The Fantasy Book Murders

By John Walters

After a famous fantasy writer is murdered in his castle-like mansion, two unlikely investigators discover a pattern of similar murders suggesting a serial killer. They begin to research the killings, starting with the most recent and working backwards into the past. Danger mounts as they uncover the backgrounds of the victims and the truth begins to resemble the fantasy writer's most bizarre and horrific fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Astaria Books
• Release date: Dec 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781536539264

John Walters

John Walters recently returned to the United States after thirty-five years abroad. He lives in Seattle, Washington. He attended the 1973 Clarion West science fiction writing workshop and is a member of Science Fiction Writers of America. He writes mainstream fiction, science fiction and fantasy, and memoirs of his wanderings around the world.

Book preview

Contents

1.  Seventh Victim: The Wizard

2.  Sixth Victim: The Princess

3.  Fifth Victim: The Blacksmith

4.  Fourth Victim: The Ogre

5.  Third Victim: The Warrior

6.  Second Victim: The Bard

7.  First Victim: The Witch

8.  Eighth Victim 

9.  End Notes

Chapter One

Seventh Victim: The Wizard

––––––––

"There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create..."

- T.S. Eliot

There is a tale they tell in the city saying:  There once were seven murders, all in a row...

*     *     *

Before I tell you who committed the murders and why, I have to tell you about the wizard.  You should know him as Theodore Howard Gray.  Ah, it rings a bell, doesn't it?  His novels have won Nebula Awards, Hugo Awards, World Fantasy Awards.  They have been made into blockbuster films.  He has appeared on national and international talk shows in his leather moccasins, dark blue jeans, and brown half-length Moroccan kaftan, with long gray hair and beard, light brown eyes, faint smile, solemn demeanor, deep voice, and slow, measured manner of speaking.

His home, Graymanse, is almost as famous as he is.  What began as a typical suburban structure, through the renovations of decades, sprouted multiple rooms, endless passageways and staircases, deep dungeons, lofty bedrooms, turrets, battlements, gargoyles, even a partial moat and a drawbridge.

And now he was dead: victim number seven.  His housekeeper found him in his bed, his throat slit from ear to ear, blood soaked into his bedding and into the carpet that had been given to him by fans from Turkey.  He appeared to have died around the same time as the others, more or less six o'clock on a Monday morning, or so the papers said.

And I stood outside Graymanse as the last streaks of rose and amber faded from the deep blue twilight sky, with Debby Black, the vampire wannabe, in her flowing black dress with purple hems, her hair dyed jet black, her lips shaded with black lipstick, her nails stained with black polish.

The police had cordoned off Graymanse and its grounds with bright ribbons and warning signs.  Debby and I were planning to circumvent any locks and defenses and break in.  Investigators, we were, but not for the authorities.

It looks impregnable, I said.  And if we cross the lines and get caught we're in big trouble.

I know a way, said Debby.

Do you?

Yes.  And don't be sarcastic.  I'm a woman of many talents.  In a previous incarnation I was a literary groupie, and the wizard was one of my conquests.  I've been in there before.

You never cease to amaze, I said.

Admittedly always being full of surprises is one of my charms, said Debby.  Did I neglect to mention that she had purple mascara and a red flush across her cheeks?  When she smiled it came across as quite savage.

Lead the way, said I.

Come on.

To the left of the gate, along the stone wall topped with sharp metal spires, to the right as the wall took a ninety-degree turn towards the canyon.  We stopped at the canyon's edge, though the wall continued a few feet farther.

We can't get around that, I said.

We don't go around; we go under.  Look.  There's a path a few yards down.  It goes under the wall and comes up on the other side.  That's how my friends and I would get in when Teddy wanted us to be clandestine.

Teddy?

Hey, look, once you've fucked someone you can call them what you want.

Point taken, I suppose.  Are you sure it's safe?

You pussy.  I'll go first.  With that, she lightly hopped off the canyon's edge onto the narrow path, ducked under the wall, and was lost to my sight.

I followed considerably more slowly, lowering myself to the path and painstakingly avoiding the crumbling edge.

On the other side, the path sloped gradually up to the back lawn of Graymanse.  By now the light had all but faded, and the silhouette of the building made me think of Castle Dracula.  Sconces with dim glowing electric bulbs were spaced around the inside of the stone wall.  No lights burned within Graymanse; it was completely dark.

We'll have to go in through the basement, said Debby.  I know a small door under the kitchen.

Not for the first time I felt gratitude that I had decided to remain sober for this foray.  There was enough tension without the added anxiety being stoned brought on.

Do you think it's safe to use the lights?

Not yet, said Debby.  Let's wait until we get inside.  I can find the way.

What the hell?  Why worry?  I shrugged inwardly and followed her.  Under the kitchen porch a steep narrow stairwell led to a thick wooden door. 

Debby turned the knob and pushed.

Nothing happened.

It's stuck, she said.

Let me try, I said.

Chauvinist.

Fuck off.  I'm heavier.

I twisted the knob, pushed with my shoulder once, twice, thrice.  On the third shove the door, with a loud shriek of rusty hinges, slowly opened.

Debby said, Well, that was loud enough to wake the dead.

Let's hope not, I said.

Within, it was pitch black.  I switched on my flashlight and entered.  It was a small storage room with shelves full of canned goods, spare light bulbs, tools, and other odds and ends.  At the far end the knob turned and the door opened smoothly.

Wait, said Debby.

What?  Did you hear something?

No.  It's just that...  Before you go in there, remember that Teddy was eccentric.  He collected things.

What sorts of things?

You'll see.

The chiaroscuro of stark light and darkness made Debby's face appear more sinister but at the same time more sensual.  It helped me understand why for some people vampires were sexually attractive.

Obviously thinking I was stalling, Debby said, Do you want me to lead?  I know the way.

No.  I'm fine.  My macho pride piqued, I turned and entered the vast, high-ceilinged room beyond.

And stopped, heart pounding, mindless dread threatening to overwhelm me.

The chamber was full of instruments of torture:  the rack, the Judas chair, the brazen bull, the wheel, the pillory, the iron maiden.  Other equipment with which I was not familiar, as well as battle axes, spears, swords, maces, crossbows, and other weapons were mounted on the walls.

You've got to be shitting me, I said.  This is too damn macabre.

Debby said, I have to admit that this particular room is gruesome even for me.

Why the hell would he collect such things?

He said he did it for the ambiance.  You know he wrote horror as well as straight fantasy.  He said that coming down here and reflecting upon what must have transpired with these devices put him in the mood.

The mood for what?

The mood to write, asshole.  He never brought me down here except to show it to me once, and as far as I know he never partied down here.  Of course, I wasn't privy to all of his secrets.

Was anyone?

I don't think so.  Debby slipped in front of me and led the way through the torture chamber, and I didn't protest.  She seemed not to be flustered, but I was scared shitless.  Dusty cobwebs festooned the corners of the ceilings, but the devices appeared to be dusted, polished, oiled, and ready for use.

Debby said, If you see movements in the shadows, it's just rats, okay?

Rats?

Every place this size must have them.  I read once that rats are everywhere, on every continent.  They stow away on ships, you know.

At the far end of the room I reached for a doorknob.

You don't want to go in there.

Why not?

It's the maze of mirrors.  He got the idea from 'Enter the Dragon'.  He set me loose in it once and it took me hours to find my way out.

He had a sick sense of humor, didn't he?

Debby shrugged.  I was into it at the time.  I still am, I guess.  You ever read Borges?  He was into mazes.  He got all metaphysical with them.

I opened the door and shone my light inside.  Shards of light reflected back at me from all directions.

Debby grabbed my hand.  Come on, she said.  We don't have time for that now.

She pulled me along and opened another door.  Steep stone steps spiraled to the right up a narrow stairway.  This way, she said.

We circled the stairs for what seemed an interminable length of time.  As if sensing my unease and impatience, she said, This goes straight up to a chamber opposite his bedroom on the third floor.

Why didn't he have an elevator installed?

I'll take that as a joke.  He modeled Graymanse after his stories.  As much as he could, he lived what he wrote.

I'm surprised he wasn't locked up.

No need.  He locked himself up, as you can see.  And anyway, they don't lock up rich eccentrics, only poor ones. And a lot of people looked up to him.  They saw him as a genius, a mentor, a patriarch.

At the top of the stairway was a room with a polished wood floor.  Iron railings topped with wooden banisters surrounded three sides of the opening.

This is one of the libraries, said Debby. 

There are more?

Yes, several.  As I recall, this one has mostly history and reference books, the type he would consult most frequently while he was working.

Debby shone her beam around.  All four walls from floor to ceiling, with the exception of the rectangular doorway, were covered with bookshelves, and the shelves were crammed with books.  There were no gaps anywhere.  In fact, books were piled upon books, and stacks of books covered the tables and chairs and the floor in all four corners of the room.

He loved his books, I said.

That he did.  And a lot of these are rare first editions.

What's to keep us from walking off with some?

Debby shrugged.  Nothing.  Grab a few.

I didn't even know why I had said that.  That's not why we're here, I said.

Debby chuckled.  Scruples.  That's quaint.  Don't worry; he's not going to miss them.

Maybe not, but the lawyers might when they come to do an inventory.

Debby studied me for a moment, but I couldn't read her expression.  It wasn't distain or scorn.  It wasn't even judgmental.  Something very attractive, very human, shone through all the makeup.

Where to now? said Debby.  His bedroom?

Not yet.  Maybe we should save that for last.  To be honest, I don't even know exactly what we're looking for.

I get it, said Debby.  Follow me.

*     *     *

Though every room and hallway in Graymanse was cluttered top to bottom and side to side with collectibles, sculptures, paintings, posters, and all sorts of other entertainment paraphernalia, there was a crazy logic and organization to it all.  One room, for example, held a vast collection of comic books, graphic novels, and pulp magazines.  Another held paperback novels, short story collections, and anthologies.  Another was full of ornately bound first editions, many doubtlessly of great value.  Another had shelf upon shelf of action figures from science fiction and fantasy movie and TV series.  The corridor to one room was only three foot square, and to traverse it we had to crawl on our hands and knees.  At the end was a chamber with a wardrobe of clothes from all eras, including space suits, monster costumes, hats, wigs, beards, mustaches, adhesive scars, garish makeup, fake blood, glitter, beads, necklaces, bracelets, rings, wands, staffs, broomsticks, knives, swords, and all sorts of other plastic and aluminum weaponry.

At the far end of the costume chamber was a trapdoor with a slide spiraling into darkness.  I elected not to chance it but to return the way we had come.

Come on.  You know you want to, said Debby.

No I don't, said I.

Another time.

Some stairways were steep, others shallow; some hallways were narrow, others wide; most ceilings were high, but some were oppressively low; many angles of the walls and ceilings were not ninety degrees but all sorts of crazy gradual or sharp variations.  At one point we found ourselves in a mini-theater.  The screen came on automatically and divided into four sections.  One was an episode of I Love Lucy, one was the original Hellraiser movie, one was a Pokemon cartoon, and the last was a segment of extremely offbeat and graphic porn.

We stared, astonished, for a moment.

I have no words for this, I said.

He was an inveterate channel-flipper, said Debby.  This saved him time.  He'd flip through four images at once.

How could it not drive him nuts?

Who said he wasn't nuts?  I'd just close my eyes until he was done.  He would eventually settle on something.

Or other.

Yeah.

After another moment of silence during which I admit I was staring slack-jawed at the strange porn sequence, Debby said, I know it's a good idea to have a look around to get an impression of the guy, but I think what we're really after is going to be in his study off his bedroom.  That's where he worked.  That's the core of Graymanse.

Yeah, let's go.  I was glad to get out of there.  Porn always made me uneasy.  Instead of getting off on it, I would start to psychoanalyze the actors and actresses and wonder what in their pasts had caused them to pursue that line of work.  Such a train of thought led nowhere and was easily derailed.

Theodore Gray's bed was a huge four-poster with ornately carved wooden columns and a thick royal blue canopy lined with silver tassels.  The bedding was tussled, and a dark smear stained some of the pillows and the bottom sheet.

Is that what I think it is? I said.

Yes, it's his blood.  Stay well away.  That's all we need is to inadvertently leave our fingerprints.

Who uses a word like that in conversation: 'inadvertently'?

I do.  I happen to be the proud possessor of a vocabulary.  A rare commodity these days.  Come on.

Through dark oak doors already pulled back, we moved into the study, Theodore Gray's private digs.  This is where he worked.  This is where his brain used to churn out all that fantasy and horror and sick cynical humor. 

Gleaming awards filled shelves on three walls.  The Nebula, Hugo, and World Fantasy Awards I recognized.  Other oddly shaped idols might have been household gods for all I knew.

And right in the center was his desk, a huge walnut affair that must have weighed a couple of tons.  An HP laptop in the center surrounded by papers:  files and envelopes and post-it notes and magazines and notebooks and shopping receipts.  On nearby tables stood half-a-dozen other computers, both laptop and desktop, PC and Mac.  There were two printers, a laser and an inkjet, a digital camera