Dumbwaiter, Wesley thought, as the creaking device slowly brought him up to the second floor. Never am I going to trust such a slow machine. From around, he could only hear the sound of the creaking machine going up . . .
Skin . . . knife . . . cat . . . flask . . . it's all here, he thought, as the words began to manifest at his every thought. Suddenly he paused silently, as the sounds of the creaks and squeaks began to fade in his mind. Why not? he thought, as he felt himself drifting off into space . . .
Skin . . . spiders crawling . . . knife in hand, slice, slice, slice . . . flask . . . chemicals . . . ? What are these . . . the cat . . . the cat is dead . . . No skin . . . spiders covered in . . .
" . . . Gah!" his silent cry echoed, as the dumbwaiter pulled to a stop.2nd Floor, he thought, and climbed out of the dumbwaiter. I hope Sanderson is doing his job . . . Quietly, he stepped into the hall. Unlike the first floor ballroom, the second was dim and dark, the gloomy night embedded across the halls. No sounds. Just quiet . . . His heartbeat picked a pace, as the crash of glass and a inhuman screech filled the corridors.
There!
Sanderson got out, and searched the vicinity.
No one.
He turned to the spot where he left Marianne and Wesley.
No one. Not like Wesley told him.
"Oh, great . . . " he muttered, slapping his head. "Where's she anyway?" Suddenly, his instincts began to play for themselves, and Sanderson Hawkins found his feet moving slowly up the stairs of the second floor, away from the prying eyes of the crowd. "I have to tell Wesley . . . " he said, disappearing into the darkness.
Dian Belmont felt the shiver in her spine slowly caress her. Something was telling her that she shouldn't go this way, even if she had the protection of Albert Goldman.
"Don't worry, I'm here," he told her, as they walked the dark uneasy corridor. As his hand touched her, she realized it's grip was colder than the wind piercing the corridor. Why am I here? The pounding in her head seemed to be endless, trying to warn her. "I . . . I have to go to the washroom . . . " she mumbled, and Albert pointed towards the room in the right, with the dimly lit light. She made her way there, slowly traversing down the hallway, not making a single breath. Then she noticed it.
A raven sat before the open porch, staring at her silently. She tried to ignore it, but its eyes were still. "Don't look at me," she muttered and quietly shut the door behind her. The washroom was in pitch darkness, and she searched for the light switch.
Click.
"Wha . . . "
"Hello, little girl," the woman said, and startled Dian. She muffled her scream and reached out for the door. The woman instantly moved like lightning, and bolted it. "Oh, god . . . don't kill me . . . "
"Listen, I'm not who you think . . . " her words paused, and in a moment, Albert was knocking on the other side of the door. "Dian? Are you okay?" he asked, while reaching for something at his back. "I hope you didn't bruise your soft skin . . . "
"I'm okay . . . Albert. I'll be there," then she turned to the woman and noticed her costume. She was in black leather, and her green eyes seemed to place her in a trance. "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing. Just to protect you," the masked lady said softly, as the knocking continued. "This man . . . is not who you think he is. Do you recall the killer of Peterson Avenue?"
"Yes . . . is he . . . ?" the woman nodded. Suddenly, she moved them to the other end of the room, as a knife made its way across the mahogany door. "Dear, are you really okay?" Albert yelled, as the raven began to screech. Suddenly, the knife withdrew, and the raven's last screech was the loudest and gut-wrenching one Dian had ever heard. "Oh my god . . . "
"We're trapped."
"I was getting to that," she said, as she opened the windows above them. "It's too small," she uttered, as the knife sank back onto the wooden door.
"Dian . . . I just want you . . . " his voice was enticing, laced with fear. Slowly, the knife made a small hole on the door, wherein Albert Goldman's eyes peered through, like a wolf hungered for prey. "Well, well . . . hello! Two lovely ladies, and here I thought she would be just enough . . . "
"Butcher," Phantysima said angrily, and threw sharp darts at his eyes. Albert motioned to cover it with his hands, and screamed as the pain seeped through. "Damn you, woman!" he yelled, grabbing onto his knife, and once again using it to destroy the barricade between him and his prey. Within seconds, the hole was big enough for his hand to reach in. And he did.
"Let go . . . !" Dian's screamed, as the hand drew her closer to the madman. Suddenly, his hand let go, and he was pulled back into the other side. In a minute, they heard Albert Goldman's wrist crack, and his moaning sinking onto floor. Then they heard his familiar voice.
"Miss Belmont, are you okay?" Wesley said, breaking down the door. Dian stared as the woman drew closer to the masked vigilante, and Albert Goldman lay unconscious on the floor.
"My Sandman . . . " she said, as the Sandman turned to her.
"Phantysima, what are you doing here?" he said, as he grabbed the collar of Goldman. Phantysima just sat by the porch, and stared at the moon. "Nothing, I was here. Period." she said.
Dian's voice startled the two. "You're . . . you're . . . "
"I'm not a killer. I swear. I wouldn't harm you," the Sandman said, as Goldman began to awaken. He then lay another sucker punch on him, and sent him to sleep.
"So," Phantysima said, as the Sandman tied him up in the washroom stall. "The Tarantula is now captured, I presume? The case is over, yes?" Wesley turned to her, and sighed. "No, it isn't. Albert Goldman may be behind the skinless murders of the debutantes of the Summer Parade, but he isn't the Tarantula."
Phantysima kept quiet, as the Sandman finished his work. Then he turned to the two ladies and with an angry he said it.
"There's only one left."
I remember it well, Wesley thought as he made his way across the corridor. His feet making no sound, trying to keep himself from being heard.
The screeching sound . . . came from a cat. I was standing there, shocked by the inhuman sound, and then . . . dashed towards it.
He stopped as he heard a rip of some sort of cloth, then made his way again.
When I found it . . . it was skinless, no fur. The spiders were all over it, indeed the work of the Tarantula. Sick . . . it must have been their cat.
Wesley stopped for a minute, and stared at the cat's locket.
Prudence? I'll never know . . . it's too late. Poor cat.
He threw the locket on the floor and continued on.
It's a good thing Phantysima can handle protecting Dian and herself . . . while I take care of this madman.
Finally, at the end of corridor, he saw a flickering light coming from the room.A regular Frankenstein, Wesley thought, as he made himself scarcely seen.
I hope . . . Phantysima can take care of herself . . .
Dian stared into the darkness as they hurried across the maze of hallways. Phantysima stopped for a moment, catching her breath. "So . . . what's he like?" Dian asked, and Phantysima turned to her in surprise.
"Who like who, Miss Belmont?"
"You know . . . him. The Sandman," she said in intrigue. Phantysima laughed a soft laugh, and held onto Dian's hand, already running at her brisk pace. "Well . . . I don't really know. He seems kind and caring . . . but serious."
"Really?" Dian said, sighing. "That's great . . . "
Suddenly, Phantysima fell aback, as she bumped into a figure. "Ouch!" the boy said, as the two glared at each other. "What was . . . "
"Hello, Sandy," Dian said, quite angrily. Sanderson Hawkins blushed a bit, and quite upset. "Hey, aren't you that shadow lady . . . never mind."
"I am Phantysima, child," she said, getting up. Dian rushed to Sanderson, and pinched his ear.
"Ouchouchouch!"
"What are you doing here!?!"
"I was . . . I was . . . here for you! Come on, let's get down!" He said, as he grabbed hold of her hand. Dian turned to Phantysima, motioning to stop for a moment. "Phantysima, are you . . . ?"
"Coming? No. I'll help him . . . now that the boy's here," she said, and faded into the shadows. Dian stared at the darkness for a moment and smiled. "Well, whoever you really are," she said. " . . . thank you."
Sanderson then took grab of her hand, and they ran.
" . . . Wesley, hope you can take care of yourself . . . " Sandy whispered.
Roger Goldman sighed, and placed the fur on the table. "Well, a night's work done . . . where's Albert?" he said, as he ripped the fur into two. Unaware of the surroundings, he didn't notice the fog growing thicker.
Suddenly the figure began to take shape, and he began to feel a wild sensation trickling across his arms, causing it to stop in its work. "Who are you?!?!" he yelled, turning towards the figure. Suddenly he gave a sigh of relief.
"Oh, it's you," he said, as he took out his sheathing knife, and slowly wipe it of rust. "Well, how did it go? Did you fool them, Pascal?"
Why is this man calling me Pascal?, Wesley thought, as he loomed closer to the man.
"Did you do your job in eliminating them? The real Sandman?" Goldman said, as he washed the fur in the sink. The blood from it was fresh, mixing with the water. The Sandman loomed closer. "He mustn't have," he whispered into the man's ears, and Roger Goldman's eyes lit up. "Otherwise, I wouldn't be here."
Goldman pushed him backwards, and grabbed his sheath. The Sandman just stood defiantly, and melded with the darkness. "I've come for you, Roger Goldman."
The sink began to overflow with water and blood, as it spilled across the floor. Underneath his mask, Wesley smiled at his catch. The Tarantula. He then noticed the room he was in. Glass cages upon glass cages filled the aisles, as specimens of spiders crawled inside them. "A collection of spiders, isn't it, Roger Goldman? What a fitting name to call you the Tarantula then."
"How did you . . . how can . . . ?"
"Does not the Goldman family take care of cloth and upholstery? It would have been obvious then, that the former Tarantula killings involved the skinning of young debutantes. Why is that? The more the smoother."
Wesley took the flask, and stared at the liquid contained.
"Venom . . . from a breed of Tarantulas hidden in South America, you're laboratory is filled with them, I can see. Once you clean the blood from the skin and you sheath the hair that you place a diluted version of the toxin to further beautify the skin . . . or the presumed 'cloth'. Am I correct?"
Roger Goldman stared at the man in shock, as he brought down his plan.
"There's more . . . you laced a web . . . a web of deception to lure all justice enforcers off your scent. First, you have a fraud of me wondering around and probably even behind some of the murders, to keep them off their scent. However, there was a distinct difference between the matter of the murders that you forgot to include to your paid man . . . the real murders involved the loss of skin and mutilation. I'm sure the inspector will take care of that matter and 'your friend'. Next, you have your son commit the real murders, having him strip the skin of the victims. I figured that once I saw your cat Prudence. And I presume that that is her fur in the sink, yes? Finally, the only missing link in your plot . . . the mutilations. You were using the body toxins to dilute the Tarantula venom."
" . . . that's quite a theory," Goldman said psychotically, a grim smile beginning to form on his face. "But, sir Sandman, I assure you that is all a false statement. Who'll believe you? The police? The justice department? No one that I can't twist with my finger . . . except those debutantes . . . "
"Exactly," Wesley said firmly, as he held his gas gun at Goldman. "As far as I can tell from now, you sound as if you're angry at those who defy your whim. That's the greatest reason you're playing this game, isn't it Roger? I had information from your 'associates' that you didn't keep your anger towards them a secret. And more that I had researched, it already made the headlines. The debutantes refused to be sponsored by your likes because of your shady reputation. Well, they've confirmed it."
" . . . No!" Goldman yelled, as Wesley fired the gas gun at him. He dodged it and headed among his collection of Tarantulas.
"Damn," Wesley muttered under his breath, and headed across the aisle. Suddenly, he saw Roger Goldman's shadow running across in between the aisles. Wesley fired his gun, and broke the glass of one of the cages.
"No!" Goldman yelled, as the spider fell upon him. He moved back, and crashed into another aisle. As more spiders began to escape their cages, Goldman tried his best to keep his cool. Too late.
"Get them off . . . get away!" His screams were horrible, as finally, the aisle fell upon him, crushing him underneath the spiders. Wesley paused in brief disgust, of both the memory of the man and the ends he finally received, and grabbed a lighter and a can of gasoline. "The Tarantulas being free are too dangerous of a consequence . . . enough is enough," Sandman said as he poured the gasoline on the aisle. Then, he opened the lighter.
"Sandman! Wha . . . "
"It's nothing Phantysima, leave it be," Wesley said, as they left the rubble of ashes. Phantysima held him, as he trodded weakly across the hallway. "The police are here . . . we must leave . . . "
"Yes. Let's go now. It's all over," Wesley said weakly, mentally drained from the encounter.
Together, the two dispersed into the shadows, as the flashlights began to flicker across the hallways, and the sounds of the police began to grow louder. Yet the Sandman's words seemed to echo across the hallway, like the atmosphere itself as it permeates the mansion.
It's all over.
Next issue: How does Wesley Dodds commit himself to justice, when that same justice cost the life of an innocent child? Find out in Sandman Mystery Theater #9.