The Sea of Ash by Scott Thomas Read Free Book Online

vocation undoubtedly inspired by his great-grandfather, whose
artistry produced the dimly lit room we enter. There is nothing extraordinary
about the shape of the enclosure. It is a simple rectangle. This rectangle,
however, contains a petrified jungle of baroque clutter, the walls and ceiling
textured with rusty mechanical detail, the lines of which bear an archaic and
ornamental grace -- the Victorian impulse for embellishment evident. There are
crusted pipes and leather bellows, flaking gears and oily pistons, chains,
springs, grates, all delicately smothered in dusty webs. The room is a machine.
    A single high-backed chair stands
on a low platform facing away from the entry. It looks upon a pair of tall
narrow doors that are streaked with what I hope is only rust. Void of knobs,
handles and even hinges, they are set into the far wall.
    "It's amazing," I
breathe.
    "Still works, too," my
host notes nonchalantly.
    "Really?" He had not
mentioned that on the phone when I had arranged to come and photograph the
apparatus.
    "Sure. Last week I saw this
cute little brunette with no arms or legs, just an umbilical cord whipping
around like a drunken cobra."
    I get a chill.
    "Here, hop in the pilot's
seat," Vincent says, a fresh cigarette bobbing.
    I stare at him. "Do you mean
you want me to operate it?"
    "You didn't drive all this
way just for a few snapshots, did you?" He peers over his glasses.
    The fact is I'm more than happy
just snapping my pictures. "Thank you, Vincent, but I'm fine."
    He looks hurt. "Oh, come on,
don't be a pussy. This is an opportunity to look beyond the Big Lie. Give it a
shot."
    I've never been good at saying no.
My students had taken terrible advantage of that weakness. Before I can find
the words to rationalize a refusal, I am sitting in the stiff metal chair.
    Vincent blathers, "I've had
all types of things come through here, and they're not all people who've died.
I had a Swiss mountain climber who disappeared in the Himalayas back in 1938.
Guy hadn't aged a day. He stayed out here , by the way, ended up going
back to the home country."
    I suddenly feel feverish.
    But there's more: "I've even
seen some things that aren't quite human, but the beauty of it is that you can
sort of window shop. If you see something coming through that you think is bad
news, you can throw a lever and bingo! It gets shut out."
    I actually stammer, "I'm not
sure I--"
    "Okay, here's how it works...
    "If you're looking to talk
with someone specific, you call to them through this thing." He points to
a funnel, a refurbished ear-trumpet maybe, that hangs to the left, at face
level. It is the terminal end of a twisty metal pipe that snakes up into the
ceiling.
    The man goes on, rapidly
instructing me on the use of several tall levers that jut up from the floor at
the base of the chair.
    Ashes rain down Vincent's bathrobe
as he looks at me squarely and warns, "Remember, if you see the right door
opening, it means you've got something undesirable trying to come through.
Don't hesitate, just go for your lever."
    "But...."
    Vincent is heading for the door.
"It won't work if there's more than one person in the room, but don't
worry -- I'll be right outside. Okay, I'm off to fire this baby up..."
    The door behind me clangs shut and
I find myself sitting here alone in a haze of cigarette smoke with my camera in
my lap like a bulletless gun. I feel as if I am sitting in a submarine, deep in
a night-dark sea. It may as well be night for the darkness of the chamber, the
meager light sources vague, set somewhere in the jumbled components.
    I find myself questioning the
degree of belief that I have in all things supernatural. At a safe distance, I
would have thrilled at the thought of an opportunity to have actual
contact with Pond, but now, seated in the darkness beneath the Banchini House,
I feel only trepidation. Maybe Pond was indeed a madman, maybe there never was
an Arabella, or a baby with a seashell face, or overlaps where