an accent I couldn’t quite place other than being Eastern European in origin, the accent of one well traveled over many years.
“Then be on your way. I have had a very long day and wish for nothing but the comfort of my own bed and a cup of hot tea,” I replied.
“And I am only out for a late-night stroll. Imagine my surprise at finding another out at this hour, particularly someone leaving the hospital with such haste. I could not help but find such a man intriguing.” His fingers flexed around the knob at the top of the cane that served as its handle. Long fingers, the carefully manicured hands of a musician. I thought of O’Cuiv’s cold, dead hands with the nails fashioned in long points. “I, too, recently left the hospital; I was visiting an old friend.”
I found myself lost in his eyes, simply gazing into them. They were mesmerizing; I felt as if I were staring into a hole in the earth that had no bottom, a pit so deep it passed through the realms of Hell and continued out the other side. They were made up of the roiling sea, hard, raw waves crashing into one another on a moonless night. A fascination, a wonder. I’m not sure how long I stood there in such a state before getting my wits about me.
“I wish you and your friend nothing but the best,” I told him, glancing down at my shoes. “Now I must be on my way.” At this, I turned and continued down Camden Row towards my home, all the while feeling those eyes on my back, listening for the click of his cane.
“Perhaps you know my friend as well?”
I walked a solid ten paces before he spoke these words, but when I stopped and turned back towards him I found him to be only a few feet behind me, even closer than before. There had been no clicks of the cane, no shuffling steps on the cobblestones; he was simply there at arm’s length. Although he was otherwise motionless, the red silk lining of his black cape danced along behind him, fluttering in little waves as if alive. There was no wind to speak of, not so much as a breeze, only the cool evening air, which seemed to become cooler still in his presence. The flickers of the cloak were the only evidence that he had moved at all.
The man grinned slightly, and I saw those teeth again, those god-awful teeth.
I pictured the torn neck of Appleyard as he was lying upon O’Cuiv’s bed, a wound that might have easily been inflicted by these teeth. In an instant, I pictured the man leaning over the body, his mouth tearing into flesh with the appetite of a savage beast. I shook this ugly image from my mind and returned my gaze to him, hoping the anxiety in my bones was not evident. “What is your friend’s name?” I asked the question, knowing the moment this man uttered the name Patrick O’Cuiv I would bolt off down the street at my fastest. I could see my house from here, the tall gables visible over the other rooftops, but that sanctuary seemed a desert away.
His smile widened and his head tilted again as if I asked the most profound of questions. When he finally spoke, the name that escaped his lips was not the one I expected. “Why, Ellen Crone, of course.”
My heart thudded, and although I attempted to conceal it, I have no doubt he registered my surprise at hearing this. Again, his eyes caught mine, and I found it difficult to turn away. The grip he had on me! As if he could reach into my thoughts with those eyes and extract whatever facts he wished, holding me there until finished. I was reminded of a snake charmer I once witnessed as a child. The man mesmerized a king cobra with nothing but his eyes and the movement of his head and body. He put the snake into a hypnotic state so strong he was able to pick it up and place the killer serpent inches from his face without fear of a bite. All the while, his eyes remained locked on the creature. I couldn’t help but wonder, if he looked away,