No scurrying feet. No whirring wings. I aimed my light into the darkness.

We were in a large windowless room with a plank ceiling and cement floor. Three sides were plaster, the fourth formed by the escarpment at the back of the house.

Centered in the cliff-side wal was a heavy wooden door.

When I stepped backward, my arm brushed fabric. I spun and my beam swung down a row of pegs, each holding an identical red garment. Handing my flashlight to George, I unhooked and held one up. It was a hooded robe, the type worn by monks.

'Holy mother of Jesus.' I heard Bobby wipe his face. Or cross himself.

I retrieved my flash, and Crowe and I probed the room, spotlighted by George and Bobby.

A ful sweep produced nothing indigenous to a basement. No worktable. No Peg-Board hung with tools. No gardening equipment. No laundry tub. No cobwebs, mouse droppings, or dead crickets.

'Pretty damn clean down here.' My voice echoed off cement and stone.

'Look at this.' George angled his beam to where plaster met ceiling.

A bearlike monster leered from the darkness, its body covered with gaping, bloody mouths. Below the animal was one word: Baxbakualanuxsiwae.

'Francis Bacon?' I asked, more to myself than to my companions.

'Bacon painted people and snarling dogs, but never anything like this.' Crowe's voice was hushed.

George moved his light to the next wal, and another monster stared down. Lion mane, bulging eyes, mouth wide to devour a headless infant gripped between its hands.

'That's a bad copy of one of Goya's Black Paintings,' Crowe said. 'I've seen it in the Prado in Madrid.'

The more I got to know the Swain County sheriff, the more she impressed me.

'Who is that creep?' George asked.

'One of the Greek gods.'

A third mural depicted a raft with bilowed sail. Dead and dying men littered the deck and dangled overboard into the sea.

'Enchanting,' said George.

Crowe had no comment as we crossed to the rock wal.

The door was held in place by black wrought-iron hinges, driled into stone and cemented in place. A segment of chain connected a circular wrought-iron handle to a vertical steel bar adjacent to the frame. The padlock looked shiny and new, and I could see fresh scars in the granite.

'This was added recently.'

'Step back,' Crowe ordered.

As we withdrew, our beams widened, iluminating words carved above the lintel. I played my light over them.

Fay ce que voudras

'French?' Crowe asked, sliding her flashlight into her belt.

'Old French, I think…'

'Recognize the gargoyles?'

A figure decorated each corner, of the lintel. The male was labeled 'Harpocrates,' the female 'Angerona.'

'Sounds Egyptian.'

Crowe's gun exploded twice, and the smel of cordite filed the air. She stepped forward, yanked, and the chain slithered loose. There was no resistance when she lifted the latch.