Relieved to have his 50th birthday celebration behind him, Timothy Lynch poured a generous amount of
brandy into a snifter, took a sip, nodded his approval and headed for the library. Birthdays were for
those that had friends or family with whom they wished to make merry. He cared for no one and nothing
other than his work and his collection of rare books and antiquities. Having dismissed his staff for the
evening, he luxuriated in the silence and freedom provided by solitude. As he passed through the dining
room he reached above a pear shaped, bombe chest, and turned on the lights. Gold glistened on the
walls, the furniture, even on the laurel leaves adorning the wide moldings that framed the painted ceiling.
Tonight, however, besides the gleam of gold, the lights revealed one final reminder of the day, sitting by
itself at the end of the long, formal table. "Another gift?" he sighed.
The sparkling, white package loomed like an iceberg on an otherwise empty sea. Figuring it was from a
member of his house staff, perhaps Bradley Herrington, his long-time, head manservant, he smiled. It
was a thin smile of simple acknowledgement, not to be mistaken for one indicating any warmth or caring.
Setting his drink down, he eased into the end chair and tugged on the beautifully tied ribbon, undoing
the elaborate bow. After tearing away the glossy wrapping paper he whistled with mild surprise and
whispered, "Well, will you look at that." It was a book.
Being the President and CEO of Pierson - Thompson, one of the largest and most successful publishing
companies in the world, he wouldn’t normally have been impressed by a book, but this wasn’t just any
book. He slipped out of his jacket, draped it over the nearest chair and leaned forward to take a closer
look.
“That’s not a restored cover,” his eyebrows arched in appreciation, “that’s an original; probably late
eighteenth century, maybe older, maybe much older.” The book’s cover was ornately adorned with
swirling, gold engraved scroll work on rich, dark red leather. “Mint condition,” he thought and then spoke
out loud, “No title and no author listed either; Hmmm.” With no one around to play yes-man, his words
hung conspicuously in the air.
The moment he lifted the book’s cover to see what lay therein, the lights above the table flickered and
dimmed. He’d be sure to mention that to Herrington. A wiring problem could lead to a catastrophic fire.
The subdued lighting and the silence of the empty house cast an atmosphere that was decidedly
different from the festive one that had existed earlier. With barely enough light to read, Lynch began
turning page after thin milled, gilt-edged page, puzzled by the fact that the first six or seven leaves of
the book were blank. Mild curiosity became major annoyance as he rifled through the rest. The thought
struck him; was this somebody’s sick idea of a joke? Who would dare do such a thing?
“Not one word,” he muttered. Illuminated by the ceiling’s recessed halogen bulbs that brightened as
soon as he closed it, the book lay on the formal dining table like a lone, charismatic performer on an
intimate stage. It tempted him, as if it might be able to provide answers to the questions its presence
presented if he would only take another look.
Never before had he felt a sensation similar to the feeling he experienced in the fingers of his left hand
as he drummed them in frustration on the table. As the tips made contact with the wood they thumped
appropriately and his well manicured nails clicked on the polished tabletop, but something was different.
Rubbing his thumb across his fingertips he noticed an odd numbness and a papery texture to his skin.
Lynch shrugged and reached up to loosen his collar while contemplating who might possess the
wherewithal to perpetrate such an elaborate hoax. He ran the thumb of his left hand across his
fingertips once more. Satisfied that the odd feeling was receding he reached up, brushed his dangling
hair out of his eyes and rose to go to the bathroom.
Strolling through the library, he passed by his favorite acquisition; the world's most expensive book. In
the middle of the room, housed within a special climate controlled glass enclosure, sat Leonardo Da
Vinci's Codex Leicester, a notebook filled with the master's original drawings and scientific writings.
Microsoft's Bill Gates purchased it for $30.8 million in 1994 and subsequently sold it to Pierson -
Thompson's CEO for a cool 50 million in 2015. The Da Vinci notebook wasn't the only noteworthy item in
this library. In 2011 Lynch had paid 17.3 million dollars to obtain one of the original Gutenberg bibles.
In obtaining insurance for the crown jewel of all privately owned book collections, as well as the other
priceless antiquities interspersed throughout his home, Lynch had complied with the Lloyd's of London
representatives when they insisted he employ a fulltime security force of no less than ten guards to
patrol the sprawling grounds of his French countryside estate. They were outside, on the grounds at
this very moment. As he emptied his bladder he considered calling the chief of the security team to see if
any light could be shed on tonight's unsettling development. "This could be more than a sick joke," he
murmured.
Zipping up, he thought about the countless individuals he had fired from the publishing company as well
as his own personal staff. As he washed and dried his hands he admitted that some of the firings were
undeserved. Some had come as the result of sexual liaisons, but, he shrugged, what multi-millionaire
wasn't guilty of a few minor indiscretions? The affairs didn’t concern him; most had ended with generous
financial settlements and the signing of legal waivers. There were other skeletons in his closet, skeletons
whose bones he didn't wish to see rattled about in public.
On his way back to the dining room he passed through the library again. This was the room he loved
above all others in his mansion. He stopped for a moment to admire his copy of the Gutenberg bible.
Only 48 copies existed, not all of which were perfect, but the Lynch copy was. When the opportunity to
obtain it had materialized, he had immediately seized it. "Carpe Diem", he whispered. The purchase had
been widely publicized and was hailed by his public relations team as being a stroke of genius. The
public's perception had been that he must be a righteous man of great conviction to pay so much for
the word of God. "Humpf," he shook his head, amused by the thought. "If they only knew."
Sitting back down at the end of the dining table he reached for the wrapping paper he had previously
tossed aside. There was no card and nothing was written on the paper. "Too bad," he thought. He
tossed the paper aside again and reached for the book. It was slightly bigger than the Gutenberg bible,
which was roughly 41 centimeters tall and 30 centimeters wide, or a little under one-and-a-half-feet tall
by nearly one-foot wide. Grunting slightly with the effort of lifting it, he guessed its weight to be about
three quarter stone; about ten pounds. Turning the book over, he found nothing of interest; only the
dark, red leather with none of the elaborate scroll work.
Shaking his head, he set the book down and opened it once more. There, on the very first leaf, where
nothing had been before, was a boldly printed title; "The Murder of Adele Badeau." Goose flesh formed
on his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise up. Beneath the title, the author’s name
appeared; “by Timothy Lynch." Suddenly he felt invisible fingers tightening about his throat exactly as
his had closed around Adele's. Panicking, he jumped up, spilling his brandy and almost knocking the
chair over in his haste. He was overwhelmed by the feeling that if he hadn't closed the book, his fingers
and hands, which felt strangely numb again, would have been turned to paper and would have been
dragged right into the book where the hounds of hell waited to devour his soul. Keeping his eyes on the
book, fearing that it might fly open at any moment, Lynch backed awkwardly away from the table.
Trembling and breathing hard, he stood there trying to make sense of what he had just seen and felt.
Was his mind playing tricks on him? It was late. He had been drinking. He knew there was only one way
to be sure. He had to look again. Lynch took a tentative step towards the table and stopped. Hell no, he
wasn't going to look, he decided. He shuddered and retreated one step further. Then, because that one
step made him feel no safer, he took yet another. Digging his cell phone out of his right pants pocket he
hit the speed dial number to ring the head of his security team.
“Delaflote here,” the chief of security answered. “Is there a problem?” Lynch never called unless there
was.
“Oui, Francois, we have a problem; gros problème.”
“Has something been stolen?”
“No, quite the opposite, monsieur, something has been delivered.”
“Something has been delivered?” Francois repeated Lynch’s words, not understanding how this
represented a problem.
“It would be easier if you came inside. Bring a couple of your men with you, s’il vous plait.
~ ~ ~
Lynch halted about five feet from the end of the table and pointed at the book with a look on his face
that clearly indicated this was why he had asked Francois and his men to come inside.
Seeing the confused faces of his two guards and still having no idea what was going on, the chief of
security spread his arms and complained, “Monsieur, what is it that you want us to do? Clean up the
spill?” Delaflote produced a handkerchief from within his jacket and dutifully began to dab at the puddle
of spilled brandy.
Annoyed, Lynch pointed again. “The book; when did it get here and how did it get here?” Before
Francois could begin to answer, Lynch added, “and where did it come from?”
Again, Francois reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, this time pulling out his I-phone. He
touched the screen and pulled up his notes from the entire day. “Let me see, there were a lot of
deliveries today. I don’t believe Monsieur Herrington kept us up to date on everything that came in, but
that is understandable. Today, things got a little hectic.”
“You mean you weren’t checking everything and cataloging it as it arrived?” Lynch was mortified. “My
God! Someone could have delivered a bomb!”
“No, no monsieur, I assure you, we sent everything through the metal detectors and had the explosive-
sniffing dogs check everything out. We opened and cataloged every single item that set off the
detectors, but we did not open all of the items that contained no metals.”
“What about plastic explosives and…?”
Delaflote interrupted before Lynch could finish. “The dogs would have detected any plastic explosives,
monsieur. They’re trained to sniff out C-4, dynamite; any explosive powders. We were very thorough.”
Unconvinced, Lynch pointed at the book again and said, “If you were so thorough, tell me where that
came from and who sent it.”
Unable to answer, Delaflote asked a question of his own. “Monsieur, may I ask, why are you so
concerned about a book?” He stepped towards the table and was about to open the book when Lynch
stopped him.
"Don't do it. Don't open that book!" Lynch cautioned. He couldn’t allow Francois to see the story of the
first murder he had committed and he couldn't voice his fears that the demons and hounds of hell might
come right through the pages of the book and devour their souls. A statement of that nature might be
just as likely to get him locked up, although in a different kind of institution.
"Search the mansion," Lynch ordered. "I don't think we're alone, and I still want to know where this book
came from."
Delaflote turned and ordered the two guards that had accompanied him to begin searching. As they
briskly walked away, each in a different direction, Francois turned back to his employer and asked, "What
is going on, monsieur?"
"Blackmail," Lynch replied. "Blackmail or something worse; my life may be in danger."
"Come with me, monsieur. If what you are saying is true, you should not be alone." They walked out of
the dining room together, leaving the book where it had been found at the end of the table, waiting to
be reopened.
~ ~ ~
Nearly an hour later, climbing the stairs that led up from the wine cellar, Lynch remained steadfastly
unconvinced. "Somebody has to be here, Francois. I don't know where they could be hiding, but I know
somebody has to be here." He opened the door to the main floor of the chateau and headed up the
hallway towards the formal dining room.
"What makes you so sure, monsieur Lynch? We have looked everywhere."
Lynch stopped just short of the room where it had all started and turned around. "I've done some
things, Francois. Things of which I'm not particularly proud that might give someone a reason to, uh,
well, to try to get even."
"What kind of things?" Delaflote asked; his eyebrows rose.
"Never mind," Lynch refused to take the bait, "but suffice it to say, there are those who could cause me
a great deal of trouble if they so desired."
Lynch pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and pressed the button that would ring Herrington's home
phone. Waiting for the call to be answered he remembered where he had heard the phrase, ‘Hounds of
Hell.' It was the title of a best-selling novel that Pierson - Thompson had recently published. In “Hounds
of Hell,” demons and saber-toothed mongrels from hell existed within an ancient book, supposedly
penned in invisible ink by Satan. The hounds devoured the souls of all unrighteous individuals who
attempted to read the book.
"Bonjour," Herrington answered on the third ring. Even when he spoke French he sounded profoundly
British.
"Bradley, is that you?" Lynch asked.
"Master Timothy? Yes, yes of course it’s me. Is something wrong?"
"This is your home phone, right? I mean the land-line, not your cell?"
"Yes sir, why?"
"Because there's a book on my dining room table that I think you know something about, and I wanted
to be sure you weren't still here, somewhere."
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that." Herrington sounded confused. "Did you just say you were making
sure I wasn't still there, instead of being here, at my home?"
"Yeah, that's what I said. Where'd the book come from, Bradley?"
"Book?"
"Yes, Bradley, the book, B-O-O-K, you know, one of those things we publish at Pierson - Thompson."
Delaflote was standing next to him with his arms crossed, listening intently.
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know..."
"Oh for Christ's sake, Bradley, you know what book I'm talking about; the one on the formal dining
table. I found it, just as you intended, after everyone left. Ding, dong; ring any bells?"
"That was a book? I wouldn't have thought that. It was rather heavy."
"Oh, so you do know what I'm talking about, after all?"
"Well, I laid a fairly large present down on the end where you normally sit."
"And then what?" Lynch asked.
"And then I went back to the kitchen to make sure..."
Lynch interrupted, "To make sure someone knew they needed to switch the books? Is that what you
did? You had to make sure someone stayed behind and replaced the one with no writing in it for the one
that had a certain, incriminating title and a story that would put..." Remembering he was not alone,
Lynch stopped in mid-sentence. Delaflote's eyebrows arched with interest.
"Timothy, I'm an old man. I've been your employee for over 40 years and I worked for your parents
before that. While I don't think I've completely lost my mind, I am not at all following what you're telling
me. Not at all."
"Over the years I've paid you a lot of money for your loyalty, Bradley, and for your silence."
"And I've never once complained or given you any reason to doubt my loyalty, have I, sir?"
Lowering the phone, Lynch thought about that for a moment. He’d been only eight when he inherited
the estate. As his mother and father lay dying in the field near their smashed Bentley, Bradley had
promised them he would look after young Master Timothy. Nodding, Lynch conceded that the butler had
lived up to his oath, though not without significant compensation. He had made up his mind. Bradley
Herrington was either blackmailing him or punishing him. He was a wickedly perceptive businessman who
rarely jumped to a wrong conclusion. That was how he had risen to the pinnacle of the publishing
industry. He raised the phone to his lips and replied, "Not until tonight."
"Herrington sighed heavily into the receiver and asked, "What time would you prefer me to be there in
the morning, sir? Perhaps we can reconcile our..."
"No. There's no need for you to come in, at all, Bradley. You're fired, and this time I won't be changing
my mind. I'll have legal draw up the papers.”
“Sir, you don’t mean that. You mustn’t; you can’t do that, sir.”
Lynch said nothing. Closing the phone, he smiled thinly at Delaflote and said, "There, that should take
care of that."
"You fired Herrington? Mon dieu," Delaflote couldn't believe what he had heard, "I thought he was like a
father to you."
"Not hardly; he's been blackmailing me for years. He worked for my parents, although not in his current
capacity. While I was at Oxford a young co-ed named Adele Badeau went missing. Herrington said he
would go to the police and implicate me unless I made him the head manservant and paid him an
exorbitant annual salary. I guess he wanted one big, final payoff. Let me show you what he did with this
book. I suppose there must be several of them."
Just then, the other two guards came into the room and reported what Delaflote already knew. "There's
no one here but us."
Francois directed them to return to their duties, outside. Once they were gone he turned to Lynch and
said, "Now, what about that book?"
Lynch sat down and scooted up to the table again. The earlier shock having dissipated to no more than
a distant memory, he explained, "I was impressed when I saw the engraved scroll work..." As he opened
the book the lights flickered and dimmed again, but that wasn’t what sent an icy shiver down his spine.
The title page had changed! Now, instead of "The Murder of Adele Badeau," the words in large print
were, "The Murders of Adele Badeau and Jennifer Bell Lynch."
With shock frozen on his face like a mask, Lynch shouted, "It isn't the same!" He felt a sudden jerk at
the ends of his fingers where they clutched the book. The tug graduated into a strong, insistent pull as
his skin began to transform, disappearing within the pages and the wine-red leather. Someone or
something was dragging him in; trying to yank him into another dimension buried deep within the book.
At the same time, instead of invisible fingers tightening around his throat, he witnessed a dark head of
hair exploding in a slow-motion puff of red mist and realized it was the back of his long-dead wife's head
as seen through the sight on his favorite hunting rifle. The healthy tan he worked so hard to maintain
drained from his face along with the last vestiges of composure. “Get if off of me!” he cried out. “It won’t
let go! Get it off, get it off!”
Delaflote broke Lynch’s vise-like grip on the book, and pushed it aside, wondering why he had been
unable to let go. He grabbed Lynch’s shoulders, shaking him to get his attention and shouted, “What is
different; what is happening, Monsieur?”
Seeing the book lying open on the table, Lynch slammed it shut the way someone would slam a door to
keep a threatening intruder out of their home. He shuddered and cried out, "The title!" Attempting to
regain his poise, he gasped for breath while rubbing his hands together; shaking them as if they had
gone numb. “It started pulling me in. It wanted my soul," he explained, wide-eyed, his voice husky with
fear. "For a second I thought I saw Jennifer, and then I heard a growl, not a normal, dog kind of growl,
or even a wolf, but a sound so profoundly vicious..."
While Lynch spoke, Francois managed to get a shoulder under his arm and got him up on his feet. "You
were hallucinating. You need rest, monsieur. Très fatigué, you are exhausted. There is a sofa in the
parlor that should be long enough to allow you to stretch out."
Stumbling towards the parlor, Lynch couldn’t understand why he felt so tired, so weary to the very
depths of his soul. It was as if his energy or a sizable portion of his life force was gone; seized by the
ravenous pages that had tried to consume him. He kept mumbling, "Is the book closed? Did it stay
closed?" By the time Delaflote had answered yes for the third time they had reached the sofa. Lynch
collapsed onto it like a marionette puppet with no strings to hold him up.
Intending to take a closer look at the book, Francois left the parlor. Headed back down the hallway, he
saw Herrington hurrying towards him from the other end wearing what appeared to be a blue, flannel
pajama top that hung, untucked, over black slacks. The butler was moving as quickly as could be
expected for a man in his late seventies.
"Late for you to be up, is it not, Monsieur Herrington?" Francois glanced down, noticing Bradley was
wearing house-slippers rather than the polished wing-tips he normally sported.
"Yes, it is," the butler responded, "but some things can be left to simmer while others need to be
brought to a boil, you understand. This is one of those things, Francois. Where is he?"
"In the parlor, on the sofa," Delaflote replied. "I was standing next to him while you were talking to him
on the phone. Monsieur Herrington, I heard him fire you."
"Yes, well, this isn’t the first time that’s happened; we've had our share of disagreements over the
years. I'll let you know when we're done with our little chat, if he's even up to having one, that is. I
shouldn't need more than half an hour. Hope you don't mind."
"I'll check in with my men, outside. Good luck." The two shook hands again before Delaflote continued
down the hallway and out the door.
Fifteen minutes later, Bradley gave a final tug on the rope he had brought up from the cellar. Relatively
certain his employer would be unable to escape, he stared down at the man who murdered Adele Badeau
and Jennifer Bell Lynch, both of whom he had known and liked. He’d been forced to bury Adele, who had
been pregnant and hinting she would sue for child support. He remembered being threatened with death
if he went to the authorities or wealth if he remained silent. He had chosen wealth, but felt as if he had
sold his soul to the devil.
Years later, Herrington’s perjured testimony regarding the "unintentional" shooting death of Jennifer Bell
Lynch in a hunting accident was what saved Timothy from prison and further damned his own soul.
Tormented by these incidents for many years, Bradley concluded that the book offered his only chance
for absolution. Rather than an act of revenge, this would be one of atonement. He believed the lord, in
all his infinite wisdom, had provided him with an opportunity to wash away his sins and administer justice.
"Read any good books lately, Timothy?" Herrington spoke as if his captive was alert and could hear and
understand every word. When Lynch stirred, but didn't answer, he sighed, "Oh, come now, I've watched
you sleep since you were a baby. I've always been able to tell if you were awake."
Lynch opened his eyes and squinted up at his head manservant. "So there wasn’t a second book? This
is really happening?” he asked, sounding groggy, but lucid.
“Incredibly, yes,” Herrington replied. ”My goodness, look at you, Timothy, all trussed up, the way you
bound those little animals when you were a boy. Herrington paused to see if Lynch would respond
before continuing, "When I discovered the book and god’s plan became clear to me, I thought, how very
ironic that you would be killed by an exceptionally rare book; the very kind of thing you're famous for
collecting? Actually, I had hoped the book would pull you in and finish the job for me. I almost feel as if
I'm breaking my promise to your parents."
"Where’d you get the book, Bradley? I have to know."
"From Japan. I purchased it from Tatsuo Takahashi, your best-selling author. "
"Ah yes, the horror story writer." Lynch had been straining to see if he might be able to break free of his
bonds. Deciding that he wasn't going to be able to, he began to shout.
Knowing that nobody outside would hear him, Bradley waited patiently, almost nonchalantly. When
Lynch finally relaxed after a coughing spasm brought on by nearly five minutes of uninterrupted
screaming, Herrington said, “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, 'Hounds of Hell' was so... so vivid I was
compelled to contact Mister Takahashi. He confided that although published as fiction, his story was
based on fact and that he was actually in possession of the book. Did you read his novel?”
"I scanned the liner notes.” Attempting to stall, hoping that Delaflote would return, or that the butler’s
resolve might weaken, Lynch inquired as to how much he had paid for the book.
"Yes,” Bradley nodded, “you would be interested in that, wouldn't you? I paid fifty-thousand Euros for
the book, Timothy, but I can afford it, thanks to you."
"Fifty thousand; that's all?" Lynch was obviously disappointed. “Did you open it up?”
“Yes, and I saw nothing.”
Lynch shook his head and said, "Bradley, you'll never..."
"If you're about to tell me I'll never get away with it, you may well be right, but I want you to know
something. This isn’t an act of retribution, my boy. I’m far more interested in trying to save my
miserable soul, than punishing yours. Now, if you’ll pardon me for a moment, I’ll go fetch the book."
Lynch’s verbal assault followed him down the hallway to the dining room.
Less than two minutes later, Herrington held the instrument of dispatch above his prisoner, whose
hurled insults had now diminished to nothing more than feeble whimpers for mercy. Lynch listened
numbly as his executioner delivered the sentence. “I thought, perhaps, that I might hold the book down
on your face, you see, as if I were smothering you with a pillow.” Inspired by the horrified look on Lynch’
s face, the butler explained further, “Actually, I would imagine that would be quicker and somewhat more
humane than starting at your fingers and having the book pull you in from there. That would take a
while, I suspect; might prolong the agony.”
He began to lower the book, holding it open with both hands; the pages dangling, straining, seeming to
reach out for their victim. The book was intent upon gathering him in. It had gotten a taste earlier and
was eager to finish the meal.
Timothy Lynch stared into the jaws of hell, begging, “Bradley, don’t; you can’t…” As words failed him, he
reverted to screaming, hysterically.
When the chief of security returned to the parlor he found the chateau’s head manservant sitting alone
on the sofa with the book on his lap. “Where has he gone?” Delaflote demanded.
The butler’s response was grim, yet tinged with the slightest hint of relief. “To hell, I should think."
Suspected of foul-play, Herrington was interrogated and released. Even though he passed a polygraph
test, nobody believed his preposterous contention that the missing CEO had been consumed by a book;
nobody except Francois Delaflote. Subsequent searches and inquiries produced no compelling evidence
upon which a murder case could be built. No trace of Timothy Lynch was ever found.
What happened to the book? If you wish to inspect it and feel confident regarding the condition of your
soul, you'll find it right next to a bible on a shelf in Bradley Herrington’s comfortable home, waiting
patiently for a new owner and a new opportunity to feed the hounds of hell. Satan's book next to the
Lord's; Bradley had no problem with that. He had witnessed the fact that sometimes the two do work
hand in hand.
brandy into a snifter, took a sip, nodded his approval and headed for the library. Birthdays were for
those that had friends or family with whom they wished to make merry. He cared for no one and nothing
other than his work and his collection of rare books and antiquities. Having dismissed his staff for the
evening, he luxuriated in the silence and freedom provided by solitude. As he passed through the dining
room he reached above a pear shaped, bombe chest, and turned on the lights. Gold glistened on the
walls, the furniture, even on the laurel leaves adorning the wide moldings that framed the painted ceiling.
Tonight, however, besides the gleam of gold, the lights revealed one final reminder of the day, sitting by
itself at the end of the long, formal table. "Another gift?" he sighed.
The sparkling, white package loomed like an iceberg on an otherwise empty sea. Figuring it was from a
member of his house staff, perhaps Bradley Herrington, his long-time, head manservant, he smiled. It
was a thin smile of simple acknowledgement, not to be mistaken for one indicating any warmth or caring.
Setting his drink down, he eased into the end chair and tugged on the beautifully tied ribbon, undoing
the elaborate bow. After tearing away the glossy wrapping paper he whistled with mild surprise and
whispered, "Well, will you look at that." It was a book.
Being the President and CEO of Pierson - Thompson, one of the largest and most successful publishing
companies in the world, he wouldn’t normally have been impressed by a book, but this wasn’t just any
book. He slipped out of his jacket, draped it over the nearest chair and leaned forward to take a closer
look.
“That’s not a restored cover,” his eyebrows arched in appreciation, “that’s an original; probably late
eighteenth century, maybe older, maybe much older.” The book’s cover was ornately adorned with
swirling, gold engraved scroll work on rich, dark red leather. “Mint condition,” he thought and then spoke
out loud, “No title and no author listed either; Hmmm.” With no one around to play yes-man, his words
hung conspicuously in the air.
The moment he lifted the book’s cover to see what lay therein, the lights above the table flickered and
dimmed. He’d be sure to mention that to Herrington. A wiring problem could lead to a catastrophic fire.
The subdued lighting and the silence of the empty house cast an atmosphere that was decidedly
different from the festive one that had existed earlier. With barely enough light to read, Lynch began
turning page after thin milled, gilt-edged page, puzzled by the fact that the first six or seven leaves of
the book were blank. Mild curiosity became major annoyance as he rifled through the rest. The thought
struck him; was this somebody’s sick idea of a joke? Who would dare do such a thing?
“Not one word,” he muttered. Illuminated by the ceiling’s recessed halogen bulbs that brightened as
soon as he closed it, the book lay on the formal dining table like a lone, charismatic performer on an
intimate stage. It tempted him, as if it might be able to provide answers to the questions its presence
presented if he would only take another look.
Never before had he felt a sensation similar to the feeling he experienced in the fingers of his left hand
as he drummed them in frustration on the table. As the tips made contact with the wood they thumped
appropriately and his well manicured nails clicked on the polished tabletop, but something was different.
Rubbing his thumb across his fingertips he noticed an odd numbness and a papery texture to his skin.
Lynch shrugged and reached up to loosen his collar while contemplating who might possess the
wherewithal to perpetrate such an elaborate hoax. He ran the thumb of his left hand across his
fingertips once more. Satisfied that the odd feeling was receding he reached up, brushed his dangling
hair out of his eyes and rose to go to the bathroom.
Strolling through the library, he passed by his favorite acquisition; the world's most expensive book. In
the middle of the room, housed within a special climate controlled glass enclosure, sat Leonardo Da
Vinci's Codex Leicester, a notebook filled with the master's original drawings and scientific writings.
Microsoft's Bill Gates purchased it for $30.8 million in 1994 and subsequently sold it to Pierson -
Thompson's CEO for a cool 50 million in 2015. The Da Vinci notebook wasn't the only noteworthy item in
this library. In 2011 Lynch had paid 17.3 million dollars to obtain one of the original Gutenberg bibles.
In obtaining insurance for the crown jewel of all privately owned book collections, as well as the other
priceless antiquities interspersed throughout his home, Lynch had complied with the Lloyd's of London
representatives when they insisted he employ a fulltime security force of no less than ten guards to
patrol the sprawling grounds of his French countryside estate. They were outside, on the grounds at
this very moment. As he emptied his bladder he considered calling the chief of the security team to see if
any light could be shed on tonight's unsettling development. "This could be more than a sick joke," he
murmured.
Zipping up, he thought about the countless individuals he had fired from the publishing company as well
as his own personal staff. As he washed and dried his hands he admitted that some of the firings were
undeserved. Some had come as the result of sexual liaisons, but, he shrugged, what multi-millionaire
wasn't guilty of a few minor indiscretions? The affairs didn’t concern him; most had ended with generous
financial settlements and the signing of legal waivers. There were other skeletons in his closet, skeletons
whose bones he didn't wish to see rattled about in public.
On his way back to the dining room he passed through the library again. This was the room he loved
above all others in his mansion. He stopped for a moment to admire his copy of the Gutenberg bible.
Only 48 copies existed, not all of which were perfect, but the Lynch copy was. When the opportunity to
obtain it had materialized, he had immediately seized it. "Carpe Diem", he whispered. The purchase had
been widely publicized and was hailed by his public relations team as being a stroke of genius. The
public's perception had been that he must be a righteous man of great conviction to pay so much for
the word of God. "Humpf," he shook his head, amused by the thought. "If they only knew."
Sitting back down at the end of the dining table he reached for the wrapping paper he had previously
tossed aside. There was no card and nothing was written on the paper. "Too bad," he thought. He
tossed the paper aside again and reached for the book. It was slightly bigger than the Gutenberg bible,
which was roughly 41 centimeters tall and 30 centimeters wide, or a little under one-and-a-half-feet tall
by nearly one-foot wide. Grunting slightly with the effort of lifting it, he guessed its weight to be about
three quarter stone; about ten pounds. Turning the book over, he found nothing of interest; only the
dark, red leather with none of the elaborate scroll work.
Shaking his head, he set the book down and opened it once more. There, on the very first leaf, where
nothing had been before, was a boldly printed title; "The Murder of Adele Badeau." Goose flesh formed
on his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise up. Beneath the title, the author’s name
appeared; “by Timothy Lynch." Suddenly he felt invisible fingers tightening about his throat exactly as
his had closed around Adele's. Panicking, he jumped up, spilling his brandy and almost knocking the
chair over in his haste. He was overwhelmed by the feeling that if he hadn't closed the book, his fingers
and hands, which felt strangely numb again, would have been turned to paper and would have been
dragged right into the book where the hounds of hell waited to devour his soul. Keeping his eyes on the
book, fearing that it might fly open at any moment, Lynch backed awkwardly away from the table.
Trembling and breathing hard, he stood there trying to make sense of what he had just seen and felt.
Was his mind playing tricks on him? It was late. He had been drinking. He knew there was only one way
to be sure. He had to look again. Lynch took a tentative step towards the table and stopped. Hell no, he
wasn't going to look, he decided. He shuddered and retreated one step further. Then, because that one
step made him feel no safer, he took yet another. Digging his cell phone out of his right pants pocket he
hit the speed dial number to ring the head of his security team.
“Delaflote here,” the chief of security answered. “Is there a problem?” Lynch never called unless there
was.
“Oui, Francois, we have a problem; gros problème.”
“Has something been stolen?”
“No, quite the opposite, monsieur, something has been delivered.”
“Something has been delivered?” Francois repeated Lynch’s words, not understanding how this
represented a problem.
“It would be easier if you came inside. Bring a couple of your men with you, s’il vous plait.
~ ~ ~
Lynch halted about five feet from the end of the table and pointed at the book with a look on his face
that clearly indicated this was why he had asked Francois and his men to come inside.
Seeing the confused faces of his two guards and still having no idea what was going on, the chief of
security spread his arms and complained, “Monsieur, what is it that you want us to do? Clean up the
spill?” Delaflote produced a handkerchief from within his jacket and dutifully began to dab at the puddle
of spilled brandy.
Annoyed, Lynch pointed again. “The book; when did it get here and how did it get here?” Before
Francois could begin to answer, Lynch added, “and where did it come from?”
Again, Francois reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, this time pulling out his I-phone. He
touched the screen and pulled up his notes from the entire day. “Let me see, there were a lot of
deliveries today. I don’t believe Monsieur Herrington kept us up to date on everything that came in, but
that is understandable. Today, things got a little hectic.”
“You mean you weren’t checking everything and cataloging it as it arrived?” Lynch was mortified. “My
God! Someone could have delivered a bomb!”
“No, no monsieur, I assure you, we sent everything through the metal detectors and had the explosive-
sniffing dogs check everything out. We opened and cataloged every single item that set off the
detectors, but we did not open all of the items that contained no metals.”
“What about plastic explosives and…?”
Delaflote interrupted before Lynch could finish. “The dogs would have detected any plastic explosives,
monsieur. They’re trained to sniff out C-4, dynamite; any explosive powders. We were very thorough.”
Unconvinced, Lynch pointed at the book again and said, “If you were so thorough, tell me where that
came from and who sent it.”
Unable to answer, Delaflote asked a question of his own. “Monsieur, may I ask, why are you so
concerned about a book?” He stepped towards the table and was about to open the book when Lynch
stopped him.
"Don't do it. Don't open that book!" Lynch cautioned. He couldn’t allow Francois to see the story of the
first murder he had committed and he couldn't voice his fears that the demons and hounds of hell might
come right through the pages of the book and devour their souls. A statement of that nature might be
just as likely to get him locked up, although in a different kind of institution.
"Search the mansion," Lynch ordered. "I don't think we're alone, and I still want to know where this book
came from."
Delaflote turned and ordered the two guards that had accompanied him to begin searching. As they
briskly walked away, each in a different direction, Francois turned back to his employer and asked, "What
is going on, monsieur?"
"Blackmail," Lynch replied. "Blackmail or something worse; my life may be in danger."
"Come with me, monsieur. If what you are saying is true, you should not be alone." They walked out of
the dining room together, leaving the book where it had been found at the end of the table, waiting to
be reopened.
~ ~ ~
Nearly an hour later, climbing the stairs that led up from the wine cellar, Lynch remained steadfastly
unconvinced. "Somebody has to be here, Francois. I don't know where they could be hiding, but I know
somebody has to be here." He opened the door to the main floor of the chateau and headed up the
hallway towards the formal dining room.
"What makes you so sure, monsieur Lynch? We have looked everywhere."
Lynch stopped just short of the room where it had all started and turned around. "I've done some
things, Francois. Things of which I'm not particularly proud that might give someone a reason to, uh,
well, to try to get even."
"What kind of things?" Delaflote asked; his eyebrows rose.
"Never mind," Lynch refused to take the bait, "but suffice it to say, there are those who could cause me
a great deal of trouble if they so desired."
Lynch pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and pressed the button that would ring Herrington's home
phone. Waiting for the call to be answered he remembered where he had heard the phrase, ‘Hounds of
Hell.' It was the title of a best-selling novel that Pierson - Thompson had recently published. In “Hounds
of Hell,” demons and saber-toothed mongrels from hell existed within an ancient book, supposedly
penned in invisible ink by Satan. The hounds devoured the souls of all unrighteous individuals who
attempted to read the book.
"Bonjour," Herrington answered on the third ring. Even when he spoke French he sounded profoundly
British.
"Bradley, is that you?" Lynch asked.
"Master Timothy? Yes, yes of course it’s me. Is something wrong?"
"This is your home phone, right? I mean the land-line, not your cell?"
"Yes sir, why?"
"Because there's a book on my dining room table that I think you know something about, and I wanted
to be sure you weren't still here, somewhere."
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that." Herrington sounded confused. "Did you just say you were making
sure I wasn't still there, instead of being here, at my home?"
"Yeah, that's what I said. Where'd the book come from, Bradley?"
"Book?"
"Yes, Bradley, the book, B-O-O-K, you know, one of those things we publish at Pierson - Thompson."
Delaflote was standing next to him with his arms crossed, listening intently.
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know..."
"Oh for Christ's sake, Bradley, you know what book I'm talking about; the one on the formal dining
table. I found it, just as you intended, after everyone left. Ding, dong; ring any bells?"
"That was a book? I wouldn't have thought that. It was rather heavy."
"Oh, so you do know what I'm talking about, after all?"
"Well, I laid a fairly large present down on the end where you normally sit."
"And then what?" Lynch asked.
"And then I went back to the kitchen to make sure..."
Lynch interrupted, "To make sure someone knew they needed to switch the books? Is that what you
did? You had to make sure someone stayed behind and replaced the one with no writing in it for the one
that had a certain, incriminating title and a story that would put..." Remembering he was not alone,
Lynch stopped in mid-sentence. Delaflote's eyebrows arched with interest.
"Timothy, I'm an old man. I've been your employee for over 40 years and I worked for your parents
before that. While I don't think I've completely lost my mind, I am not at all following what you're telling
me. Not at all."
"Over the years I've paid you a lot of money for your loyalty, Bradley, and for your silence."
"And I've never once complained or given you any reason to doubt my loyalty, have I, sir?"
Lowering the phone, Lynch thought about that for a moment. He’d been only eight when he inherited
the estate. As his mother and father lay dying in the field near their smashed Bentley, Bradley had
promised them he would look after young Master Timothy. Nodding, Lynch conceded that the butler had
lived up to his oath, though not without significant compensation. He had made up his mind. Bradley
Herrington was either blackmailing him or punishing him. He was a wickedly perceptive businessman who
rarely jumped to a wrong conclusion. That was how he had risen to the pinnacle of the publishing
industry. He raised the phone to his lips and replied, "Not until tonight."
"Herrington sighed heavily into the receiver and asked, "What time would you prefer me to be there in
the morning, sir? Perhaps we can reconcile our..."
"No. There's no need for you to come in, at all, Bradley. You're fired, and this time I won't be changing
my mind. I'll have legal draw up the papers.”
“Sir, you don’t mean that. You mustn’t; you can’t do that, sir.”
Lynch said nothing. Closing the phone, he smiled thinly at Delaflote and said, "There, that should take
care of that."
"You fired Herrington? Mon dieu," Delaflote couldn't believe what he had heard, "I thought he was like a
father to you."
"Not hardly; he's been blackmailing me for years. He worked for my parents, although not in his current
capacity. While I was at Oxford a young co-ed named Adele Badeau went missing. Herrington said he
would go to the police and implicate me unless I made him the head manservant and paid him an
exorbitant annual salary. I guess he wanted one big, final payoff. Let me show you what he did with this
book. I suppose there must be several of them."
Just then, the other two guards came into the room and reported what Delaflote already knew. "There's
no one here but us."
Francois directed them to return to their duties, outside. Once they were gone he turned to Lynch and
said, "Now, what about that book?"
Lynch sat down and scooted up to the table again. The earlier shock having dissipated to no more than
a distant memory, he explained, "I was impressed when I saw the engraved scroll work..." As he opened
the book the lights flickered and dimmed again, but that wasn’t what sent an icy shiver down his spine.
The title page had changed! Now, instead of "The Murder of Adele Badeau," the words in large print
were, "The Murders of Adele Badeau and Jennifer Bell Lynch."
With shock frozen on his face like a mask, Lynch shouted, "It isn't the same!" He felt a sudden jerk at
the ends of his fingers where they clutched the book. The tug graduated into a strong, insistent pull as
his skin began to transform, disappearing within the pages and the wine-red leather. Someone or
something was dragging him in; trying to yank him into another dimension buried deep within the book.
At the same time, instead of invisible fingers tightening around his throat, he witnessed a dark head of
hair exploding in a slow-motion puff of red mist and realized it was the back of his long-dead wife's head
as seen through the sight on his favorite hunting rifle. The healthy tan he worked so hard to maintain
drained from his face along with the last vestiges of composure. “Get if off of me!” he cried out. “It won’t
let go! Get it off, get it off!”
Delaflote broke Lynch’s vise-like grip on the book, and pushed it aside, wondering why he had been
unable to let go. He grabbed Lynch’s shoulders, shaking him to get his attention and shouted, “What is
different; what is happening, Monsieur?”
Seeing the book lying open on the table, Lynch slammed it shut the way someone would slam a door to
keep a threatening intruder out of their home. He shuddered and cried out, "The title!" Attempting to
regain his poise, he gasped for breath while rubbing his hands together; shaking them as if they had
gone numb. “It started pulling me in. It wanted my soul," he explained, wide-eyed, his voice husky with
fear. "For a second I thought I saw Jennifer, and then I heard a growl, not a normal, dog kind of growl,
or even a wolf, but a sound so profoundly vicious..."
While Lynch spoke, Francois managed to get a shoulder under his arm and got him up on his feet. "You
were hallucinating. You need rest, monsieur. Très fatigué, you are exhausted. There is a sofa in the
parlor that should be long enough to allow you to stretch out."
Stumbling towards the parlor, Lynch couldn’t understand why he felt so tired, so weary to the very
depths of his soul. It was as if his energy or a sizable portion of his life force was gone; seized by the
ravenous pages that had tried to consume him. He kept mumbling, "Is the book closed? Did it stay
closed?" By the time Delaflote had answered yes for the third time they had reached the sofa. Lynch
collapsed onto it like a marionette puppet with no strings to hold him up.
Intending to take a closer look at the book, Francois left the parlor. Headed back down the hallway, he
saw Herrington hurrying towards him from the other end wearing what appeared to be a blue, flannel
pajama top that hung, untucked, over black slacks. The butler was moving as quickly as could be
expected for a man in his late seventies.
"Late for you to be up, is it not, Monsieur Herrington?" Francois glanced down, noticing Bradley was
wearing house-slippers rather than the polished wing-tips he normally sported.
"Yes, it is," the butler responded, "but some things can be left to simmer while others need to be
brought to a boil, you understand. This is one of those things, Francois. Where is he?"
"In the parlor, on the sofa," Delaflote replied. "I was standing next to him while you were talking to him
on the phone. Monsieur Herrington, I heard him fire you."
"Yes, well, this isn’t the first time that’s happened; we've had our share of disagreements over the
years. I'll let you know when we're done with our little chat, if he's even up to having one, that is. I
shouldn't need more than half an hour. Hope you don't mind."
"I'll check in with my men, outside. Good luck." The two shook hands again before Delaflote continued
down the hallway and out the door.
Fifteen minutes later, Bradley gave a final tug on the rope he had brought up from the cellar. Relatively
certain his employer would be unable to escape, he stared down at the man who murdered Adele Badeau
and Jennifer Bell Lynch, both of whom he had known and liked. He’d been forced to bury Adele, who had
been pregnant and hinting she would sue for child support. He remembered being threatened with death
if he went to the authorities or wealth if he remained silent. He had chosen wealth, but felt as if he had
sold his soul to the devil.
Years later, Herrington’s perjured testimony regarding the "unintentional" shooting death of Jennifer Bell
Lynch in a hunting accident was what saved Timothy from prison and further damned his own soul.
Tormented by these incidents for many years, Bradley concluded that the book offered his only chance
for absolution. Rather than an act of revenge, this would be one of atonement. He believed the lord, in
all his infinite wisdom, had provided him with an opportunity to wash away his sins and administer justice.
"Read any good books lately, Timothy?" Herrington spoke as if his captive was alert and could hear and
understand every word. When Lynch stirred, but didn't answer, he sighed, "Oh, come now, I've watched
you sleep since you were a baby. I've always been able to tell if you were awake."
Lynch opened his eyes and squinted up at his head manservant. "So there wasn’t a second book? This
is really happening?” he asked, sounding groggy, but lucid.
“Incredibly, yes,” Herrington replied. ”My goodness, look at you, Timothy, all trussed up, the way you
bound those little animals when you were a boy. Herrington paused to see if Lynch would respond
before continuing, "When I discovered the book and god’s plan became clear to me, I thought, how very
ironic that you would be killed by an exceptionally rare book; the very kind of thing you're famous for
collecting? Actually, I had hoped the book would pull you in and finish the job for me. I almost feel as if
I'm breaking my promise to your parents."
"Where’d you get the book, Bradley? I have to know."
"From Japan. I purchased it from Tatsuo Takahashi, your best-selling author. "
"Ah yes, the horror story writer." Lynch had been straining to see if he might be able to break free of his
bonds. Deciding that he wasn't going to be able to, he began to shout.
Knowing that nobody outside would hear him, Bradley waited patiently, almost nonchalantly. When
Lynch finally relaxed after a coughing spasm brought on by nearly five minutes of uninterrupted
screaming, Herrington said, “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, 'Hounds of Hell' was so... so vivid I was
compelled to contact Mister Takahashi. He confided that although published as fiction, his story was
based on fact and that he was actually in possession of the book. Did you read his novel?”
"I scanned the liner notes.” Attempting to stall, hoping that Delaflote would return, or that the butler’s
resolve might weaken, Lynch inquired as to how much he had paid for the book.
"Yes,” Bradley nodded, “you would be interested in that, wouldn't you? I paid fifty-thousand Euros for
the book, Timothy, but I can afford it, thanks to you."
"Fifty thousand; that's all?" Lynch was obviously disappointed. “Did you open it up?”
“Yes, and I saw nothing.”
Lynch shook his head and said, "Bradley, you'll never..."
"If you're about to tell me I'll never get away with it, you may well be right, but I want you to know
something. This isn’t an act of retribution, my boy. I’m far more interested in trying to save my
miserable soul, than punishing yours. Now, if you’ll pardon me for a moment, I’ll go fetch the book."
Lynch’s verbal assault followed him down the hallway to the dining room.
Less than two minutes later, Herrington held the instrument of dispatch above his prisoner, whose
hurled insults had now diminished to nothing more than feeble whimpers for mercy. Lynch listened
numbly as his executioner delivered the sentence. “I thought, perhaps, that I might hold the book down
on your face, you see, as if I were smothering you with a pillow.” Inspired by the horrified look on Lynch’
s face, the butler explained further, “Actually, I would imagine that would be quicker and somewhat more
humane than starting at your fingers and having the book pull you in from there. That would take a
while, I suspect; might prolong the agony.”
He began to lower the book, holding it open with both hands; the pages dangling, straining, seeming to
reach out for their victim. The book was intent upon gathering him in. It had gotten a taste earlier and
was eager to finish the meal.
Timothy Lynch stared into the jaws of hell, begging, “Bradley, don’t; you can’t…” As words failed him, he
reverted to screaming, hysterically.
When the chief of security returned to the parlor he found the chateau’s head manservant sitting alone
on the sofa with the book on his lap. “Where has he gone?” Delaflote demanded.
The butler’s response was grim, yet tinged with the slightest hint of relief. “To hell, I should think."
Suspected of foul-play, Herrington was interrogated and released. Even though he passed a polygraph
test, nobody believed his preposterous contention that the missing CEO had been consumed by a book;
nobody except Francois Delaflote. Subsequent searches and inquiries produced no compelling evidence
upon which a murder case could be built. No trace of Timothy Lynch was ever found.
What happened to the book? If you wish to inspect it and feel confident regarding the condition of your
soul, you'll find it right next to a bible on a shelf in Bradley Herrington’s comfortable home, waiting
patiently for a new owner and a new opportunity to feed the hounds of hell. Satan's book next to the
Lord's; Bradley had no problem with that. He had witnessed the fact that sometimes the two do work
hand in hand.
The Book
by George Lasher
by George Lasher
