The Last Beautiful Girl

by Nina Laurin

  Isabella was born in 1886 into relative wealth. She received the best education money could buy and was introduced into high society where she immediately made a splash because of her startling beauty and lively spirit. She dabbled in art herself, but, eventually, she flouted social convention and became an artist’s model and muse, which led to her meeting Samuel Granger. Not a moment too soon, because, shortly after, her family lost all its money. Luckily, Samuel had a vast inheritance of his own, and he was only too happy to lavish it on his wife. He built her the house, and soon it became a sort of artistic haven in what was then still a somewhat conservative society. Isabella single-handedly launched many an artistic career. She paid, generously, to arrange exhibits for the artists she favored—meaning those who painted beautiful portraits of her and added to her fame. She commissioned artwork, too, and spent a fortune on the most controversial and scandalous works of the time. Sure, she may have been vain, but no one could ever have called her shallow. She had vitality and the kind of hunger for life that drew people to her, especially artists.

  But, as time marches on, so does fashion, and, by the time Isabella was in her thirties, even her more risqué stunts began to seem tame against the backdrop of the Roaring Twenties. She threw herself headfirst into photography instead of painting—her husband convinced her it was the future, and he wasn’t wrong. Isabella always liked to think of herself as someone who had her finger on the pulse. But, by then, she was starting to show her age. And it was a lot harder to disguise in a photo than in a painting. As time went by, fewer and fewer artists came to the house to have her pose for them. Her stardom began to fade.

  She didn’t take that well.

  Old accounting books show that she bought heaps of creams and ointments, getting them delivered to the house every month. But, since many contained lead and arsenic and other ingredients we now know to be noxious, we can guess that they did more harm than good. Every single day, the reflection in the mirror that Isabella had come to love and rely on aged a little bit more. Skin wrinkled, and that fantastic auburn hair that she was so proud of turned dull and then gray.

  It must be said that Samuel Granger still loved her every bit as much as before. He went out of his way to cater to all her whims, even as they got increasingly out of hand. For one thing, he traveled all over the state buying hair from the most beautiful redheads he could find to mix it all together into a wig that could rival the mane she had once boasted. She wore it a handful of times, namely in one last portrait where she went all-out with a lavish gown and jewelry. But, still, it did nothing to fix things, because the portrait only highlighted the decay she saw in the mirror.

  Samuel realized that what his wife needed the most was to look beautiful. He used colored glass, tricks of light, and retouching to make her look young and flawless once again. But Isabella was aware of all these tricks, and so it only made her feel worse even as she demanded more and more.

  It’s not known when exactly Isabella died. Debt collectors ventured into the house in the late 1930s to find decay everywhere and Isabella’s remains barricaded in a room on the top floor, surrounded by gilt mirrors. No one knows where she and Samuel are buried. And, since, in the 1940s, the world had other things to worry about, everyone forgot about her.

  Eventually the house passed into the ownership of the university. Since then, there have been two attempts to restore it and reopen it: the first time, as a university building, and, the second, as a museum. The first attempt ground to a halt when two workers died after some scaffolding collapsed, prompting a lawsuit by the labor union. The second attempt floundered after the university ran out of money. Perhaps the third time is the charm, but we, citizens of Amory, should ask ourselves if there isn’t a better way to spend public funds. The Granger house, like Isabella Granger herself, sits there, festering, in the middle of prime real estate, a testament to the futile nature of vanity. Maybe it’s time to let it go.

  ––––

  THE AMORY HERALD

  November 1, 1991

  FIRE ON THE GROUNDS OF THE GRANGER HOUSE LEAVES 3 BADLY INJURED

  An illegal Halloween party on the grounds of the historic Granger House turned to tragedy on the night of October 31 when three Amory University students were admitted to Memorial Hospital after a bonfire blazed out of control.

  An anonymous source told the Herald that the students snuck onto the grounds for a Halloween celebration shortly after 9 p.m. on October 31. The house and the grounds are currently blocked off from public access, as the house’s decrepit state makes it dangerous to trespass. According to the source, the students started a bonfire in the middle of an old foundation that remains from a demolished service building. Despite the windless and humid weather, the fire blazed out of control, igniting the clothes and hair of three of the female students. The fourth one ran across campus to get help.

  The three students are currently at the intensive care ward. Even though their overall condition is reported to be stable, they’ve suffered disfiguring burns of up to 50 percent of their faces and bodies.

  ––––

  THE AMORY HERALD

  November 28, 2010

  UNIDENTIFIED BODY DISCOVERED AT GRANGER HOUSE

  In the afternoon of November 28, the body of an unidentified female was discovered inside the abandoned Granger House. The grisly discovery was made after an anonymous call was placed at the Amory police station. The police believe a student of the nearby Amory University trespassed on the grounds and didn’t wish to come forward.

  The body was determined to belong to a Caucasian female of at least 80 years of age. It is likely that she wasn’t a resident of the town of Amory. The body had been at the house for some time, which makes identification difficult, but it’s possible that she was suffering from some kind of facial disfigurement.

  If you have any relevant information, please reach out to Amory Police.

  ––––

  THE AMORY HERALD

  May 23, 2010

  MISSING: Desiree Hale

  Amory High School junior Desiree Hale, 17, disappeared yesterday, May 22, 2010, after failing to show up for a school play in which she had a role. Desiree is 5’6”, brown hair, blue eyes. She was last seen wearing a dark-blue hoodie and jeans, walking across the campus of Amory University toward the north gate.

  If you have any relevant information, contact Jane smith at

  Thirty

  When Alexa arrives at the house, she figures she’s the first, because there are no other cars in front of the house. To her surprise—and alarm—even the Brixtons’ new SUV is nowhere to be seen. Are they gone? Would Isa have left and not let anyone know?

  It doesn’t sound like her. Then again, these days…

  With a heavy heart, Alexa trudges up the stairs. The new doors are in place, their magnificence on full display. Alexa had stayed up late into the night googling, and now she has an idea what all these designs mean. Six is the number of Venus. Cherry blossoms, swans, peacock feathers, all the things she assumed were there just to look pretty actually symbolize youth, beauty, and, of course, eternal life.

  She hesitates before lifting the heavy knocker. She doesn’t want to touch the smooth metal, or go anywhere near these doors at all. It’s a feeling she can’t explain, almost like an intuition. And maybe it’s just the early winter leeching the color out of things, but the house doesn’t look beautiful today. It looks grim and foreboding. Uninhabited, she thinks as she finally overcomes her reluctance and knocks.

  To her surprise, the doors open almost immediately. It’s still early, but Isa looks fresh as a rose, fully dressed in another crazy-elaborate mishmash of Isabella’s historic gowns and modern elements that she and Sara put together. Her dress is the color Alexa thinks is called puce, which really looks like old, dried blood. It has super-long, extravagant cream lace sleeves, and more of that same lace covers the
plunging neckline in a gauzy layer. Then there’s the heavy-looking fur cloak she’s wearing on top of it, with an ash-gray marabou boa around her neck. Her heavy earrings clink when she tilts her head. Long, pointy ostrich feathers stick out of her elaborate hairdo. Does she even know what she looks like? Alexa thinks.

  “Hey,” Isa says in an unusually friendly tone. “It’s you.”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” We used to be friends, remember?

  “Come on in,” Isa says. Alexa steps reluctantly over the threshold, and the house greets her with its sweet, dusty smell. It’s overcast today, so some of the lights are on, creating a pleasant penumbra.

  Isa spins, which makes the skirt of her dress flare and reveal frothing petticoats underneath. “I’m wearing this for the shoot today,” she says. “What do you think?”

  Alexa opens her mouth to answer, but the lie refuses to come out. Isa seems to have forgotten she asked her opinion at all. “Maybe it needs more jewelry,” she says decisively. “Come on. I’ve taken all the jewelry boxes and clothes to my room. That’s where they belong. Let’s go and choose.”

  Without waiting, she starts up the stairs. Alexa watches her with a tinge of worry. Isa holds up her skirts expertly, like the motion is second nature, ingrained over many, many years. And her shoes have ridiculously high heels. Alexa had never seen her wear anything but kitten heels day-to-day and, whenever she had to for photos, she always kind of stumbled. But now she’s flitting up a steep staircase in those pointy shoes without a care in the world.

  “Isa,” she calls out. “Hang on.”

  Isa stops and casts an impatient look over her shoulder. “What is it? Come on, everyone will show up soon.”

  “We need to talk.”

  Isa rolls her eyes. Huffing, Alexa races up the stairs to catch up with her.

  “We’re not going to take photos today,” she says.

  Isa blinks. Her eyes look like cold, blue marbles. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re not taking any more photos. Not today, not ever.”

  “Alexa.” Her tone is different now. The lightness in it is gone. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that we’re shutting down Project Isabella.”

  “Why?” Isa blurts. In that moment, the incomprehension on her face is so complete and so earnest that, for just a split second, Alexa thinks she got through to her. That she’s speaking to Isa and not Isabella. Gripped with a sense of urgency, she grabs Isa’s shoulders. Dust rises out of the ancient fur cloak. Alexa doesn’t know how long she has before Isabella takes over again, and there’s so much to say.

  “Isa, I don’t think Isabella is gone.”

  “That’s crazy. Isabella died a hundred years ago.”

  “But don’t you get it? It all makes sense!” Alexa hisses. Spittle flies from her lips, and Isa recoils in disgust, which cuts Alexa deeper than she expected. “All the weird things that have been happening. It’s Isabella.”

  “That makes no sense at all,” Isa says. “My parents and I have been living here for months now. And absolutely nothing bad happened. I mean, you’re here right now.” She gestures widely around them—at the grand staircase, at the chandelier, at the house itself.

  “That’s because I think Isabella spared you. Because she—well, I think she chose you.”

  “Chose me? A dead woman?”

  “Yes. She chose you to be her vessel. To bring her into the twenty-first century, where she’ll never run out of admiration ever again.”

  For a few seconds, Isa stays silent, tilting her head as if deep in thought.

  Then she bursts out laughing.

  “Oh my god. Do you realize how crazy you sound?” Isa’s laugh carries, which makes it all distorted and sinister. “These have been the happiest months of my life. I was nobody back in Brooklyn. I was lost. I hated coming here at first, but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened. Here, I finally found myself.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” Alexa says hoarsely.

  “Well, if that’s what you think,” Isa says, her eyes glinting with something cold and hard, “maybe you should leave. Like, right now.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Alexa says. “Not until I’ve deleted Project Isabella for good.”

  The color drains from Isa’s face. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Oh, yes, I would. Just watch me.”

  She grabs the phone out of her pocket, but, before she can unlock it, Isa grabs her wrist and twists. Alexa gasps at her sheer strength. Her fingers unclench, and the phone falls down the stairs, hitting one stair, then another, and then landing at the bottom of the stairwell with the typical sharp sound of something breaking.

  “I’d like to see you delete it now,” Isa—Isabella?—sneers.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Alexa snaps. “You know I’ll just go home and delete it from my laptop. That, or we can do this together, right now. End it for good.”

  Isa looks at her, incredulous, shaking her head so the earrings clink softly. “You can’t be serious. You can’t mean that.”

  “You bet I mean it.”

  “Then I won’t let you.”

  Alexa feels a momentary panic, then disorientation. Her gaze remains riveted on Isa, who stands still and doesn’t move a muscle. Not a single marabou feather in that ugly boa stirs, like time itself has come to a halt for everyone except for Alexa.

  An unseen force crashes into her from behind with such strength that even her feet come off the floor. For a split second, she’s suspended in midair, between the unknown and the unknowable.

  Then she comes hurtling down the steep staircase.

  The whole world spins. She feels the impacts of the steps on her ribs, her spine, her shins. Bones crack, splinter, break. Vertebrae disconnect.

  The last thing she sees is herself, hurtling at her with terrifying speed. Her eyes are wide, her face distorted and bloodied. It’s a mirror, she realizes a millisecond before collision.

  It’s a mirror.

  Then her head connects with the hard, shiny surface, and the world explodes into a million shards like diamonds.

  * * *

  Isabella looks down at the wreckage of broken pieces of mirror and the broken body at the foot of the stairs. Her face hardly twitches—what little emotion she feels stays safely locked up inside. One should never show one’s feelings too eagerly; they give ammunition to your enemies, not to mention cause wrinkles.

  What a mess, she thinks. What a waste. She had grown used to this girl. She did, after all, make her beautiful again. In the eye of her lens, Isabella was once again her true, full, best self.

  But—oh well.

  “A pity,” she says softly. “Perhaps another photographer will keep up with the times better.”

  Part Four

  Hey Alexa! It’s Eve. I read everything you sent me. Normally I’d say that’s crazy, but then again, Isa has been acting so weird that I don’t know what to think. I sent her a message that she’s seen, but she’s ignoring me. I’m starting to think that maybe I really should come over there. At least for, like, a weekend.

  ––––

  Hey Alexa, you haven’t seen this yet. What’s up? Is everything okay? The Project Isabella account is still being updated so I guess you’re busy with that. Anyway, please write back…

  ––––

  Hey! I saw the photos that Isa just uploaded. You still haven’t answered and I’m freaking out. These photos were really weird. Especially the one where she’s posing in front of the broken mirror frame with that creepy makeup that makes her look older. She hardly looks like herself at all. And that creepy jewelry she’s wearing—the pitch-black pendant? Is that Victorian human hair jewelry? Please tell me it’s fake??

  Then again, those photos don’t look anything like yours. The composition and framing is off. They�
�re selfies, aren’t they? She took them herself. Alexa, I’m really starting to worry. Please answer.

  ––––

  Hey Taylor! I think you may have forgotten me by now, but I sure hope not! It’s Eve, Isa’s friend from back home. Isa’s been ignoring me, and I know we’ve grown apart with everything she’s doing in her new school, but I’d really like for us to reconnect. My parents are okay with it. Can I come spend a couple of days?

  ––––

  Hi Eve! What a wonderful idea. I think it will be GREAT for EVERYONE to get in touch with our normal selves. YES I would love it if you came. In fact Gordon and I are throwing a gala at the university this weekend. Maybe you and Isa could spend some time and reconnect.

  Cheers,

  Taylor

  Thirty-One

  Just as Isabella is about to leave the house, she hears timid steps behind her in the hall. She has every intention to ignore them, but then she hears the woman call her name. Well, not her name, presumably—that of the other one. She would never go by Isa. How silly.

  So, with a discreet sigh, she stops and turns around. Taylor is standing a good distance away, like she’s afraid to come close.

  “Is this what you’re wearing to school?”

  “Yes.” Isabella knows she must be patient and bide her time.

  Taylor heaves a sigh, twisting her hands. “Look, Isa, I know the last few weeks have been stressful. I’m sorry I was absent so much, but you know how it was—we had to pull out all the stops to get the university to fund the gala.”

  “Oh, yes,” Isabella says. “The gala. Of course.”

  The gala was this close to not happening at all. Someone contested the old documents Gordon found in the safe. But that only seemed to spur Gordon on. He became determined to stand his ground and make the gala happen before another department made a grab for the funding.