Phantom File Read Free Page B

inside my skin, into my chest.
    My own brother and the other six, they were my first, for he was right. Andrew was crazy beyond repair, but he spoke the truth.
    It was my grand experiment. And lo, on that very night, it proceeded to work its black magic. The procedure was set in motion.
    I threw the switch and Andrew’s body charged with convulsions as blood raced out of him. How it burned that first time! Burned like fire! I cried out for God to forgive us our wicked deeds. I was full of anger and confusion and regret and, most of all, a harrowing loneliness.
    For I knew the truth before the deed was done. He would not live through the procedure.
    When I opened my eyes, my brother Andrew was gone.
    I will never know if his spirit, forged in the desert over many years, had anything to do with the outcome. But one thing was sure, one thing was learned. It would lead Howard onward, beyond all reason.
    When he stood up from the chair, he was a younger man.
    Rainsford was crying softly there in the kitchen. I had questions, things I didn’t understand, but I didn’t want to disturb him. Rainsford had weaved himself in and out of the story like a confused child. He had conjured a masterpiece of reanimation, of becoming younger, of making the old and dead new again. My mind was alive with ideas.
    I had my thread.
    And of one thing I was sure, as Rainsford had been sure: this was no madman, but a curious, broken creature. And an extraordinary storyteller. He would have received a standing ovation from Lord Byron without question.
    I leaned in, seeing he had wiped away a tear and taken a deep breath. He seemed to have expunged himself of some hidden evil carried inside for far too long. Truly a remarkable story, most notably for the way he knitted himself into it, playing the part of the older brother, then backing away as if he’d come too close to the edge of a cliff and looked down. Brilliant. I must learn from this man’s story, I thought, in the ways of the craft.
    I ventured a question, whispered in the dark of the kitchen, playing his game.
    “When do you suppose your story takes place?”
    He smiled at me then, the wide, crazy eyes returning for an instant as I reared back in my seat.
    “It is timeless.”
    A chill of fright ran through me, but I forged on, desperate to know the end of his depraved tale. Such a master as this must have more to tell if only I could reach inside and get it.
    “When Howard murdered his brother,” I began. But he would have none of it.
    “There was no murder!”
    Rainsford banged his fist on the table. Oh, the glory of men who drink! Percy and Lord Byron surely would have raced downstairs had they heard, but no, the house was big, the echo distant, and the men deeply sedated. And as for Claire? Well, she hadn’t an ounce of courage in her. She could never do what I was doing now. A sound from outside the door would only make her pull the covers up tighter around her neck.
    “You don’t understand at all,” he continued. “The war took him, don’t you see? And all their meddling and playing God. It drove him out of his mind. Howard had to throw the switch!”
    “What is this curse you speak of? You haven’t explained yourself, and this makes for a troubling story. It’s marvelous what you’ve concocted, but there are things missing. Tell me of the curse. Tell me what happened to Howard.”
    I sat spellbound and desperate for the last of the tale while Rainsford scratched nervously at one of his forearms. And then he told me the very end, which was terrible indeed.
    This thing is alive, but not in the way of the world. It lives in the world but comes from outside the world. Andrew called it a cornered spirit, hopelessly trapped in the world of men. It lives on in . . . in Howard, I suppose. And so Howard lives on. I could live a thousand years—longer.
    Rainsford could not or would not remain detached from the story he told. Always he would drift from Howard to himself and back