Philip Fracassi - Gothic

Gothic

Philip Fracassi

Cemetery Dance Publications

Baltimore

2023

Copyright 2023 by Philip Fracassi

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cemetery Dance Publications

132-B Industry Lane, Unit #7

Forest Hill, MD 21050

http://www.cemeterydance.com

The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN-13: 978-1-58767-841-7

Front Cover Artwork 2023 by Kealan Patrick Burke

Digital Design by Dan Hocker

The Gothic castle or house is a house of degeneration, even of decomposition, its living-space darkening and contracting into the dying-space of the mortuary and the tomb.

Chris Baldick

This looks like a job for me, so everybody, just follow me Cause we need a little controversy

Eminem

Prologue

Diana Montresor opens her laptop, punches in a password to reveal the home screen, and brings up her mail program. She still wears sweaty workout clothes from her private yoga session. Her hair is pulled back, a black, silky ponytail draped carelessly over one shoulder, her youthful muscles pleasantly achy and warm from the strength work and stretches. The moment the instructor kissed her cheek and departed, Diana went straight to the freezer and pulled out a frosted bottle of vodka, followed by tonic and fresh lemon from the refrigerator. Cocktail in hand, she now stares blankly at the screen, pushing down a surge of anticipation that emails from this particular sender always bring to the surface. Shes foolish to feel this way, but tries to stay positive, stay hopeful. Its an uneasy balance.

At the top of her Inbox are two consecutive emails, both from the American detective shed hired to locate the relic.

The investigator is based out of New York City and has been on retainer for several years. Shed found him via a referral by the Montresor family attorney. Apparently, the American helped another family find a runaway girl, the heir to a massive pharmaceutical fortune whod decided shed rather live in a filthy hovel in the United States than a castle in northern France. The investigator had found the girl in some exclusive Chinatown opium den, where the spoiled and stupid went to die. His diplomatic recovery of the heiress earned him high marks, and the family attorney had vouched for the mans credibility, intelligence, and tactfulness.

Diana has similar investigators on retainer in strategic locations throughout the States: Los Angeles, Chicago, San Francisco, New Orleans, Miami. These are in addition to literally dozens of men and women positioned around the world, all of them paid a small monthly sum to do nothing but keep their eyes and ears open (albeit with the promise of a generous bonus for any information that led to discovery). Her global resources shape a net of eyes and ears that would have been impossible in her grandfathers youth; the enormous amount of information transmitted at the speed of electricity is a luxury her ancestors could have never dreamed of. An unfair advantage, surely, but one she plans to capitalize upon.

She will not fail.

Many years ago, when she first took over the search from her grandfather, there had been no tracenot a single leadfor decades. She hadnt even been sure what, exactly, she was looking for. What was its current shape?

How was it hiding?

After the death of her parents, Diana finished school and was taught all there was to know about the familys history and its intimate relationship to the arts, dark and otherwise. Her grandfather raised her, trained her. He instructed her, throughout all the years of her upbringing, about the importance of finding what was taken from them, the importancethe need to correct the past. And, God willing, prevent a future darkened by evil, erase the threat of having murder and despair spread like a global virus.

The one thing in her favor is the knowledge that the relic needs a host, someone it can control, someone to spread the power that lies behind the portal, the hidden world on the other side of the stone, an all-consuming dimension located next door to Hell.

The host could be anyone, but it will need someone who will listen , who craves the things it can offer, who will sell their soulwittingly or unwittingly, perhaps too nave or foolish to know the difference.

She opens the first email, and her black eyes go wide.

Ms. Montresor,

I believe I have a lead on the object youre looking for. I hope Im right, because with the amount of money youve been putting into my bank account, I was feeling downright guilty about the whole thing. Attached are a few photos taken by my guy at Howland Hook, one of the ports here in the city. Unless I hear different, Im going to follow this thing and see where it ends up. Lets hope it stays local but, regardless, Ill keep you informed. Please take a look at the photos and give me your thoughts. Theyre not as clear as Id like, but hopefully Ill have a chance to take my own pictures soon.

Based on your initial description, and what I was able to gather from my contact over a brief phone conversation, this could be what youve been looking for.

Fingers crossed.

Dianas breath catches in her throat. She takes a sip from the vodka tonic, lets out a held breath, and opens the first attachment.

The image shows a sealed crate, dangling from the hook of a crane, being lifted over a concrete deck.

She feels disappointment drain her energy like a wave. It could be anything inside that massive wooden crate. You know better than to get your hopes up, Diana. She takes another breath, focuses on staying detached, knowing damn well this will most likely lead to nothing.

She moves the mouse to the next file and double-clicks the icon. The computer thinks for a nanosecond, one that feels to her like an eternity, and then the second image pops open, covering three-quarters of the screen.

The crate, now resting on an expanse of concrete, has been opened and partially unpacked inside a large, empty warehouse. Surrounding the item are other crates, odd machines, bored-looking workers. The photo is a little blurry, as if the photographer had moved at the last second. She holds her breath as she leans in, eyes mere inches from the screen. A sign in the images background reads container terminal, and one of the men in the photo seems to be inspecting the crates interior. He wears a dark blue hat and matching blue vest. Diana thinks he looks like a policeman.

But none of that matters, because she knows what he is inspecting, knows despite only a portion of it being visible, despite the blurred image and shadowed lighting.

This was it.

The bastard found it, she says out loud, and laughs lightly in dazed amusement. In disbelief.

There are more images to open, and shell do so in a moment, wanting to delay any potential disappointment the other images might bring. Instead, she moves the cursor to the second email, wondering what else the detective has written.

PS the image youre likely stuck staring at is from a random inspection. Im not sure what made them target that crate in particular. They must not have liked the looks of it. A cop once told me bad people give off a certain dark energy, maybe your artifact has a similar problem.

Diana smiles, mentally adding intuitiveness to the list of the investigators traits.

She finishes her drink and makes a second before returning to inspect the remaining images. Im coming for you, she thinks, clicking from image, to image, to image each one reinforcing her knowledge that shes finally found what theyve been looking for all these years