The Shadow in the Dark Chapter Fifteen

 

“Why are you surprised that I know Elijah Bannon?” I asked as Sheriff Root took the car down a side road which began to narrow the further we drove.

 

“Well, he’s an interesting person,” said the Sheriff.

 

“Interesting, how?” I turned to watch his facial expression, for I had been highly trained by the FBI to detect certain tics and reactions in the way a person reacts to questioning. 

 

“He’s a controversial figure around these parts. Quite the enigma. What was he like at school?”

 

“College,” I corrected him. “Mount Holyoke College. He was… driven, I suppose. Both of them were.”

 

“Both?” Sheriff Root seemed interested.

 

“He had a friend – Michael Emery. They were both ambitious young men from good families. They knew what they wanted in life.”

 

“I see.” The car began to bump along the road now as the asphalt gave way to a stretch of gravel. “Well, everyone’s heard of the Emerys and the Bannons. They’re practically two of the founding families of the United States of America.”

 

“So they say.” I gazed out of the window but there was nothing much to see beyond tall hedges on either side. I could tell we were driving up a gentle gradient. 

 

“Elijah runs some sort of… cult,” said Sheriff Root. “A respectable one. Not like the nut jobs in Waco or that incident in Puwtuxet, Providence, with Joseph Curwen’s Soldiers of Ipqu-Aya. Elijah’s lot are closer to Scientology, I guess, if you were to have Andrew Tate as the head of Scientology.”

 

“Andrew Tate? Elijah has gone down THAT rabbit hole, has he?” I didn’t like Andrew Tate, and it troubled me that Elijah might have drifted towards that misogynistic philosophy. 

 

“Well, Tate Plus. Actually, the Andrew Tate comparison isn’t particularly useful. You ever heard of the Gor novels, Miss Ellis?”

 

“No.” I turned my face away, feeling my cheeks flush just a little. I took an interest in the surrounding countryside on my side of the car.

 

“Pretty popular in the seventies and eighties,” said Sheriff Root. “Sold a truck load of copies. Well before your time, of course, so I’m not surprised you haven’t come across them. Long out of print, and condemned by anyone with fashionable liberal tendencies, but with something of a cult following if you scratch deep enough.”

 

“I don’t see what they have to do with…”

 

“They’re sort of sci-fi, set on another world, bit like those John Carter of Mars books that were fashionable before the war. Guess you don’t know those, either?”

 

“I don’t read sci-fi.”

 

Sheriff Root smiled and nodded. “Gor is a seemingly primitive world on the other side of our sun, and the society there is very patriarchal. You’ve heard of the Madonna/Whore complex?”

 

“Yes. I don’t care for it much.”

 

Sheriff Root nodded. “The women on Gor are either chaste Madonnas, or, well…”

 

Slaves. 

 

I knew exactly what the other kind of women were. My cheeks flushed again and I thought back to those tatty well-read paperbacks with heavily creased and broken spines that had been furtively handed around at Mount Holyoke College under the noses of the Sorority Sisters. 

 

“Elijah promotes a lifestyle based on those books involving traditional roles for both men and women. He hosts educational seminars and weekend retreats at his place.”

 

“Lots of basement living Incels, who have an aversion to deodorant, turning up, I suppose?” 

 

“Lots of women, actually. Respectable ones, too. Well dressed. You see them sometimes, stopping off at towns on the way. They find his teachings fascinating.”

 

“How do you know they’re going to Elijah’s house?”

 

“The Ribbons, Miss Ellis. They wear ribbons in their hair. Either white or red. It’s one of the rules.”

 

“Ribbons.” I thought back to the Purity Ribbons at the time of my residence in Mount Holyoke, and the in-fighting that took place sometimes in establishing the rules. There was that great struggle for political leadership at the University of Michigan Chapter between Miss Janey Anstruther and Miss Amanda Sloan. During the annual event known as ‘The Game’, held between the University of Michigan and an Ohio State University, Amanda insisted that it was permissible to wear a Maize and Gold edging to the Purity Ribbon indicating that not only was the Free Woman seeking a Companionate Marriage, but would only consider one with men from the University of Michigan. Janey held the opposite view, that a Purity Ribbon was not pure if it bore any other colour. The ‘ribbon dialogues’ as they were often referred to, sometimes grew heated, with supposedly polite and deferential discourse descending to the level of veiled insults, as both Janey Anstruther and Amanda Sloan cast critical aspersions on the moral character of one another. Ultimately, a senior Governess of each sorority house had to step in and calm matters down. It is still considered a provocative topic that divides young ladies on both the left and right wings of the New Feminist movement. By left and right wings, I of course mean ‘conservative’ and ‘very conservative’.

 

“It all sounds very silly,” I said. “Sci-fi books, that is.”

 

Sheriff Root smiled to himself. “Well, they take it very seriously. They actually believe there is a Gor.”

 

I offered Sheriff Root a mocking half-laugh. “Presumably they believe the world is flat, too, and that secret shape-changing, giant lizard people run the White House?”

 

“I wouldn’t know, Miss Ellis, though I suppose you can ask Elijah when you meet him. He’ll remember you, will he?”

 

“I think he will.” I thought back to that final, traumatic night, so long ago, at Mount Holyoke College, when we all parted ways.

 

“Listen, I hate to leave you to your own devices, but I do have other matters that will require my attention. I am the local sheriff, after all. You can ask Elijah to drive you back, yes? You don’t need me to give you a lift back?”

 

“You’ve been more than helpful, already, Sheriff. I’ll be able to make my way back after I’ve seen Elijah.” It occurred to me that it would be good to get away from Sheriff Root and not rely on him, since I couldn’t rule out that he was part of this madness, this conspiracy, that seemed to be playing with my thoughts and identity. I WAS an FBI agent. I knew I was an FBI agent. There had to be an explanation for what was happening to me, and the best way of discovering the truth was to widen the circle of people I might speak to. Why had Helen Corbin acted the way she had when I phoned her house? Why was she claiming I was some patient from a place called Briarcliff? She sounded so certain. None of this made any sense. I had never been to any mental institute called Briarcliff. I didn’t know any Doctor Thredson. I was an FBI agent!

 

The bumping of the car wheels came to an end as the gravel stretch of road returned to paved asphalt. “We’re close now, Miss Ellis,” said Sheriff Root. “It’s a big house up on the hill. Elijah has done well for himself.”

 

“I always thought he would,” I said. I gazed down at the garments I wore: a blue and white tartan pleated kilt skirt, white socks, flat soled shoes, and a white blouse. My hair was bunched back with a white ribbon. I didn’t remember getting dressed like this. What was happening to me? 

 

“Meant to ask you, Miss Ellis – do you know a Doctor Thredson?”

 

A chill ran up my spine. “What? No. Why do you ask? Who’s Doctor Thredson?”

 

“I have no idea. But there was a message on my desk this morning from a Doctor Thredson. He’s been calling round some of the local sheriff’s offices trying to locate a missing person – a patient of his.”

 

I sucked nervously at my lower lip for a few seconds. “Really.”

 

“Yes. Just a funny coincidence. The note said the patient’s name is Ashlee. That’s the only reason it came to mind.”

 

“Obviously another Ashlee,” I said as I looked out of the window.

 

“Well, yes. He’s hardly looking for a confident, no-nonsense FBI agent, is he?” said Sheriff Root as he gazed at my silly little kilt skirt.

 

“Of course not.” I played with the hem on my kilt skirt and tried to tug it down a further inch past my thighs. It wouldn’t stretch very far. On a whim, I asked, “Where does this… Doctor Thredson… live?”

 

“I think the note said he works out of the Briarcliff Institute. It’s a high security mental institution, I think.”

“Oh.” I felt nervous all of a sudden but I forced the feelings away. “Local?”

 

“Fairly. Not far outside of Innsmouth. It’s an old nineteenth century building, quite grim looking, really, at least from the outside. I think it treats patients who suffer from serious delusions – people who are considered a danger to themselves.”

 

“Oh.” I tugged at the hem of my kilt skirt again. My head felt suddenly dizzy, and I was glad I was sitting down. “Well, I don’t know a Doctor Thredson,” I said again. “I’m Ashlee Ellis, an FBI agent.”

 

“An FBI agent without a badge,” said Sheriff Root with a friendly smile. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get in touch with your Bureau? I could make some phone calls while you’re visiting Elijah?”

 

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, perhaps a little too quickly.

 

“It wouldn’t be any trouble, at all, Miss Ellis. I could get this all sorted out nice and simply?”

 

“Like I said. Not necessary.”

 

Sheriff Root smiled and turned his attention back to the road. “Nearly there now. You’re sure everything’s all right?”

 

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

 

“You seem a little… nervous, that’s all.”

 

“Well, I haven’t seen Elijah for several years. We didn’t part on… the best of terms. And it sounds like he’s changed in the intervening years. You know, running a cult, and all that.”

 

“Nothing an intrepid FBI agent can’t handle, of course?” said the Sheriff as he smiled again. “Just watch out for those crafty Gorean slavers, of course,” he said with a light hearted chuckle.

 

“Gorean slavers?” I knew exactly what he was referring to, of course. I still remembered the look of naughty conspiracy that night when Bryony Addison had slipped me a dog-eared copy of Captive of Gor that had been doing the rounds at college. “A shocking insight into the way the patriarchy thinks,” she had said with a wink. “I’m sure you’ll loathe it as much as I did.”

 

“According to the Gor books they’re everywhere, Miss Ellis. Always ready to sneak into a young woman’s bedroom at three in the morning with a cotton pad soaked in chloroform.” He was teasing me, of course. “Next stop, the slave markets of Gor!”

 

“As I said, it all sounds a bit silly.”

 

“I’m sure it does.” Sheriff Root took a final turn on the road and passed through a large set of double iron gates that rested in an open position.  

 

The house gradually revealed itself the way something enormous always does - piece by piece, and impossible to take in all at once. It was clearly a mansion in the old New England sense, built from money settled into the land generations ago, pretending at restraint while still shouting its permanence. Somewhere behind it, I knew, were acres of forest and outbuildings and dormitories that used to be stables or guesthouses and would now be something else entirely.

 

My hands lay folded in my lap, tight enough that my nails bit into my palms. I kept telling myself this was my choice to come here, but I couldn’t ignore a rising feeling of tension in the pit of my stomach. I tried not to stare, but my eyes kept snagging on details as Sheriff Root drove the car across the gravel strewn forecourt facing the front of the house: the security cameras tucked under the eaves, the firm iron bars blocking out the windows on the ground floor, the two men in identical navy coloured coats standing near the front steps, their smiles fixed and ready. They looked serene in the way people do when they’ve been told a degree of polite serenity is expected of them. A wild thought crossed my mind, as I wondered if we had been watched coming up the private road, and if someone was even now watching me closely as I stepped from the car and smoothed down my scandalously brief kilt skirt. I was irritated that Sheriff Root had had to release my seat belt once again. 

 

Now I imagined my name being passed along some quiet internal chain of communication. New arrival. Willing. Connected.

 

And we weren’t alone. A second car had arrived shortly before ours. We had in fact seen its tail lights just ahead of us as we travelled the final distance to the private house. I watched as a respectably dressed woman emerged into view.

 

She stepped out of the car the way actresses do in the newsreels - one leg first, careful, as if the ground might judge her. The sports car itself was a loud thing, all polished curves and an impractical colour, still ticking with heat as though offended to be stopped. Her clothes, though, were proper enough to silence any real disapproval: a 1950s style fitted jacket nipped tight at the waist, a modest skirt falling just below the knee, stockings smooth and unblemished. Her hat sat at a precise angle, the sort that suggested mirrors and time taken, and her gloves were immaculate even as she pulled them off, finger by finger, with a faint air of resolve. A long red ribbon was tied in a bow into her hair, the ends of the ribbons trailing a little beneath the brim of her hat. 

 

She was born of money and privilege, that I could tell. But she was also nervous at being here. 

 

Her car was a low, glamorous, probably European in origin, two-seat roadster that looked more at home outside a Palm Springs hotel or cruising Sunset Boulevard than out here in the wilds of rural Massachusetts. It was all very sleek and curvaceous, with flowing fenders, a long hood, and a short rear deck. There was a tasteful chrome trim and a body painted in a pastel powder blue colour, chosen perhaps  as much to complement summer clothes as to stand out in polite company.

 

I imagined the inside of the car would be intimate and elegant, with leather seats, a thin steering wheel, and simple, beautifully arranged gauges. Performance would matter to her, but not in a masculine way: the appeal would be quick acceleration, nimble handling, and a sense of effortless motion, perfect for coastal roads or city boulevards.

 

When she reached into the back of car for her designer suitcases, the picture faltered slightly. They were heavy - real luggage, the kind meant for trains and long stays - and she had to brace herself, shiny black heels biting into the gravel as she dragged the first one out onto the forecourt. For a moment she forgot elegance entirely, jaw set, shoulders tensing beneath the neat line of her jacket. The second case was worse; she paused halfway, breath quickening, then gave a small, almost irritated huff before setting it down beside the first. I noticed then the faint crease at her brow, the way a loose curl had escaped at her temple, and it made her seem younger, more human, more vulnerable.

 

Was no one coming to help her?

 

Two men in matching navy coats stood at the top of the steps leading up to the house. They regarded her without comment as she struggled with her luggage. 

Standing there in the wide forecourt of the mansion, dwarfed by stone and columns and expectation, the woman straightened herself again, smoothing her skirt, reclaiming her poise. She looked up at the house with an expression I couldn’t quite name - part determination, part calculation, part fluttering nerves - and for a brief second our eyes met across the distance. I felt, absurdly, that I was seeing the moment someone decided who exactly they were going to be while they stayed here. 

 

There was a momentary and slightly ostentatious gesture as she touched the red silk of her hair ribbon after noticing my white one, ensuring hers was straight with neatly arranged bows. She didn’t seem surprised that I wore a ribbon, but perhaps was startled by the difference in colour. It had been part of this immature outfit I had found myself wearing when I stepped into Sheriff Root’s car this morning. 

 

“Anything else I can do for you, Miss Ellis?” asked Sheriff Root as he stood beside his own car door. 

 

“You can get that seat belt fixed,” I said to him. “I was trapped like a prisoner again. I don’t like that.”

 

“Again?’

 

“The last time I was in your car,” I said.

 

“I haven’t had you in my car before.”

 

My sense of irritation grew. “I’ve been here for three days now!”

 

Sheriff Root smiled as if he might be humouring a small child who believed in Father Christmas and the Tooth fairy. “I’ll be getting along now, Miss Ellis. Things to do. Pass on my regards to Mr Bannon.”

 

And with that, he returned to the police car, closed his door, and drove away.

 

I glanced at the fashionably dressed young woman who was struggling with one of her heavy cases.

 

“Excuse me,” she said, calling out to the two men in the navy coloured coats. “Can someone help me, please?” The ends of her red silk ribbon fluttered in the breeze. Neither of the men bothered to acknowledge her, though one of the men seemed to be closely watching me. 

 

I strode purposefully up to the young woman with the red ribbon in her hair. “Hi, my name is Ashlee Ellis. Can I give you a hand with your cases?”