She said good-bye and clicked off. Still hanging on to her cell, considering his offer. She had all she needed for her missing chapter to her thesis, mainly due to the kindness of this man. He said his life depended on it these translations? Surely she could stay a little longer since he had promised to pay for her whole time here. He seemed sincere and, hopefully, honest. She would have plenty of time to finish her thesis now since she had what she needed for her final chapter. She wanted to check out the extent of what would be needed for the translations so she emailed the photos from her phone to herself so they would be on her laptop and easier to work with. She skimmed them and decided two, maybe three days tops. He said he’d pay me. Handsomely? Sure. Why not. 

She called him back, “Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Smythe, but you said you’d pay my expenses plus pay me handsomely. Exactly how handsomely are you thinking.”

He laughed, “I appreciate your candor, Miss Morgan. The translations and manuscripts would be worth,” he paused, “would 50,000 U.S. dollars be adequate compensation for your troubles?”

She gasped, “Oh no! No! That is far too much.”

“My dear Miss Morgan, what this would mean to me is priceless. Covering your expenses plus $50,000 is the least I can do. It shall give you some spending money to tide you over. I can certainly afford it for this service you are performing for me. You have no idea. I will do a wire transfer or a check as you prefer. I shall do it straightaway. Do you have your bank’s routing number and your account number? There are pen and paper right here on my side table”

She was speechless. He was serious. That’s more money than she ever had in her life. She swallowed, dug in her bag for her bank card and gave what he would need for the transfer. He could drain her account with this information but there was no money in it anyway. Her voice was trembling, “This should do it for the wire transfer, if you are truly serious.”

“I am deadly serious my dera girl. I shall do the transfer immediately. Check your account in about an hour. Please keep track of your expenses, including your airfare, and I shall compensate you when you give me that amount. Thank you again. I must go now. I am supposed to be resting,” he finished with a chuckle and clicked off.

Emma called the airline and was able to change her flight for four days from now to be safe.

She got out her laptop, pencil and notepad and went to work. She was able to isolate the block prints and printed them in the hotel business suite. 

An hour later, curious, she checked her bank account and it showed a deposit of $50,000. My god, he trusts me to do this for him and not just disappear. Who is this man?

She worked long into the night, calling out for food. After a restless sleep she had a continental breakfast from the hotel and several cups of coffee. By 6:00 that night she had finished translations of what she considered to be something that made absolutely no sense to her whatsoever but she was sure of her work. With a sigh of accomplishment, she called Mr. Smythe to tell him the news and she’d drop the translations off at the hospital in the morning. He was elated but he was presently being released from his ‘confinement’ as he called it.

He asked, “Where are you staying? I shall send a car for you at 10:00 tomorrow morning.”

“Might I ask where I’ll be taken?”

“Of course. Of course.” He gave her the address of his home.

She gave him her address and they disconnected, she with a sigh of relief, but not without a knot of anxiety in her gut. She looked up his address and it was an estate on the edge of London. What was she dealing with here? There is this Mr. Smythe, then that crazy man, secret passages, manuscripts of spells. She went to the mini bar and got three bottles of wine and ran a hot tub to soak in and gather her thoughts. After another dinner of fish and chips and two pints, she fell into a restless sleep.

10:00 next morning she was nervously waiting in front of the hotel when a Rolls Royce pulled up. A skeletal man in a chauffeur’s uniform got out and approached her, “Would you be Miss Morgan?”

“Yes. That’s me.”

“My name is Jeffers. Mr. Smythe sends his apologies for not meeting you in person, but he has been strictly ordered to rest. You appear to be prepared to go then.”

Jeffers took her bags. She took a breath and got into the luxurious car. 

“Please help yourself to the tea and pastries she had already seen spread before her. I shall get you champagne if you so wish.”

“No champagne, thank you. Tea will be fine.”

“As you wish, Miss.”

She tried to relax into the plush seat, but was so filled with apprehension, she couldn’t touch either the pastries or tea.

After around a forty-fiveminute drive under ominous cloudy skies that threatened rain, Jeffers turned into a driveway, stopped in front of a large iron gate, and punched in a code. The gates swung open slowly to reveal a tree lined drive to a magnificent house, somewhere between a medieval castle and a small hotel.

Jeffers stopped the car at the front entrance and opened her door, escorting her to a large formidable front door, quickly opened by a somewhat fleshy middle aged severe looking woman in a maid’s uniform. Taking Emma’s bag from Jeffers said, “Miss Morgan, I am Miss Grant. I shall take you to the study. Please follow me.”

Emma followed two paces behind down a parquet floored hallway. She was awed by the luxurious magnificence of the house. Paintings, sculptures, and the required suits of old armor, lined the hall. She was directed into the study, a dark paneled room with a large orderly desk, plush leather chairs, thick carpet, and copious bookshelves filled with leather bound volumes. Where there weren’t bookshelves, there was expensive looking artwork. Tall windows flooded the room with the pending storm. A bolt of lightening flashed. A roll of thunder followed. Two bouquets of flowers brightened the room, giving the room a sweet fragrance and some relaxation to Emma. Miss Grant showed her to a seat with a side table set with more tea and small sandwiches. She was so nervous now she couldn’t bear to even look at food.

A moment later, Mr. Smythe slowly entered the room from another door. She arose to greet him but he motioned her to stay seated. He looked more pale and wan than when they had first met only a few days ago. 

“Miss Morgan, I am so happy you came. Thank you. I owe you a deep gratitude.” He sat slowly and carefully into a chair opposite her. 

His fragile presence quickly dissipated her fears. “I’m happy to be of service, Mr. Smythe. And please call me Emma.”

“Ah yes, formalities. Please call me Alexander or Alex will do just fine. You said you made the translations?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes, yes. I printed copies for you of both the original Latin and the translations along with enlarged images of the block prints. It should all be there,” as she handed him a sheaf of paper.

“Splendid. Splendid.” He quickly went through the papers. When he was finished, she noticed his lips quivering, tears forming in his eyes. He quickly looked away shaking his head as though trying to shake away his emotions. Regaining his composure, he turned back to her and said with a quivering voice, his eyes shining with moisture, “This is it. This is what I have been searching for. Perfect. Thank you Miss, I mean Emma. I cannot express my gratitude for what you have done for me.”

“I’m happy this is what you wanted. And thank you for your generosity. This was all was quite an adventure, quite an adventure.”

“Yes, quite an adventure indeed. Now, Emma, do you have your receipts so I may cover them as I promised?”

“I forgot to bring them, but may I email them to you?”

“Of course, Here is my card with my contact information. And, please do, at your earliest convenience. Now, I would love to stay and chat, however, I think my doctor was quite serious about me needing rest. I must lie down and read this treasure you have found. If this works as it should, you have truly saved this old man. Miss Grant will be showing you out. Jeffers will return you to your hotel. If you will please excuse me now.” 

He slowly and unsteadily arose from the chair. She quickly got up to help, but he waved her off. “I am fine.” He stood before her, looked deeply into her eyes. She looked back and for a moment, got a glimpse of the handsome man he must have been in his youth. 

“Oh, one more thing, Emma, I talked to Miss Pritchard today and she said that Mr. Arnon had been hospitalized after an incident at the library. Would you happen to know anything about that? Something about a ‘she devil from hell’,” he asked with a smirk.

“Me? No. Of course not. Why would you think that?” she answered all too hastily.

Now his smirk had turned into a broad grin. “Just asking. Thank you again, Emma.” His look was with a tenderness that made her melt a bit inside. They shook hands, he turned and went back through the door he had entered from . She was quickly snagged by Miss Grant who escorted her out to the front door where Jeffers awaited.

To be Continued . . .

In the morning she felt like a new person, wondering about how to kill time until her early evening flight home the next day. After a continental breakfast and two cups of rich coffee at the hotel, the day before came tumbling back to her and she began to worry about that man. Deep down she felt a little sorry that she might have done more injury to him than just breaking his nose. She got out her cell and called the library.

The familiar voice of Miss Pritchard answered, “Library of the Occult. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Miss Pritchard, This is Emma Morgan from yesterday. Remember me?”

“Of course, of course. Oh my dear girl, I must apologize for leaving you locked in that room.” she said with a much friendlier tone than the day before. “Mr. Smythe took ill and we had to rush him to the hospital. I wanted to return to release you but Mr. Smythe has no one else so I felt I should be with him until he was settled. Then when I returned and scurried up to open the door for you I found that dreadful Sylvester Arnon on the floor laying in his blood and vomit. He was moaning something about a she-devil-from-hell. I again called for an ambulance, making sure to direct them to another hospital other than where Mr. Smythe was residing. Such a disturbing day. Oh my. They are arch enemies you know.”

“No, I had no idea,” Emma was able to interject.

“No. Of course, my dear. How could you. Did Mr. Arnon release you?”

“Yes, he did. The poor man. What happened to him?” she asked, over- feigning any knowledge.

“I have no idea. I thought you might know something,” she said, her voice rising into a question like she already knew the answer, like Emma’s mother did when she was being naughty. “Whatever did happen to him, he would most certainly deserve it. He is a truly wretched man. He is beyond arrogant, thinking he is so much superior to any other mortal, claiming he is a warlock of highest order. It is rumored he practices the ‘dark arts’. Are you sure you know nothing, maybe about some ‘she devil’?”

“No. Oh no. He opened the door and I left,” she answered, again overdoing her feigned innocence.

“I’m sure you don’t,” she said with a slight chuckle. “Thank you my dear girl. I’m not sure how you did what you did, but my lips shan’t ever mutter not another word of this event. My lips are sealed.”

Emma could almost see her doing the ‘zipper’ thing across her lips.

“Miss Morgan, You should call Mr. Smythe. He was quite worried about you, leaving you like he did. It would make him feel much better if he heard from you.”

“I’d be happy to. Can I contact him at the hospital?”

“Most certainly,” and she gave Emma a number to call and the location.

They said their good-byes and Emma called the hospital and was connected to his room. He picked up.

“Hello, Mr. Smythe. This is Emma Morgan. We met yesterday at the library and you let me in to that restricted room to research a book for my dissertation.”

“Of course I remember you my dear girl. I apologize for taking ill and leaving you locked in there. I do hope Miss Pritchard found you well.”

I am really tired of being called ‘dear girl’. “Well, it’s a long story, Sir.”

“ I have nothing but time stuck in this infernal hospital. Doctors say I must stay for observation. However, I must say, no one seems to be doing much observing. So please, continue and relate your story.”

She told him the saga of her day, leaving out any mention of Sylvester Arnon, not disputing his idea that Miss Pritchard had been the one to let her out of the room. On a roll, she told him about the secret panel and subsequently discovering the manuscripts. When she mentioned the titles, she heard him suck in a deep breath.

“Oh, dear Miss Morgan, could you please bring those over to me? It would be such a favor. Truly it would.”

“I left them undisturbed. They were very old fragile parchment. But I took photos of them thinking I might translate them someday.”

“You could translate them? Could you do it straightaway?”

“It might take a while and my flight out is tomorrow. I don’t think I have the time. Maybe when I get back home and finish my thesis.”

“If you would do so now, I will compensate you handsomely for your services. I shall also pay all expenses you incur from your stay. Knowing the contents of these is extremely important to me. Extremely important! I beg of you, my dear Miss Morgan to indulge me. My life depends on it.”

She heard panic in his voice. “I’ll have to think about it. I’ll take a look and see what would be involved. Some of these old manuscripts are easier than others to translate. Can I call you back?”

“Of course. Of course,” he replied breathlessly. “Please consider my offer. It is of utmost importance to me. I will be waiting to hear from you. Thank you. You have no idea how important these manuscripts are to me.”

To be Continued . . .

“Mr. Smythe? Hey, whoever. I’m locked in here. Please unlock the door. Please,” her request being more pathetic than she intended.

A key entered the lock. The door swung open and she saw a man. It wasn’t Mr. Smythe. He wore all black including slicked back dark hair, a black pointed beard over a narrow sallow face with dark beady eyes that cast a menacing evil look. “Who are you?” he growled at her, grabbing both her arms.

“I’m a guest of Mr. Smythe. He was supposed to be back to let me out hours ago. I’m doing research for my thesis. Let go of me! NOW!” she answered with rising anger outweighing her fear.

“That bastard Smythe! What are you looking for? How much did he tell you? Did you find it?” he screamed, eyes growing larger as he started to shake her.

“None of your damn business if he told me anything.” Then in a slow deliberate voice said, “ NOW. TAKE. YOUR. DAMNED. HANDS. OFF. ME. I WILL. NOT. ASK. AGAIN.”

He just glared at her, tightening his hold, snearing, “I know he’s trying to break the spell. Tell me what he said, Bitch! Did you find it? Tell me!” He began to shake her.

She stared him in the eyes, “Okay asshole! I warned you!”

Emma did not appear to be a formidable woman, with her five foot six inch slight build and unruly shock of curly blond hair. Wrong. She took three deep breaths, centering her focus, relaxing her body. Completely relaxed, she said very calmly, “Sorry,” and brought all her now focused energy into the quick upthrust of her arms between his, breaking his grip, simultaneously releasing a quick but deadly centered kick to the man’s groin. Her kick was dead on. He looked at her in surprise, then bent over blowing out a breath, his eyes bulging, like they might blast out of their sockets. His hands moved to his groin area. Freed from his grasp, Emma did a quick step back and executed a snap kick to his nose, hearing bone crack, seeing blood immediately spurting out. Not finished, she did a quick spin on her right foot, left leg cocked to release another quick and devastating kick to the side of his head, sending him to the floor in a crumpled heap retching and gasping for air. Then he went limp and his breathing slowly began to quiet. Good. Guess I didn’t kill the asshole. I warned him.

She dragged his limp body all the way into the room, calmly gathered her things, closed and locked the door behind her. There was no one behind the reception desk. Wondering what happened to Miss Pritchard, but not really caring, she left the building, locked the front door, dropped the keys through the mail slot and walked back to her hotel wondering what had just happened.

Remembering Miss Pritchard had her lodging information, she checked out of her hotel, fearful that that guy might know more wackos and send them looking for her. She went three London blocks where she found another hotel. While more upscale and expensive than she wanted, she didn’t care. She knew she’d be safer there.

Securely in her room, she ran a tub of water with some bubble bath from the array of soap and lotion provided by the hotel, She got two of the small bottles of chardonnay from the mini bar and settled in to soak away the day. 

Her brain finally settling down, she thought back to growing up in Salem, Massachusetts and her early childhood obsession with the Salem Witch Trails that took place there in the late 1600s. From her early years she had read any book on the subject she could find. She had studied history in college with the sole purpose of going on to earn a PhD in history with a focus on witchcraft so she might dispel the myths surrounding it, especially with the myths surrounding so called witches.

Two bottles finished, she showered off, dressed and went out to a nearby pub for some dinner. Famished, she downed a huge order of fish and chips and two pints. Satiated and slightly tipsy, she went to her room, stripped and fell into bed, soon enjoying a dreamless sleep.

To be continuied . . .

Her heart was racing both with anxiety of being locked in the room along with the fact that this what she had traveled thousands of miles to get a look at was laying in front of her. She dove in, found the chapter she was looking for and began taking copious notes and taking pictures of some of the more important pages, especially those with old wood cut images. Time flew. She checked her watch and it was now well over an hour since Mr. Smythe had left her. So she continued on researching this book. Time passed. Two hours and nary a sound. She was getting nervous. He’s old. Maybe he forgot. But Miss Pritchard knows I’m here.

Her anxiety level continues to rise. She got up and checked the door. Locked. She was a prisoner. She knocked loudly. Nothing.“Anybody out there? I need to leave now.” She checked her cell phone, no service. Frantically she began to pace around the room like a caged animal, looking for what, she hadn’t a clue. Maybe a spare key? She checked under the table, under the chairs, everywhere. Nothing. She went to the window. Secure with bars on the outside. Walked back to the table she mindlessly tapped on the walnut panels on the wall with her knuckles. Tap, tap, tap. Bonk. Tap, tap, tap. One panel had sounded hollow. She rapped on all the others. Solid. She went back to the hollow sounding one. Maybe it’s a secret passage. I saw somewhere some of these old houses had secret passages. Maybe it might be a way out of here. 

She felt around the trim boards and felt something like a button that clicked when she pushed on it. The panel opened. A cool blast of thick musty air greeting her surprise. She opened it. Stairs faded into blackness, stairs that led down to where? Freedom? She felt around and found a light switch and a soft yellow glowed showing the old wooden stairs leading down to a to a landing. She got her things and carefully started down hoping against hope she might have found a way out of her prison.

After the landing the stairway turned and lead down another flight to a doorway. Hmmm, two flights. She calculated she might be in the basement. She peeked through the doorway into a stone walled room about twelve feet square. The one piece of furniture, a table sat in the center covered with some old looking manuscripts. She didn’t bother with them being more interested in a doorway out. She saw door in the stone walls but it was sealed with bricks and mortar. She ran 0ver and pounded and pushed on it but it was solid. She pounded on it yelling , “Help! Is anyone out there? Please help me!” Dead silence answered her.

Frustrated she felt tears start to come. No! I can’t cry. Stay focused. The manuscripts caught her, laying open on the old wooden table like they were left in haste. She could tell they were old, very old. She knew she shouldn’t touch them but curiosity got the best of her and she pulled a pen from her bag and carefully separated them so she could see them better. They were in Latin, written in an old script including several crude woodblock prints. She had studied both Latin and Greek exactly for this reason, to translate old texts as originally written, not from somebody else’s translation. The titles roughly translated to something like “Spells for Rapid Aging” and the other “Reversing Aging”. 

Distracted momentarily from her dilemma, she pulled out her cell phone and took all the photos she thought she might need to do a thorough translation later, if she ever got out of this prison. Getting the documentation she wanted, but feeling even more defeated, she glumly walked back up the stairs. She had just closed the secret panel when she heard keys jingling outside the door.

To be continued . . .

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to scare you”, she said, her own eyes wide with surprise. A cold shiver ran down her back.

“You were so quiet. I was deeply engrossed in this study on herbal tinctures to combat hexes, I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry for startling you, young lady. Are you looking for something particular? I am quite familiar with this library and might be able to help.”

He had kind eyes and seemed nice so she explained her dilemma about needing to see a chapter in Full Moon Rituals, by Reginald Smythe for her doctoral thesis and that it was in a restricted room.

“Oh, yes my dear. I know that book. Miss Pritchard is very protective of her domain here. I may be able to persuade her to let you see it,” he said with a warm paternal smile. “Let me go talk to her.”

“I’m so sorry to bother you with this. Really. I’m interrupting your own research.”

“It is of no matter. I need to get up and move about for a moment to keep my old body from seizing up completely. I have been sitting here for far too long.” He slowly and carefully raised his thin body, using his arms to help him get to his feet. He spent a few moments steadying his balance, rolled his shoulders and smiled at her, “There, that should do it. I shall return momentarily,” and he slowly walked towards the doorway. 

She heard him muttering to himself, “I don’t know how much longer I can keep going if I don’t find that bloody formula.”

As she watched him walk away, she wondered how old he really was, much older than her grandfather as she had first guessed. She waited at the top of the stairs and heard his raised voice, “I have perfect right to let her see that book! Please remember it was mine, if your memory might be deserting you.”

The woman replied angrily, “My memory is NOT deserting me and please keep your voice down, Mr. Smythe. She may be listening.” 

Emma’s heart began racing and perspiration began to form on her forehead. Mr. Smythe. No. It can’t be him. He’s been dead over fifty years. Smythe is a common enough name in England. Isn’t it? But he said ‘It was mine . . .’ They were now whispering but she knew they were arguing. This was a bad idea. I should get out of this place. It’s starting to creep me out.

A minute later the whispers ceased and she heard the jangle of keys. She saw ‘Mr. Smythe’ coming slowly up the stairs and she regretted him going down. It looked so difficult for him as he slowly moved up the steps. He finally managed to reach the top, stopping to catch his breath.

“I’m so sorry, Sir. The stairs looked very difficult for you. I shouldn’t have . . .”

He raised a hand to quiet her, “It is jolly good. I need some exercise. The truth is, I am not as old as I look. There are circumstances that have gotten out of control, but I shan’t trouble you my problems, my dear girl. Pay no heed. Come and follow me.”

Her heart was racing from both fear and anticipation. Her instincts were telling her to turn and run down the stairs and get away from this place as fast as she could. This was getting stranger by the minute. She should not have come here. But she had come this far and to see this damn book which now seemed to be within her reach. She followed him down the hallway to the right.

He led her to the last door on the left, pulled out a keyring filled with ancient looking keys, selecting one and unlocking the old oaken door, elaborately carved with symbols of the occult, some she recognized from her research.  Others she did not. The ones she did know were for protection of the contents within. Mr. Smythe opened the door and ushered her into a room. It reeked of dust and smell of the old books in a single book case lining one wall of the otherwise barren room. The room was dimly lit like everywhere else she had been in this library. He led her to the one table and offered her a seat in an old straight baked chair, then walked over to the shelf retrieving a book which he brought back and, with apparent pride, offered it to her.

“Here is what you have come so far to see. Take your time, I shall return within the hour and set you free,” he said with a reserved chortle. “I must lock the door when I leave. Rules you know. We wouldn’t want to get Miss Pritchard in a huff now, would we.”

“No, no, of course not. Thank you. Please don’t forget me,” which was more a plea than a request.

“Of course I won’t forget you, my dear girl. As I said, I shall return within the hour.” He turned, went out. She heard the lock click.

To be continued . . .