Inkwell of Shadows 7: A Safe And Other Lies
November 7, 2024. The old Rawls’ home beside Crescent Edge Cemetery—where “safe” had always been a lie…
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 search through the shop’s archived paper records in the Simmons Store-All turned up more than allergies and a history lesson. Instead, Daniel and Cassidy uncovered a decades-old code left by Daniel’s uncle, Elias Hawthorne. A code that concealed a hidden journal entry specifically about the pens. There was also a mentions of two safes; one with Elias and another with a deceased woman named Meredith Rawls. Not wanting to waste time, they out hoping to search the abandoned house that night, only find the old Rawls’ house not so abandoned…
November 7, 2024. The old Rawls’ home beside Crescent Edge Cemetery—where “safe” had always been a lie…
Cassidy and I sat in the car, staring at the house’s new owner, standing on his porch. We swapped an uneasy look, then eased out of the car as if a predator lurked nearby. Technically one did, but neither of us was going to tell him that. We crossed the yard, then climbed the dingy white steps as the evening wind rattled the bare branches.
Dorian Callix, dressed in his usual gray and white clothes save for a windbreaker, filled half the open front doorway with his thin, manicured frame. The man—or really a bloodleech—stood as sharp as a fall shadow, cutting the night under a sickly waning moon.
“If I knew I’d have company, I’d have put a kettle on,” he drawled. “But you’ve come at a good time. Contractors have left for the day. Less noise around.”
Cassidy drew a deep breath. It looked like she bit down on three tart replies just to pin down the one she wanted.
“Oh? I’m surprised you didn’t eat the contractors,” she replied with a brittle smile. “Less payroll. Fewer witnesses.”
Dorian touched two fingers to his forehead in a mock-salute, rolling out a genuine laugh.
“My dear Mrs. Hawthorne, some of us don’t go around eating the help. It’s already hard enough to find them in the first place. Besides, it’s sometimes a rather bland meal. Comes out tasting like sheetrock installs and taxes. I’d rather just enjoy the company.” He stepped away, gesturing inside with a too-polite nod. “Do come in.”
It was an old Victorian home that practically dripped with history. From floor to ceiling, she was a grand lady from another age. Dust outlines on the wallpaper were ghosts of paintings that once stood watch over the entry. Past the foyer, an elegant staircase wound upstairs; freshly polished mahogany banisters gleamed with age.
“What do you think? 1890s?” I whispered to Cassidy.
“Maybe even 1910. Lots of crawlspaces to hide things,” she mumbled, eyeing the ceiling trim.
I nodded thoughtfully as Dorian led the way.
A short walk later, we arrived at what I assumed was the library. This was a guess based on the staggering amount of books—some shelved, some still boxed—stacked against the walls. Two antique brass floor lamps painted the room in a deceptively warm glow, considering who owned them. A vintage Aubusson rug with a dusty gold and green garden pattern added to the mood.
Dorian sank into a cracked brown leather armchair that looked on the precipice between too-new and falling apart. Cassidy and I claimed a nearby red velvet loveseat that whimpered under our weight. The thing shed tattered thread like a nervous, long-haired cat.
“So.” Dorian drew the word like a bow over a violin. When he crossed one thin leg over the other, I half-expected him to form a finger pyramid like some movie villain. “Daniel, Cassidy, good to see you both. You’re looking healthy. How are those scratches? Healing up?”
Cassidy stiffened on the loveseat next to me, while I gently massaged the bandages on one of my forearms. Conversations about our recent near-murder didn’t rate high on our small-talk meter. We answered at the same time.
“Fine,” Cassidy said, clipped.
“Getting there,” I sighed. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Callix…”
He waved a hand at my manners. “Now, now. Dorian, if you please. No need for the formality.”
I stretched a smile over my fatigue.
“Dorian… sorry to say, this isn’t a social call. We’re here about the pens.”
The man’s eyes glimmered like polished coins. “Oh? Do tell. I’m all ears.”
Cassidy raised her eyebrows, so I jumped in with the explanation.
“We’ve been doing some digging about the ink pens. So far their age checks out, but they’ve got some sketchy history.”
“Sketchy?” Dorian looked pained. “You mean they’re fake?”
I sat back, shaking my head, hands raised in light defense.
“No, they’re real. It’s just that a good amount of people who owned them have died pretty badly.”
It was as if I’d told Dorian it was Halloween and he could have all the candy. His grin was all morbid sunshine.
“Delightful. I love items with a colorful history.” He waved a hand at the half-filled shelves of old and new books. “They’ll have a lovely home here. Are there any leads on the missing pens? I trust there’s something, since it brought you both out tonight.”
“Some,” Cassidy said. “We’ve found some old purchase records, with dates, locations, and more. We’ll write up the details for your records, but…” she glanced at me for support “…this address came up as one of the recent locations.”
“Here?” He actually looked surprised.
I picked up the beat, following Cassidy’s lead. Quickly, I edited down my mental notes to the key points that didn’t include my uncle.
“Here,” I echoed. “The pens changed hands from one estate sale after another. We’ll document it all, but a few receipts pointing to the pens’ whereabouts brought us here—maybe in a hidden vault or safe. Have any of your contractors mentioned one?”
Dorian swapped his theatrical expression for a contemplative frown, staring holes in the rug.
“No, not a word,” he replied thoughtfully. “They’ve been roaming the halls for two days now, getting ready to make small improvements.” Dorian indicated the library doors with a nod. “Replacing a few doors where the frames had rotted, that sort of thing. No one mentioned a safe.”
Then he grinned and clapped his hands together.
“But you’ve stirred my curiosity about these pens, so we can always look around now.” His grin turned sharper. “I do so love a good hunt. Keeps the mind sharp.”
Cassidy stiffened slightly next to me on the loveseat—eyes tight, lips thinned to a sharp line. To say she didn’t trust Dorian was like saying water was wet—not that I blamed her. Still, his excitement was contagious, even if it suggested wet cellars and knives in the dark.
More than that, I had an uneasy feeling about these fountain pens. That they were more than just some valuable antiques—though I couldn’t say why.
I gave Dorian a polite smile.
“A hunt? Yes, it does. Since you’ve had contractors here, could you point to any likely odd spaces? I’m used to a vault being in a study or office. Places like that.”
“Don’t leave out mausoleums,” Dorian offered with a wink. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I know just where to start—the back hallway.”
I couldn’t tell if that was a joke or a warning—so I decided on both; that seemed safer.
Dorian led us through a set of interconnected parlors with antique furniture waiting for guests. But for now, they’d been temporarily claimed by stacks of cardboard boxes. Dorian breezed through with the self-assured grace of nobility showing off his domain.
“Oh, pardon the boxes. Empties had to go somewhere,” he said with a limp wave. “Now that I think about it, one contractor told me the previous owners were fond of stashing valuables in odd places. One story said they hid a cousin in the attic for two years during prohibition. Rum runner, supposedly.”
I squinted at Dorian’s back, then glanced to Cassidy for help.
“How dramatic,” she deadpanned.
Dorian tossed a smooth grin over his shoulder.
“Isn’t it? All part of the charm of why I bought the place.”
The back hall was more than just that; it was the spine of the first floor. Faded wildflower wallpaper echoed a different era of decor. It was an odd match for the Victorian wall sconces that had been adapted for lightbulbs. The delicate curves of the light fixtures held a blush of rust, while the bulbs gave off a moth-dusted golden light. A glow most haunted houses would’ve killed for.
“Given the hour, and that I’m dying to know about this safe, we’ll cover more ground if we split up,” Dorian suggested.
Cassidy clenched her jaw slightly—and really, I did, too—but Dorian didn’t show a hint of malice. Just the eager energy of someone who enjoyed this too much.
“You do know the house better than we do,” Cassidy relented with a soft breath.
“True,” I agreed, giving her a reassuring smile. “It won’t take that long.”
She gave me a tiny nod, but I saw her eyes flick to the bandages on my forearms. Memories of our wounds stung more than the cuts themselves. Still, she smiled, lightly brushing a hand on my upper arm.
“I’ll take the cellar,” she said with a shrug. “Even if there’s not enough light, I navigate in the dark pretty well.”
“Good idea,” Dorian replied with an excited, slightly feral smile. “I’ll check the first and second floors. It might be behind a painting. Wouldn’t that be just elegant?”
“That leaves the attic,” I said, glancing up. “Is there an attic for the first floor, then another for the second?”
“No, just the one,” Dorian replied, pointing at the stairs. “It’s big enough to make the library look small. Access is on the second floor. I’ll show you, then be back to escort you to the basement, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
“Thank you,” Cassidy replied dryly.
She slid her hand down my arm and gently squeezed my hand. I gave her another reassuring smile.
“I promise I’ll be careful.”
Cassidy raised her eyebrows.
“Extra careful, please? You’re still vintage near-mint, and only slightly scuffed. I’d like to keep you that way.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I grinned.
Dorian led the way. It turned out the attic access was a few feet down the second-floor hall, between a pair of bedrooms. As I grabbed the cord to pull down the hidden ladder, Dorian held up a hand.
“Mr. Hawthorne, a word? I know you and your wife have little reason to trust me. My… predecessor? As I’ve said, she made quite the mess here in Gloamstead. I’ve no intention of repeating that mistake.”
I studied him for a moment. Beneath that polished, eerily too-perfect appearance, I thought I heard some sincerity behind his words. With a nod, I drew a long breath.
“Dorian…” I paused, pulling words together. “Your predecessor literally tried to murder us a week ago. Just bear in mind that’s made us a bit skittish.”
“Understandable,” he said lightly. “I’d love to find a peaceful middle ground between the three of us.” Dorian gestured to the attic. “Good hunting among the dressmaker dummies.”
Honest conversation or not, I still waited until he returned downstairs before I headed up the ladder.
The attic was as advertised. It was long, running the length of the house, with a bare, gabled ceiling. Light from below was a column of safety until I pulled a nearby string. With a click, a single bulb pushed out the darkness, which shoved right back. The place was like a cluttered cathedral of memories.
A thin, damp heat held the air hostage while the dust of decades past clung to everything. What didn’t smell like stale paper was scented by sour insulation. Boxes were misshapen columns of cardboard crowding decades-old magazines in uneven stacks. I gave a trio of neglected dressmaker dummies facing a corner the side-eye before I stepped deeper into the gloom.
I tried to be patient as I searched, but passing seconds pricked at me like sewing needles. Two rounds across the attic left me grimy and frustrated. I scrubbed my hand over my face, then tried to brush dust out of my hair. It was a failed effort.
“Now wait,” I muttered. “Think. My uncle knew something was off about the pens to the point he made that code in his ledgers.” Putting my hands on my hips, I looked around me—really looked. “He wouldn’t have agreed to put them literally in a safe, but he would’ve left a hint how to find them.”
I narrowed my eyes at the attic, willing it to give up the prize. It didn’t, but I did get an idea.
“The magazines.” I shook my finger at the dusty stacks of old Alabama Heritage issues, hurrying over to them. “I bet they reused the ledger codes.”
I knelt down, brushing years of grime aside, and sorted them by year until I reached the one I was looking for.
“October 1977,” I muttered.
Four pages in, I found what I hoped for—handwritten letters and numbers in the margin. I grinned and got to work. Ten issues and several notes later, I decoded the hidden passage.
“Twelfth brick from the left. East wall. Attic.” I frowned at the last part. “Mind the wheels?” I glanced at the east brick wall just outside the sole lightbulb’s island of light. “What wheels?”
Frowning, I crossed the attic and counted bricks.
The brick I’d tracked down wasn’t any different from the others nearby. I ran my fingers over it, then along the mortar. Partway down, my fingers touched metal. The phone’s flashlight glinted off a series of four small wheels—a simple combination lock. I scrubbed at the grime, exposing their numbers.
“Combination lock wheels.” I shook my head in disbelief. “But what’s the combination?”
I tried a couple of obvious combinations first. Nothing. Then I gave the wall a crooked smile.
“No. It couldn’t be. That’s way too easy.”
Carefully, I pushed at the dials. Age held them in place, but they finally gave under my thumb. Slowly, I set the dials to ten, four, nineteen, and seventy-seven.
“October 4th, 1977. The date he got the pens from Meredith.”
A soft click replied before a four-foot-square section of fake brick separated from the wall. Inside, there were folded documents, even grocery receipts, all sitting on top of a beige velvet cloth marred by a pooled ink stain. Its wet edges glistened faintly in the light.
“One of the pens was here, but…”
A soft creak of wood whispered across the attic. I heard the sound of a footstep, followed by the hint of breath.
“Dorian?” I asked, turning around. “Cassie?”
The air tasted faintly metallic—like pennies and old ink.
Something dark peeled off one shadow and flowed to the next across the room. A faint glow—no more than the desperate light from a feeble candle—wobbled in the air. The dust-choked air shifted, disturbed by something moving too fast. Then a lean figure rushed out from behind the boxes straight for me.
“What the…” I yelled.
Stumbling back, I ducked a low rafter, tripping over my own feet. The figure flitted across the room like a wild sheet of darkness. I fell hard—landing next to old rugs and something that gave with a dry, brittle crunch.
It wasn’t a rug.
A face stared back at me.
Leathered skin was stretched tight over bone—hollow eyes inches from mine.
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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.