sitting back, I blew out a sigh, then snagged a bite of my pie to steady my nerves. It didn’t work, but the pie was good.

“All right.” I gently set down my fork. “Like I said, we think something about the pens is killing people—has been for a little under a century. Henril Vanil stood out because he’s the earliest record we found of one person with all four Waterman pens.”

Dorian’s eyes had shifted back to a very human gray. They also sparkled with delight like an unsupervised kid in a candy store. He bit off some of his own pie, then waved the spoon at me.

“Who died in a delightfully interesting way, which makes me think this curse is well over a century old. Maybe even something transferred into the pens.” He paused. “So, all the victims were withered?”

I frowned, wondering if it said something about Dorian that he found ‘death by withering’ interesting? For that matter, I wondered what it said about me, since I agreed with him.

“At least all the ones we’ve read about so far.” I paused to eat some pie and recheck my thoughts. “Yes. They’ve all been withered like an old mummy with ink-stained fingers, like Henry Vanil.”

Dorian slowly nodded, staring into the middle distance. I swore I saw the calculus running through his mind about both curses and pens. He took a delicate bite of his pie, then arched an eyebrow at me.

“What did he do?”

“Oh, a bookkeeper.” The pie and conversation seemed to untie a knot inside me. A sip of coffee to chase down the pie helped me sort fact from guesswork. “The pens more or less vanished for a time, then two resurfaced later in 1977 here in Gloamstead. It was at the estate sale for Professor Martin Altamont, a physics professor.”

A pause settled over us as a pattern materialized in my mind. The murmur of nearby cafe conversation filled the air, chased by a puff of fall breeze. It hovered in my mind’s eye like a will-o’-the-wisp from the bayou, just out of reach.

Dorian nodded, eating more pie as he squinted at the air. “If an estate sale, that’d be where your uncle came in.”

“Yes,” I replied warily. There wasn’t much use in hiding that, or how Cassidy and I discovered it. Now, Uncle Elias’ hidden office was a different story entirely. It felt better to keep quiet about that part. “My uncle had them listed on his inventory for a while. It’s why we came over to your house to search—”

Then it dawned on me. The Waterman pens. Ink. There was fresh ink on the cloth I found in the hidden attic safe. I remembered what Cassidy had read from the journals downstairs. About when the pens would leak and why. I stared at my half-eaten pie in horror, then met Dorian’s gaze.

“… a suitable victim,” I murmured.

Dorian’s grin was like twisted sunshine.

“Why, Daniel, I’m flattered! But I like to think I’m more careful than that at my age,” he replied, taking another bite of pie.

I drew a small breath, silently cursing myself for getting lost in my thoughts.

“No, that’s not what I mean.” I shook my head.

Words caught on my tongue. How much to tell Dorian warred with what was safe to tell him. I cleared my throat, lightly tapping my fork against my plate. One question might finally settle what clawed at me.

“Dorian.” Another pause crept in, holding the fall air hostage. “You said the other evening that you’re on mine and Cassidy’s side here. That you just want to help.” I let out a slow breath. “Why are you so hot to help us? Sure, you’re fascinated by the pens. But it’s almost like you’ve been throwing yourself at us at every turn. What’s your stake in this?”

It was a gamble. Dorian could lie to my face right now, but he could also come clean. I hoped for the latter.

Dorian looked away from me and the cafe, gray eyes clouded. A serious expression wiped away every trace of the morbid grin and quick remarks.

“You know, Daniel, life doesn’t play favorites. It’s quite fair in the pain it gives out.” The bloodleech slowly shook his head. “Humans complain about life being hard. Humanity doesn’t have that market cornered.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but stopped. He was going somewhere with this, and it felt heavy. Important.

“Daniel, hard as it may be to believe, I meant what I said the other night about finding a peaceful middle ground.” The bloodleech idly gestured at nothing with his spoon. “I’ve a sordid, bloody past with Valeria. Nothing I want to get into. Mind you, some cuts linger more than others.” He huffed bitterly, looking over at me. “We were allies because neither of us could find a way to successfully murder the other one. You know, I even took an ax to her once?” Dorian lightly snorted, looking away with a disgusted grimace. “She got better.”

I nodded. “So, helping us is a way to dance on her grave?”

He chuckled deep in his chest.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted with the hint of a malicious grin. “But mostly I’m honest about wanting to help. It’s letting me pay a favor forward for an unexpected moment of generosity a long time ago.”

While he talked, I saw shadows bleed over his eyes until they were solid black orbs. No one seemed to notice but me. Oddly, I also wasn’t worried. There was something in his expression. Not a predator’s stare, but a moment of genuine sadness as he studied something I couldn’t see, like an old wound. It struck me that some monsters have fangs; others have corporate smiles and a mortgage. Maybe grief was the real monster that hunted us all.

I let the moment slide past us in respectful silence.

Once the quiet turned awkward, I ate a little more pie, then pulled the square of torn black cloth from my pocket. I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger before putting it on the table next to Dorian. His eyes melted back to human gray as he arched an eyebrow.

“Have you seen that material before?” I asked, tapping the cloth.

Dorian picked it up, turning it over in his fingers.

“Can’t say I have.” He gave it a sniff, then returned it to me. “Where did you find it?”

“Your backyard,” I explained, gesturing at him with the cloth. “Well, really behind it. A little grove back in the cypress trees.”

He frowned, looking a little confused, so I pocketed the scrap and continued.

“I found some footprints in the hedges at the back of your yard. That led me through the graveyard, then into the cypress trees behind them.” I sipped my coffee. “There’s a small clearing back there. I’m no detective, but there’s something wrong with that spot. That’s where I found the torn cloth. I also found four withered squirrels that looked as if they were sucked dry.”

Dorian leaned forward on the table with interest, the pie almost forgotten. “Oh my, this sounds delightful! I’ve not wandered out there myself, what with being busy getting moved in. Sucked dry? Well, I’m not one for fresh squirrel. Too hard to catch and way too gamey. But as for being a detective, you’re doing it right in my book. Did you find anything else?”

I considered mentioning the holly and other thorn bushes shivering on their own, but decided against it for the moment.

“Nothing too interesting, but I’d watch where you step out there,” I warned him. “It’s right at the edge of the wetlands. Speaking of interesting, remember when I told the sheriff about an ink-stained cloth I found that hidden safe?”

Dorian nodded, eating the last of his pie before chasing it with some coffee.

“I remember,” he said. “Damn frustrating, if you ask me. Says one of the pens might have been there, and I missed my chance to grab it.”

Frowning, I lightly tapped my fork against the dessert plate. “Maybe. I think it also means the pen might have been there before Fred Spivey died.” Thoughts churned in my head, pieces locking together. “Perhaps even when he died.” I narrowed my eyes at Dorian. “There’s obviously someone after your pens. I’m also wondering if Fred Spivey found the pen, this other person tried to kill him, and the curse finished Fred off.”

To my surprise, Dorian didn’t try to turn this into a chance for more dark humor. Instead, he sat back in his chair with his coffee, scowling into nothing.

“But the hidden safe was closed again, just with no pen inside. After that, you were attacked.” He thoughtfully rubbed a finger along the edge of his coffee cup. “So the killer might have the pen. That’s a worrisome wrinkle, but it makes a lot of sense. It doesn’t explain the break-ins I’ve had into my attic, though. Why bother coming back?” He pursed his lips slightly. “Have you told the sheriff your idea yet?”

I shook my head. “No, not yet. I’m… er… trying to figure out how to explain, ‘Sheriff Branham? I went and played amateur detective and found something.’ He might not like it; authorities get cranky about that.”

Dorian chuckled. “Human authorities do get that way. Well—”

His phone vibrated in his coat, interrupting the conversation. Dorian pulled it out, then gave me a tiny nod before answering.

“Kyle, good to hear from you. Still on your way?” A pause, then Dorian sipped his coffee and set it down. His eyes cut over to me. “Good, good. Once you’ve settled into Gloamstead, I’ve some people I want you to meet. Thank you for letting me know that you’ve got things wrapped up with that Hayes fellow, and are heading down. See you when you’re here.” He ended the call, dropping the phone into an inner pocket. “Pardon about that. It was my accountant, the one I want you and Cassidy to meet. He should be here by next Wednesday, the thirteenth.”

“He’s the one with the other Waterman pen you own?” I asked, a little concerned.

“The same. Once he’s here, we’ll check if he’s feeling well and get the pen back from him. I don’t want to lose a good accountant.” Dorian tapped the edge of his ceramic cup. “Also… those squirrels, that cloth. That reminds me of something I read in Valeria’s journals. I’ll make a few calls and bring her journals by. The three of us can dig through them, if you think you’re up to that.”

I ate the last of my pie, wrestling with the ugly idea of reading the private journals of a monster. Finally, I nodded.

“Have to be,” I admitted. “The way all this is going, I’ve a funny feeling it’ll get worse if we don’t.”

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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.