The Whitaker House Curse, Part 2
by William Todd

Once at the top of the stairs, Mr. Tragoi motioned to the library entrance door. "Please, can I offer you a glass of wine while we wait on the other guests?"

Father Geoffrey smiled, and his eyes lit. "Never let it be said that a priest willingly passed up a warm sip of wine, especially on a day as raw as this."

I nodded obligingly, as well, and our host went to an empty bookshelf next to the entrance where, oddly enough, a bottle of wine had been sitting along with two glasses.

"Two woodcarvers had done a remarkable restoration to the mantle piece here in the library," he began to explain as he poured the deep-red liquid into the respective glasses, "and I had offered them each a glass when they finished. Sadly, when I returned with the bottle and glasses, they had disappeared."

Though I didn't mean to, I can only assume that my gasp was audible, for both the priest and our host turned to me with up-turned brows. It seemed that my inward misgivings of the place had seeped to the surface.

Mr. Tragoi's laugh was like fingers dancing across the lower notes on that great organ his voice reminded me of. "You look as though I had just told you that the two woodcarvers had been killed."

I swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. Finally, I asked, "What happened to the poor souls?"

He handed each of us our glass and said, "The poor souls, as you so put it, had remembered a second job that they had to hurry on to and couldn't stay for socializing. It seems that I had kept them here longer than they anticipated with my need for impeccability-at least with this particular mantle piece."

Wanting to change the subject, I said as I took my first drink, "I see by the abundance of books that your profession is in law."

"Yes, I attended the University of Edinburgh for my degree, but sadly there aren't many opportunities for such endeavors in the rural lands I come from. So, I decided to practice in the land that so graciously taught me my profession."

Father Geoffrey was devouring his glass of wine; he was insatiable in his thirst. Had I not looked around at the grand display of books as Mr. Tragoi was speaking and seen him take his last swallow, I would have sworn that no wine had even been placed into his goblet.

After he had taken his last swill and gave a little reverberation, he said, "That was the best wine, save the Eucharist, I have ever put to my lips!"

Victor smiled and poured more into his glass as I, too, took another more scrupulous drink and came to the same conclusion. "This is absolutely delightful."

"Tell me," the friar insisted, "where can one get their hands on such a lovely bottle of wine?"

"I am in possession of the only bottle of this kind left."

"Having only one bottle in the world of such perfect wine is blasphemy," he said as he savored more slowly his second glass. "This is heaven."

"I was told by the old man through whom I came to this wine that in ancient times, Jews rarely finished a bottle of it at the table. He pondered me with a thought: What must have happened to the wine at the Last Supper if it hadn't been consumed completely?"

After a moment of contemplation, Father Geoffrey said, "Surely it was drank at a later time-at another meal, perhaps."

Mr. Tragoi rubbed the manicured whiskers on his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps. But as a priest of the Catholic faith, you know that the early church saved everything considered holy. You have bones of your saints under the altar of every church. Could they not have saved the wine? Wouldn't they have saved it? Could that dark, unlabeled bottle resting on the bookshelf be . . .? "

Everything went quiet at the utterance of that statement, as if everyone were regarding such a terrific story. I remember in that brief period a strong wind buffeting the library window. It was of such force that even the fire in the fireplace could not subdue the cold that momentarily seeped into the room.

Suddenly, Mr. Tragoi let out an uproarious laugh, and the friar followed suit. Not wanting to be left out of a joke that I was not privy to, I laughed as well.

Father Geoffrey, choking back laughter and wine offered to me, "It seems our host is quite the story teller, Mr. Croft. This should be a lovely dinner, indeed!"

I nodded agreeably. "Mr. Tragoi, will you get a glass and join us while we wait for the others?"

"I don't drink it," he replied with more than slight aversion. "Though this wine is palatable to you, it doesn't seem to--agree with me. My taste is for white wine. I serve this only because it seems everyone but me enjoys it."

We chatted a bit longer while the wine was finished off then went into the banquet hall as a servant set the large hearth aflame. Soon, the entire room was filled with warmth.

Within the hour, the workers were excused for the day, and the other guests began to arrive. There was Mr. Oglevie, the butcher, and his wife and children, Ms. Abercrombie, a fine, young woman who ran a floral shop in the square, the town doctor, Clifford McGinty and his son, along with several others I had never seen before. The total for dinner, including myself was thirteen.

Now just as the last guests arrived--two associates from the law firm in the city where Mr. Tragoi practiced--the heavens let loose with the snow that they, since early morning, had been so reluctant to release. With the white drapery came howling winds that rushed around the corners of the manor house, making sounds like the shrieking of a legion of ghosts. Though it was only three in the afternoon, the sky grew the color of slate; looking back on those events, it was a harbinger of things to come.

Since no one knew the better at that time, we all gathered in the banquet hall for hors d'oeuvres that the servants had set out. It was fine fare that whetted our appetites for the evening meal to follow. We all laughed and enjoyed each other's company-I got to know several townsfolk I had never been acquainted with-and the children were given the task of decorating the Christmas tree.

While chatting with the good doctor about a persistent lower back pain, I had noticed Father Geoffrey standing alone, looking through the grand, wall-to-ceiling windows of the hall at the blizzard shrieking about outside. Even in the reflection, I could see his brows furrowed as they had been in the little room below the library when our guest revealed his name. He had made some small conversation with a few folk but chose to be introverted, mostly, and that alone was enough to cause me alarm. I wanted to find out what was souring his countenance. I excused myself from Dr. McGinty and went to the friar's side, watching the curtain of snow descend upon the stage of the Whitaker house grounds as the priest did the same.

"You suddenly seem short on conversation," I said. "Is what we discussed earlier troubling you?"

He pulled on his flowing beard before speaking. "Obviously, the undertones to this merry occasion has me a bit glum . . ."

"You have that same look you had before when you pushed our host to pinpoint his place of origin. I could tell that you weren't pleased with his generality."

"It's not so much that," Father Geoffrey replied, "many people that immigrate don't like talking about where they are from, for most times they flee war, famine and persecution."

"Then what?" I demanded in concern.

The portly priest sighed and once more, he squinted out into the waves of blowing snow. He asked, "When was the last time that you saw a snow storm as violent as this?"

Expecting that this was a circumlocution, I answered as I studied the white torrent, "I am not sure I have ever seen quite a wintry display."

"Nor I," he returned.

I only stared at him with my own brow now askew. I did not have to ask again. I could tell that he was about to let me in on a revelation.

Suddenly, there was a hand on my back, tugging at my shirt. I turned to find Mr. Oglevie's five-year-old daughter, a small red gift in her grasp.

"Sir," she said, "could you help me put this present on the Christmas tree?" She pointed to a bare spot on a branch about six feet up.

I smiled and said, "Absolutely, little one. I'd be honored to help out such a lovely young girl as yourself." I turned a concerned eye to the friar as I was pulled by the hand toward the Christmas tree. "I will be right back," I said.

"And I shall be here," he replied dryly as he focused on the storm outside, once more.

Within a few minutes, I returned to find Mr. Franks, a local merchant, asking the whereabouts of our host. It seemed he had left the room. Upon further inspection, it was realized that his two associates were missing, as well.

"I guess I will have to give him my thanks another time," Mr. Franks said. "But I live on the other side of the village, and I fear it will be all I can do to get home in such weather. So I must leave before the walk becomes impassable."

I looked around as other guests were beginning to become ill at ease from the growing storm.

"It looks as though the timing of this dinner was a bit off," I said as I surveyed the room full of faces.

"Not necessarily," the priest said under his breath as Mr. Franks joined some of the others by the fireplace.

"Now what does that mean?" I asked worriedly. "Please tell me what it is that has you so up-in-arms about this man?"

"It his name," Father Geoffrey uttered with a slight quiver.

"Victor Tragoi? What about it makes you this way?"

"It's meaning. It-it means . . . His last name, Tragoi-in the region he comes from, it means undead! I fear it is not our host who need worry about dying prematurely. Surely, it is one of us here, and I fear it will happen this night!"

Just as he said those words, Mr. Tragoi, along with his two associates, re-entered the hall. "I see by the look of your faces," he began with his resonant tone, "that you fear returning to your homes this evening because of the storm."

A chorus of 'yes' filled the hall.

"Please, I would hate to have this wonderful evening end abruptly because of Mother Nature's inhospitality. I have made arrangements to have rooms set up for each of you. You can spend the night as my guests, and you can leave when the storm abates."

When everyone agreed to the generosity, a smile stretched from under his neatly trimmed mustache. But when he turned to the two of us at the large windows, his smile turned devilish. "Will the two of you stay and grace my company, as well?"

I can only presume that Father Geoffrey decided to stay because, as a man of God, he could not back down from the Prince of Darkness. As for myself, I too lived quite a walk away. I decided to risk my fate at the Whitaker House than to surely die of exposure on such a terrible walk home.

Please excuse me. I do not mean to pull you from my story, as I remember it. But it is nearly midnight, and I now hear movement from within my home. It is the kind of slow, deliberate activity that sets my blood to chill, like a bully pounding his fist in his palm when the object of his torments is cornered. The Evil One is here, and he has begun his search. He may already be at my door. I haven't yet taken any precautions to delay his entry to my room, so I must do that now and lock my door. I know it is a trifling task, for the strongest steel and thickest oak could not stop him. But fear dictates action, however frivolous it seems. I can only hope that I will be able to return to my diary and finish the story I started.

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