by Nina Laurin
“So…” Alexa squeezes her eyes shut. Her temples throb with a fierce headache. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. But you could start by trying to get Isa away from the portrait room. From Isabella’s things. And then you should try and get her out of that house—by any means necessary.”
Twenty-Eight
“Wow.”
I’ve brought Alexa to the mirror room. We stand in the center of it, and, around us, the mirrors reflect each other into infinity.
“Was this here the whole time?” Alexa murmurs. She looks not-so-great, but I’ve been tactful and haven’t said anything. She already thinks I’m a bitch, and I decided to try and stay on her good side, but, today, my efforts seem to be in vain. “Was it on the blueprints?”
“Who cares?” I say with a shrug. “This place is incredible.”
“Sure it is,” Alexa mutters. Someone’s sure determined to be a killjoy today. “Except I don’t see how a room this size could just be concealed. It would be visible from outside.”
“We have to do a shoot here,” I say, to get her out of her funk. “Imagine how badass it’ll be.”
She gives me a look that I can’t seem to read. “Are we sure it’s a good idea?”
“Are you serious right now?” I exclaim. “Look at these mirrors. Look. It’s like a built-in glow filter.”
“I dunno,” Alexa murmurs. “Doesn’t it give you a kind of uncanny-valley vibe? You look like one of those super-realistic CGI characters. Too perfect to be human.”
“Being human is overrated, anyway,” I say. “Give me this over being human any day.”
Alexa looks me over, doubtful. “What’s that?” I notice that she’s looking at my wrist.
“Oh, a bracelet I found in Isabella’s things,” I say. “It matches the cameo brooch.” The brooch is right there, pinned to my chest. I’m wearing one of Isabella’s gowns today: blue crepe de Chine with a high collar overlaid with cream lace. It sets off my hair to a beautiful effect and makes my skin glow.
“Well, would you mind taking them off? They creep me out.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Um. Did you never notice they’re made of human hair?”
I chuckle. “Huh?”
“It was a Victorian custom. You take people’s hair to weave it into mourning jewelry.”
“And? They’re beautiful.”
“It doesn’t bother you that they contain dead people’s hair?”
“This whole place belongs to a dead person,” I say, shrugging. “Don’t be a killjoy, and bring your camera.”
Alexa trudges out of the room.
Minutes go by, but Alexa doesn’t come back. I venture out into the portrait room, but it’s empty. “Alexa?” I call out. There’s no answer. I head down the second-floor hall, then down the stairs, and find her in the hall, twisting the lens of her camera.
“What are you doing?”
She jumps a little. Like she didn’t expect to see me. In my own house? “Alexa, what’s up? You seem odd.”
“Odd? I’m not the one who’s odd,” she mutters.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” She finally succeeds in unscrewing the lens, which she puts away in its case. “I’m going home.”
“Home? But you can’t.” My shock comes across as disingenuous and lukewarm. Inside, I’m angry more than anything else. “What do you mean, going home? Who’s going to photograph me in the mirror room? This photo could be the pinnacle—”
“—of Project Isabella, yeah, yeah. Isa, don’t you think this has kind of gotten out of hand?”
It’s so ridiculous that I start to laugh, but, seeing her serious face, I promptly choke on it. “Alexa, my friend, I believe this is that thing commonly called success.”
She gives me a heavy look. “If that’s success, then I don’t want it. Look around you. Try to have some perspective. I know you’re really into Project Isabella, but—”
“I’m not really into Project Isabella,” I interject coldly. “I am Project Isabella. And project Isabella is me.”
“No!” she explodes. I recoil a little. Her exclamation resonates through the hall. Loudly. Good thing my parents aren’t home. “It’s not you. It’s an Instagram account, for god’s sake. And don’t you think it’s gone kind of far? Weird rooms appearing out of nowhere, where no room should be? Mourning jewelry made of hair, and everyone is acting like it’s totes NBD?”
“Maybe because it is NBD,” I say. “These are actual traditions, Alexa. Actual culture. Things that stand the test of time. And we’re giving them new life on Instagram. Can you think of anything cooler than that? I’ll wait.”
“Do you even know what happened to the actual Isabella? This whole muse thing, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. She died alone and forgotten. No one even found the body until years had passed. As soon as she lost her youth and beauty, everyone just forgot her, like she never existed at all.”
It feels as though the room itself momentarily darkens. Fury wells within me, and I struggle to contain it.
“Except she’s not forgotten,” I say through my teeth. “And she did leave things behind. This house. These paintings. She left more of a mark than any of us ever will.”
Alexa seems to hesitate. “I just want you to keep some distance from this whole…thing,” she stammers. “It’s not you. It’s just a project.”
“Well, then. If it’s just a project, then photograph me in the mirror room.” I cross my arms on my chest. But she looks doubtful, and I realize I have to use a different strategy.
“Come on, Alexa, please. After that, we can take a break. Until the end of the month. Until after holiday break, if you want. Let’s just take one picture. Please? Just one.”
Alexa heaves a sigh and gives the tiniest nod.
“Thank you!” I squeal and encase her in a hug. She has coffee breath. But whatever. I must keep my photographer happy. “Because I already decided exactly what I’m going to wear.”
It’s still in the bottom drawer of the dresser in my room, where I left it—feels like it was years ago, but I guess it hasn’t been that long. Weird how so much has changed in just a couple of months. I retrieve the burgundy velvet dress, which unfurls gently, releasing a wave of that sweet, musty smell of dust and perfume.
It’s so gorgeous. How did I not see that from the very beginning? My costume for the school play back in Brooklyn has nothing on it. Eve can keep it.
Even Alexa forgets her cynicism and gasps when I put the dress on. She does up all the little buttons, and I feel her warm breath on the back of my neck.
“How come it was in a drawer this whole time?” she asks. I’m lost in my thoughts, so she has to repeat herself.
“Oh, it’s just this stupid thing that happened. I had this little bout of sleepwalking, and I kind of overreacted.”
Alexa stops. “Sleepwalking?”
I tell her about the incident that night, so long ago. But she doesn’t seem to find it funny. “Hey, at least Sleeping Isa has good taste. This is probably the most beautiful gown in the house.”
“Let’s just go and take the photos before I get the creeps,” she mutters.
It turns out it’s really hard to take photos around so many mirrors. The photographer always ends up in some reflection of a reflection of a…well, you get the idea. Alexa circles me this way and that, then lowers the camera, discouraged. “I can see myself from every angle,” she says.
I shrug. “So? I don’t mind you being in the photo. You’re part of the project after all, aren’t you?”
“Isa,” Alexa says. She’s holding the camera aloft but not taking pictures. “Should we be doing this?”
“What’s gotten into you?” I ask. “Look around. What do you see?”
“A
creepy hidden room with a bunch of old mirrors in it.”
Well, I guess she gets points for honesty.
“Isa, creepy stuff aside, do you seriously think this is normal? This chick was clearly self-obsessed. Not just, like, in a healthy high self-esteem way, but literally obsessed. And here we are, worshipping her like she’s hashtag-goals.”
“It is goals,” I say, noticing a cold note that creeps into my voice. “For a hundred and six thousand people. Or is it seven? I last checked this morning. For all I know, we got to ten.”
“And that’s great,” Alexa says. Her voice is brittle.
I heave a sigh. “Come here,” I say, beckoning her to come closer. She obeys, but not before hesitating for just a moment too long. I can’t help but feel vexed. Am I such a monster? Does she not trust me? “Look.”
I put my hands on her shoulders and turn her to face the closest mirror.
“I know what I look like,” she mutters, nervous. I notice that, in the mirror, her gaze darts this way and that like she’s avoiding looking at herself.
“Do you, really? Stop stalling and look. Really look.”
She does. I see her eyes focus, and then her jaw goes slack with awe.
Because, the fact is, the mirrors—every single one of them—aren’t just a built-in filter. It’s not simply a matter of blurring the skin and smoothing the frizz out of hair. In them, you only see your best self. You know how you sometimes go around for half a day thinking you look great, only to catch a glimpse of your reflection in some window and realize you have food on your face or your mascara smudged or your hair fell flat? Well, it’s the opposite of that. In these mirrors, you see yourself the way you see yourself. There’s never disappointment. Only beauty, perfection, and happiness.
“Told you,” I say, brimming with pride. “This house, this room—it’s not a curse. It’s not unhealthy or whatever you called it. It’s a gift. Now, are you going to stop being a killjoy and take my photo?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Don’t move.”
She lifts the camera until it’s level with her chest. This is how she wants to take the photo: with me hovering behind her, my hands on her shoulders, a specter of a more-glamorous time. Alexa looks her best, the acne scars on her cheeks erased, her ever-smudgy eye makeup a perfect, smoky haze. But me, my face—I glow.
Alexa shudders. In the mirror, I see her face distort with a grimace of fear—not just fear but a look of naked, primal terror. A shriek escapes from her, earsplitting. And, the next thing I know, her camera hits the floor with a dreadful sound of breaking glass.
Hi Alexa!
This is Eve. I got your message. I don’t know if I should come and visit, though. I think Isa made it clear that she doesn’t want to see me.
––––
Hey Nick!! Something terrible happened. I’m freaking out. I think you were right—you were right all along. But it’s not just Samuel who died in the fire. I think Isabella was in there with him, and she escaped but was burned. Disfigured.
Okay, I’ll try to get my thoughts in order. There’s a hidden room at the house. It’s connected to the portrait room, you have to go through the closet where there’s another hidden door. But that’s not the strangest part of it. There are mirrors all over the walls, floor to ceiling. I was trying to take a picture of Isa when I saw something in her mirror reflection. Her face changed. It was no longer Isa’s face, but a different face. It looked much older. But, before I could really get a good look, it turned into something out of nightmares. Like all of its hair singed off and the flesh melted off the bones. I’m pretty sure this was Isabella I saw. She hid away because she was disfigured.
Isa brushes me off—I don’t think she saw anything. What the hell do I do now??? I was so freaked out that I dropped my camera and shattered a $1,000 lens.
––––
Alexa. Your lens might be the least of our problems. Something really messed up happened. It’s on the local news. Here’s the link.
Twenty-Nine
The next day, the school is abuzz. And no wonder. News travels lightning-fast, and gossip even faster, and so, by the time Alexa gets to her first class, everyone has already heard.
Ines is in the hospital. She fell out of the window of her room, crashing right through the glass, and landed two stories below. Had there been pavement under that window, she could have been dead—this way, she’s merely very hurt.
Just how hurt—that’s a matter of speculation.
“It was the glass,” Sara whispers. Alexa sits next to her, and Isa moves her chair to be closer. “The glass cut her up pretty badly. Her face.”
“I heard she practically got scalped,” adds another girl, Emma, leaning closer. Emma’s been circling Isa for weeks, but, then again, who hasn’t? All of them waiting for just the right occasion to ingratiate themselves and wheedle their way into their group. Into the house. Into Project Isabella, eager to bask in reflected glory no matter how insignificant. Well, Alexa figures Emma saw the chance and took it.
“Do you think we should go visit her?” Sara whispers. “At the hospital, I mean.”
“I think she already left the hospital,” Isa says. She looks and sounds bored, like she’s barely holding back a yawn.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Alexa pipes up, carefully watching her friend’s face for any reaction. “We could bring a card. Flowers or something. Show our support.”
“No,” says Isa with a shrug.
“No? Isn’t that a bit cold?”
Isa turns to her, her entire attention on Alexa. Her eyes go round like a cat’s. “Cold? Oh heavens no. Au contraire! I’m only thinking about poor Ines in all this. I mean, if I were to become tragically disfigured, I definitely wouldn’t want anyone to see me in such a state.”
Alexa blinks. She throws a quick glance around at the faces of the other girls, wondering if anyone else thought it sounded as utterly insane as it did. But they gaze at Isa with adoration written plain across their faces.
Clearly, Alexa is alone.
Later that day, Kendra asks Alexa to stay a bit after theater class—in that careful tone of hers Alexa knows means trouble, or at least drama, not of the theater kind.
Isa gives Alexa a withering look. She probably thinks this is a new attempt to usurp her stardom or some kind of conspiracy against her.
“I’ll be right out,” Alexa assures her, even though she can see by Isa’s expression that it doesn’t convince her.
Once they’re alone, Kendra walks over to the teacher’s desk, which she moved into the corner so it doesn’t take up valuable rehearsal space. Alexa follows her. Incidentally, that way they’re far from the door, where, Alexa suspects, Isa is listening in.
“There’s a reason I’m worried,” Kendra says. She opens one of the desk’s drawers and takes something out. A book. “Ines came to see me last Friday. She wanted to audition one last time.”
Alexa’s heart sinks. Kendra doesn’t need to elaborate. Alexa knows what she’s talking about. Audition. For the starring role.
“She was kind of off,” Kendra goes on. “She seemed agitated. Not herself. And she kept swinging this book around, she really wanted me to see it. She rambled on and on about it being a rare first edition and that it chose her. What on earth does that even mean?”
Alexa glances at the book. It’s sitting on the table, cover facing down, and she can read the back blurb. It’s a scuffed copy of Dorian Gray. Old, maybe, but nowhere near that ancient. Gingerly, she picks up the book: it’s one of those generic paperback editions they used to sell in schools before ebooks were standard. The cover is worn, and the corners of the pages dog-eared, the pages themselves yellowed, rippling from moisture.
“This isn’t a first edition,” Alexa says, stating the obvious.
“No. But she seemed totally convinced that it is. That’s what’s so
strange. And she refused to tell me where she got it.”
Alexa has a guess, but she says nothing. She leafs through the book, which smells like old ink and humidity.
“And now Ines is in the hospital,” Kendra is saying. “I just hope… I hope she didn’t do that to herself.”
But Alexa is no longer listening. She has the book opened to the title page, where, at the very top, a name is scrawled in fading pencil.
It’s a name Alexa knows, even though she’s never met the girl.
Desiree Hale. She was cast as Sibyl Vane in the school play, right before she disappeared without a trace.
hi eve,
i really think you shld visit anyway. Im forwarding this message I just got.
—Alexa
From: Nick Swain
FW: The truth about Isabella Granger, just FYI.
––––
THE AMORY HERALD
February 12, 1983
THE DARK SIDE OF BEAUTY
Isabella Granger is part of Amory’s history. But not the prettiest part.
by ane Smith, chairwoman, Amory University Historical Society
It has recently been announced that Amory University is undertaking another attempt to restore the Isabella Granger house, with the city pledging to cover at least a part of the considerable bill. And it’s hardly surprising to anyone who’s ever driven past the house. A massive structure once dazzling with beauty and architectural innovation—part of the Venetian Gothic Revival movement, a brief but significant current in architectural design of the late nineteenth century—it has been standing in a state of quasi-ruin for decades. Previous restoration attempts failed for various reasons. Yet here we are again.
Some say Isabella Granger contributed so much to local history—put the town on the map, even. But is this really history we want to dredge up? Who was Isabella Granger, really?
Most people only know Isabella from the paintings she posed for and the art she inspired. As a result, her image has not only survived and outlived the woman, it has completely eclipsed her. It is almost as if there never was an Isabella outside the paintings and the photographs. Perhaps this is what she wanted. In that case, she paid a hefty price.