THIRTEEN FOR DINNER

Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

            “What do you mean I’m in over my head?” I ask Quillan but he doesn’t answer. “Just look for a clock,” is all he says while he relights my candle. I have a better idea and I begin banging on the wall that I believe to be connected to the kitchen. Maybe Mike will hear and find a door.

            “What are you doing?” Quillan looks at me like I’ve lost my mind and I’m thinking I might die if I don’t get out of this fun house.

            “I’m getting Mike’s attention.” I say, trying to sound cool and composed while I continue to pound.

            Quillan grabs my hand, “ I don’t think your boyfriend will be able to hear you.”

            “He’s not my boyfriend,” I am quick to pull my hand free, thankful the room is dark enough to hide my burning cheeks. “He’s just a friend is all.”

            “There is no clock anywhere in this room,” Emma Chizzam interrupts us with her anxious whining. “Are you sure we should be looking for a clock?”

            The words have no more left her mouth, when the bonging of a nonexistent grandfather clock begins striking midnight.

            One bong and the soft sound of frivolous talk and laughter fill the air.

            Two bongs, everyone stops searching and looks toward the center of the room.

            Three bongs, an icy chill sweeps across the floor, and we all watch as a low fog rises from the ground and hovers in the center of the room. Not able to move, we stand spellbound, unwillingly ushered into the twilight zone of this manor’s gruesome history.

            Four bongs, the noise grows louder as the tolling competes with my accelerating heart. I hear the clinking of silverware against the fine china plates.

            Five bongs, my pulse is racing, my legs are wobbling like wet noodles and I am not sure if I will be able to keep standing. If this is some practical joke of Mr. Brackett’s I swear I will kill him myself and add another death to the history of the macabre place.

            Yet what transpires on the sixth bong could not be the work of an elaborate hoax. People began to appear around the table; at first glance they emerge as shadows but as the fog clears, their bodies materialize. 

            Seven bongs, although I’m staring at the once departed, they have come back to life, and I watch helpless as they gorge themselves on prime rib, and guzzle high-priced wine.

            Eight bongs, I look at Quillan and he’s staring at the table, entranced, watching the dignified Mr. Faulkner spill expensive cognac on the satin table cloth as he attempts to pour himself another glass of brandy.

             Nine bongs, I’m ready to pound the wall hard enough to knock it down when I notice one of the ancestral portraits hanging in front of me. An esteemed southern gentleman who eerily resembles our eccentric host is posing, demonstrating great posture. With one hand he leans on an ornate walking stick while the other disappears in his coat pocket. Dangling from a chain is a gold watch that appears to be glowing, the hands point to midnight.

            Ten bongs, I scream and let everyone know I have found the only clock in the room.             Eleven bongs, everyone runs my way, and as Quillan touches the pocket watch, the portrait shifts as the wall vibrates and begins moving to our left.

            Twelve bongs, ear-piercing screams fill the room as the dinner guests begin shrieking. I know what’s going on but Quillan won’t let me look. Grabbing my hand he pulls me into the dark passageway.