Requiescat in Pace

As soon as he was warned not to go into the wine cellars, Troy Montgomery knew exactly the place he was going to explore first. Flashlight in hand, he strode purposefully across the courtyard toward the archway that denoted the original lines of the estate. With a mixture of trepidation and excitement, he stood for a moment at the heavy oak door and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Back home near Los Angeles it would have been called "earthquake weather," sultry and still, the air hushed as if in waiting. But this wasn't Venice, California, this was Venice, Italy, and this grand old palazzo that Troy had rented for the summer from a distant uncle would be the perfect place to get a new perspective on life, to put the divorce behind him, and to work on his latest project. He really couldn't blame Melanie; they'd both gotten bogged down in careers and had grown apart after eleven years. But it was the affair with Gregory Hammond, his best friend, that had been the insult. As a writer, he could handle rejection. It came with the job. But he had never been one to take lightly to insult. He'd get his revenge, though, subtle as it may be, for he'd cast Melanie and Gregory as the antagonists in his latest novel.

Which was the other reason he had come here. A suspense novelist, he had seen this place as the ideal setting for his latest thriller, Skeletons in the Cellar. Hearing about the wine cellars and catacombs underlying the estate, he couldn't pass up such an opportunity.

The old door that might not have been opened for a century or more groaned its reluctant permission for him to enter. Instantly the day's still heat was replaced by a cold, clammy rush, the dank breath of spirits long forgotten. Troy smiled and entered the chamber within.

This estate had been in his family for generations. Originally from France, the family had settled in Italy long ago, during the revolution. From the stories that had been passed down, Troy knew that the estate had not been lived in by family members since some ancestor had gotten into some sort of trouble and had fled to America, in the process changing the family name. Nobody seemed to remember what the name originally had been. Over the years, several tenants had occupied the estate quite peacefully, but it was as though a curse had been placed upon the family name.

Troy now switched on his flashlight and started down the stone staircase that wound its way into the unknown. The stairs spilled out into a subterranean hall with passages leading out to catacombs and dark cellars even more extensive than he had hoped for. Cellars a wine connoisseur would die for. Troy didn't know much about fine wines himself. Scotch was more his poison.

He stopped here, playing his light upon the damp walls, admiring the fine stonework with a practiced eye, for in years past, he'd been a skilled bricklayer himself. He noticed something else too, the buildup of nitre on the walls and the draperies of mold of which he had been warned. He could already feel it in his chest. This was not a healthy environment. Nevertheless, he pressed onward.

He could hear the faint trickle of water, as if the tinkling of bells, and knew these vaults must lie near the canals. He paused for just a moment, thinking he heard something else as well, a hoarse whisper, a name perhaps, unintelligible, yet hissing its way down the corridors. More curious than frightened, for the supernatural was a subject that frequently found its way into his work, Troy moved cautiously ahead, through the catacombs containing the long-forgotten bones of his ancestors, listening and searching.

There it was again, unmistakable.

Yesss, it said. At lassst.

He followed the voice until the chamber he was in reached a dead end. No one to be seen, neither man nor spirit.

Yesss. You've come back. I've been waiting for you.

Something about the brickwork on the far wall didn't look right. It didn't match the rest of the stones. And as he looked closer, he saw it, the shape of a man, becoming clearer, rather portly, with dark, curly hair, dressed in striped pants and coat and wearing an odd hat from which drooped bells, like those of a court jester, tinkling in time with the drips of water falling from the ceiling.

But the man's demeanor was anything but joking. "Yess," he said. "Take a good look at that brick. You always were a good mason. Oh, don't look like you don't know me, even though it's been, how many years? I always knew you'd come back someday. For you see, I've been waiting for you, Montresor!"

Montresor. Yes, that was the old name. Then the old legend was true. And Troy's poor ancestor, trying to ease his guilty conscience, had confided in a friend, a friend who was a writer in search of a story, and who would ultimately betray that trust.

"And you would be . . .?"

"Oh, don't tell me you don't recognize your old friend Fortunato? And we find ourselves at last back in your vaults, your lovely cellars, full of their skeletons. We might as well enjoy ourselves, for we may be here for quite some time."

Troy was getting an uneasy tingling down below his gut. Something was happening here and he was afraid to find out what it was. He felt woozy, or did the ground just tremor slightly beneath his feet?

"Care for a glass of wine?" Fortunato went on. "I have some lovely amontillado here somewhere."

Two glasses of amber wine appeared in his hand. "One thing first, though." And the jovial smile that had been on his face vanished. "I want to hear you say it."

"Say what? What are you talking about?"

And there was a rumbling in the walls. Dust, reeking of the mold and nitre of centuries, stirred in the air. Troy felt the ground sway and instinctively looked for the nearest doorway to duck into. He'd been through earthquakes more times than he could count. This was a pretty good one, too. Maybe in the upper fives, or even a six-point-oh. He hadn't been aware there were any fault lines near Venice.

"Say it!" the spirit of Fortunato commanded.

And suddenly the ancient stonework began to give way. Troy tumbled forward as the passageway above him came crashing down, closing off the catacombs and sealing him inside. He knew at once that this was no ordinary earthquake, one that would be felt by those outside the cellars.

"For the love of God, Fortunato!"

"Yes," replied Fortunato. "For the love of God." His voice fairly rang with glee. "A fitting tomb for a mason such as Montresor."

Troy shined his light back toward the pile of broken rubble and debris but could see no way to clear a passage. The mold-laden dust filled the air, choking him and obscuring his vision. The feeble beam of the flashlight flickered and then died.

"Now, about that wine . . ."

In the darkness Fortunato was easier to see. He seemed more solid and substantial, less wraithlike. "Drink this amontillado. It will clear the dust. Everything will be clearer to you now."

Troy did as he was told; he didn't seem to have much choice in the matter. The draught warmed him. He felt at once at peace. He raised the glass to his lips again, offering a wry toast. "Requiescat in pace," he said, his breath becoming easier and shallower now, his eyelids growing heavy.

"Yes," said Fortunato. "Now we will both rest in peace."