Still without a word, Diogenes stepped inside, flicking on a series of light switches as he did so. Over his shoulder, Constance could make out a large, circular chamber of old brick. A red-painted metal box was set into the near wall. A stairway led down to a stone catwalk that ran around the outer wall in a semicircle, ending at an iron-banded door. Five feet or so below the catwalk was a smooth surface of black water.
She had won. Her revenge was complete: Diogenes was a beaten man. And yet she was conscious of a sudden, intense curiosity about this place. She sensed, rightly or wrongly, that there was a still-deeper level to him — a level she had not yet, despite everything, fully sounded. Why she would even want to, considering the sharpness of her hatred, she did not quite understand.
As Diogenes led the way down the staircase, he at last broke his silence. “Cisterns such as this are very common in the Keys,” he said. “It is often the best way to collect fresh water.” His voice was hollow, and distant, and utterly atonal, and it echoed strangely in that underground brick chamber, as if coming back from the realms of the dead.
Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he made his way along the lip of the catwalk. Again, Constance could make out the distant hum of machinery. As she followed, she glanced down toward the water. The cistern below had no rungs, steps, or other means of egress; if one were to fall in, there would be no way to climb out.
Where the catwalk stopped at the iron-banded door set into the cistern wall, Diogenes paused. He pointed at the door. “Beyond this lay the old machinery once used to pump water to the house. The machinery was remarkably large and extensive. Modern technology, of course, rendered it obsolete long ago, and it was disposed of. As you shall see, I have found a new use for the empty space.”
Employing the key once again, he unlocked the door, pushed it open. Blackness yawned ahead. Stepping back, he made a small gesture, ushering her inside.
Constance hesitated. She could see nothing; there was no reflection from the central cistern. She could almost imagine taking a step forward and dropping into limitless empty space. But nevertheless, after a moment she moved past Diogenes and into the room.
Her heels rapped on stone.
Diogenes followed her in, closed the door behind them. For a moment, all was dark — a blackness so complete that Constance, who was no stranger to the dark, had never experienced its like. But then there was a faint click, and a light came on in the ceiling.
Her first impression was that she was floating in a black and silent void. Then there were additional clicks, and as Diogenes turned on light after light, she realized where she was. She was standing inside what appeared to be a perfect cube, with floor, walls, and ceiling of black marble. But then, as she looked more closely, she realized that the lights — which were spaced at regular intervals, a few feet below the ceiling — were actually placed behind very thin panes of some dark, smoky substance. The substance was of no particular color, but rather a shifting, shimmering grayscale, and the light that filtered from behind the panels gave the room a faint, strange, glittering luminescence, as if she were imprisoned within a smoky diamond of various shades of gray. And then she realized: the walls and ceilings of the room had been paneled entirely in obsidian.
As if on cue, she heard a bitter, mirthless laugh from behind her. “That’s correct,” came the same atonal voice. “This, not the meditation temple, is my true obsidian chamber. It is a shrine — if you can call anything that collects those things that bring shame and pain a ‘shrine’—to my past life.”
Looking around more closely, Constance now saw that a series of oblong frames were set into all four walls at intervals as regular as the lights. All were the same size — about eighteen inches by two feet. They were not flush with the walls, but extruded, at precisely the same distance from the floor as their brethren. They, too, were edged in obsidian, with fronts of clear glass. A small, hidden pinlight within each case gave their contents — in layouts reminiscent of the artist Joseph Cornell — a faint illumination.
“My museum,” Diogenes said. “Please — allow me to act as docent. These displays are chronological, starting here, at your left.”
He took a few steps from the door, stopping at the first frame. Inside, Constance saw a sketch, drawn on ruled school paper, of an old, miniature city. It was breathtaking in its scope and fine detail. It could only have been drawn using a magnifying glass and a technical pen with a tiny, tiny nib. Every microscopic house had been shingled; every cobble on every street had been lovingly shaded; every doorway had a microscopic number above it.
“I drew that at age seven,” she heard Diogenes say. “I lived in that city, in my mind. Every day I would add more detail to it. I loved it above all else. I include it here as a reminder of what I might have become — had things been different. But you see, while I was still at work on this… something happened to me.”
“The Event,” said Constance.
“Yes. The Event. You don’t know much about it, do you? I’m sure Aloysius never spoke of it.”
Constance remained still. She was staring at the remarkable drawing. It was barely conceivable someone so young could have created something so detailed, so perfect.
“Aloysius and I were playing in the basement beneath the Maison de la Rochenoir, our old New Orleans house on Dauphine Street. We stumbled upon a hidden room full of props, created by our great-uncle Comstock for his magic show. One of them was called ‘The Doorway to Hell.’ Aloysius goaded me into it. It… turned out to be a device built for one of two purposes: to drive a person mad — or frighten them to death.”
How horrible, Constance thought.
“It was some time before I could be rescued from its interior. It was so terrible, I tried to kill myself with a Derringer left there to offer eternal ‘relief’ to the person trapped inside.” He paused. “The bullet went in my temple, but it was a small caliber and it came out my eye. There was a question as to whether I would survive. I did survive. But then, afterward, things were… different. I was sent away for a time. Color vanished from my world — leaving me only with monochromatic shades of gray. My ability to sleep was, and remains, impaired beyond remedy. When I returned, I was changed. Changed utterly.”
He moved on to the next frame. Constance followed. Inside was a tiny crucifix, covered here and there in dark stains that appeared to be old blood. A legend at the bottom of the crucifix read: INCITATUS.
“I felt strange urges that I didn’t understand. On the other hand, neither did I fear them. From time to time I… indulged myself in them. But as I approached maturity, one desire took preeminent hold over me: the thwarting, mortification, and ultimate destruction of my brother, Aloysius — who had visited this horror upon me.”
He now moved slowly past several frames, pointing first at one tableau, then at another. Constance saw things she did not understand: a hair shirt made out of some organic substance; a hangman’s noose; what looked like a thick bunch of poison sumac, wrapped tightly in fishing line.
“At first, my attempts to wreak vengeance on my brother were haphazard. Unfocused. But as I grew older, a plan began to take form. It would require years, even decades, to carry out. It would require all my time and attention. It would require the creation, and the loving curation, of several different identities. For example, that of the New York Museum curator Hugo Menzies.”
They had by now rounded a corner and were halfway down the second wall. He stopped at a frame that held within its mercury-colored walls an ancient bayonet. “The weapon that killed Special Agent Michael Decker, Aloysius’s close friend. Not the real one, you understand — that is still no doubt in an evidence locker somewhere — but an exact replica.”