The Last Beautiful Girl

by Nina Laurin

  “In time for what?”

  “I might be in the market for a new photographer,” Isa says in a loud stage whisper as she leans closer.

  Eve decides to tread carefully, not to give away how much she guesses. “Why? Isn’t Alexa your photographer?”

  Isa shrugs. “Alexa, I’m afraid, can’t keep up anymore. For the future of the project, I need someone new.”

  “I don’t see what I can do,” Eve says coolly. “I’m not a photographer.”

  Isa’s silvery laugh rolls under the high ceiling, sending goose bumps down Eve’s back. “Oh, darling. You don’t have to be. You just have to point and click. The house will do the rest.”

  Eve nods like she understands what the hell this means.

  “Alexa has let me down,” Isa says. Suddenly, she’s the very image of sorrow, her chin drooping, her lips pressed together in a mournful grimace. “Everyone lets me down. Desiree, Ines, Nick, Alexa…everyone.”

  Nick—the name faintly rings a bell. That guy Isa had a crush on. Finally, a normal subject. Maybe the Isa she knows is in there somewhere after all. “What happened with Nick?” she asks.

  “With him?” Isa echoes. “He’s gone. Who knows. But, then again, aren’t we all authors of our own downfall?”

  “Isa,” Eve says, her mouth dry. “You’re seriously freaking me out.”

  “A shame,” Isa says. “What a shame. And for the last time, it’s Isabella.”

  Eve takes a small step back. Isa’s gaze is riveted on her.

  “I notice you’re not drinking your cocktail, Eve.”

  “What? I totally was.” But Eve’s acting abilities, such as they were, seem to have gone into hiding. The lie is unconvincing. To make it worse, she brings the glass to her lips again, without drinking.

  “Drink. Your. Cocktail.” Isa advances toward her. Something about her eyes isn’t right. The color. It’s not her eye color, Eve realizes.

  “I’m not drinking that,” Eve snaps. “I have no idea what you put in it. Smells like roadkill.”

  “I’ve been nothing but a great hostess to you,” Isa says, “and look how you repay me. Drink it. Now.”

  In that moment, another girl bursts through the door behind Eve. The icy look on Isa’s face evaporates. Now she’s beaming. “My friends! Welcome!”

  There’s a flurry of air-kisses and weird mannerisms. The other girl is dressed just like Isa and Sara, in a historically inaccurate turn-of-the-century outfit. “Eve, meet Emma,” Isa says matter-of-factly. “My dear friend and, not to mention, a friend of Project Isabella.”

  Eve’s gaze darts from one heavily made-up face to another, but all she feels is revulsion. They look like dolls brought to life, their faces frozen in those same expressions she saw in the paintings. That pre-Raphaelite stupor of someone on too much laudanum. Off the canvas, it doesn’t look nearly as appealing. Everyone is wearing gobs of foundation to get that signature pallor and way too much eyeshadow and mascara.

  Before Eve knows it, drinks are being passed around. They drink the same nauseating stuff without flinching.

  Okay. Time to get out of here. Eve carefully sets her glass down on one of the end tables and begins to back away toward the door.

  “And where do you think you’re going?”

  Isa’s voice cuts through the music and the noise. Eve doesn’t know why, but she stops cold. I should just keep going—what’s she going to do?

  But the girls close ranks with surprising speed and coordination. Like they’re controlled by one and the same mind, Eve thinks. Her exit is subtly but effectively cut off.

  “I just wanted to look around,” she stammers. “You’re the hostess—aren’t you supposed to give me the tour?”

  Isa’s face breaks into a smile. She’s the only one of all of them who smiles for real, showing teeth. All the others’ grins are close-lipped. “Why, of course. Where are my manners?” She strides past Emma and Sara, who part as if on cue to let her through. Eve follows on her heels, but the girls don’t look at her at all, like she’s not there.

  “The house has four floors,” Isa is saying. “But you know that already.”

  At some point, Eve thinks, I can just slip away. Hopefully get my phone out of the snowbank and call somebody.

  Just who she plans to call, she doesn’t know yet.

  “On the third floor,” Isa is saying, “that’s where Samuel’s old studio is. God rest his soul.”

  Eve peers into the room. Ancient photo equipment is scattered on the floor among heaps of dust. The wall with its uncovered safe door draws her gaze.

  “That’s the safe Gordon found,” Isa says matter-of-factly. “Well—for now it is. It’s a door, and a door can be many things.”

  Eve remembers the email Alexa forwarded her and shivers. Where’s Alexa? By now, the rotten feeling in her gut is more than just a feeling. She’s almost certain that something terrible happened. She just doesn’t know what. Would Isa have seriously hurt her friend? Could she hurt Eve too?

  “…the library, my old bedroom,” Isa drones on. “I hardly ever use that anymore, though. I just live in the portrait room.”

  “Where do your parents live?” Eve asks carefully.

  Isa gives her a sideways glance, and, in her gaze, Eve reads confusion. A moment later, it’s gone, like she finally remembered that she does have parents.

  Or like she’s pretending to.

  “Oh, right. Taylor and Gordon live in the other wing of the second floor. Separate bedrooms.” She chuckles.

  “What are you talking about?” Eve asks. She doesn’t really expect Isa to answer, and she turns out to be correct. Isa just brushes her off.

  “They’re off at the university, throwing a gala. In my honor, if you can believe it. Or, at least, they think it is. Gordon found those papers, but, the thing is, I never wanted any such thing. And especially not with Taylor as featured artist!” Her face twists in a grimace of disgust.

  “Why not?”

  “Taylor is not an artist,” Isa says with conviction that sends shivers down Eve’s spine. She’d never heard the old Isa—the real Isa—talk about her mom that way. Not even when she was angry. “Taylor is vile. She’s a poseur. At first I thought she was all right because she’s a photographer, but I made a mistake. She only sees the ugliness in everything. That’s why all her photos are ugly. Even those of beautiful things. She made my house look like some sort of dusty relic. Taylor Brixton can go to hell.”

  “Where did the papers come from?” Eve prompts.

  Isa shrugs. “The house. It’s a wonderful house. It knows exactly what’s in your heart. Gordon wanted an occasion to attract glitzy patrons for the university, to secure his new job. So he could provide for his family.” She giggles again. The sound is unnerving. It’s not laughter—it’s the idea of laughter by someone who’s never heard the real thing. “Isa wanted to be unique, to leave her mark in a world that has the attention span of a gnat. And I wanted to be young and beautiful and admired and seen again. And here we are.” She smiles. “And you, Eve? What is it that you want?”

  To get the hell out of here, Eve thinks. She wraps her arms around herself. Despite her coat, she’s freezing.

  “Look here,” Isa is saying cheerfully. “The first floor.”

  On the wall just opposite the staircase, Eve notices an ornate frame as tall as she is, maybe taller. It’s empty. When she comes closer, she sees the patterns of the frame: cherry blossoms, swans, peacock feathers, all rendered with a strange fluidity, not at all like your typical baroque frills. They all melt into each other—when you look for too long, it seems like they’re moving.

  “Don’t get hung up on broken old junk,” Isa’s annoyed voice rings out behind her. “You’re just like Taylor. Look around you! This place is a jewel of history and architecture. Do notice the original carved doors. And the f
rescoes! Don’t forget to look at the frescoes.”

  Eve wants to remind her that she’s seen the frescoes. Isa had taken pictures and posted them to Instagram in her first days here. Eve found the frescoes kind of dull, to be honest. Pretty in a saccharine way. But, as she looks up now, she realizes with a sinking feeling that the frescoes look nothing like what she remembers. They’ve become darker—not just in color and tone. The Aphrodite is no longer Aphrodite. She looks more like Persephone, a malignant demon lurking overhead among billowing cloth and the wild waves of her own auburn hair. Even the Cupids look vaguely evil, their angelic faces contorted in smirks.

  Then, right in front of her eyes, the frescoes start to move. The peaceful blue sky in the background covers with bruise-colored storm clouds. Aphrodite’s eyes move, fixating on Eve, and her nostrils flare in fury.

  Something crashes into Eve from behind, and she goes flying, sprawling on the floor.

  “Don’t you dare come into my house with ill thoughts!” Isa’s voice is unrecognizable, and the only way Eve knows it’s Isa at all is because there’s no one else there. “Is this how you repay my hospitality?”

  Eve rolls over onto her side, struggling to catch her breath and wondering if she’d broken a rib. “Isa, this isn’t you,” she gasps. “I don’t know what’s going on, but—we have to get out of here!”

  “Get out of here? This is my house. This is my home. I’m never going to leave.”

  Eve manages to get on her hands and knees. Her side hurts, and her vision is swimming. “What have you done with real Isa?” she rasps.

  The only answer is Isabella’s tinny laughter.

  Eve scrambles to her feet. Isabella is advancing toward her. Her face is calm, not a single line on her forehead or around her mouth, but her eyes—

  Eve starts to run.

  Thirty-Four

  Eve races across the vast lobby and dives through the door into the kitchen. At first she’s surprised at how drab the kitchen is, even though, like every other room, it’s about five hundred square feet bigger than it needs to be. Then the light bulb goes off: in Isabella’s times, the mistress of the house rarely even set foot here. And, for the servants, the plain walls and little slits of windows are good enough.

  Eve spins around. There’s a modern fridge, a shiny new faucet and sink, a fancy gas stove with six burners. It all looks out of place here, like an alien spaceship on the set of Downton Abbey. Why bother? As far as Eve remembers, Taylor was never big on home cooking. Could’ve done with an induction cooktop and called it a day.

  Then she remembers the old gas lamps she spotted throughout the house. Electric ones were added hastily right on top of them, but she bets the original piping is still there. They probably just connected the stove to that.

  She thinks she hears steps down the hall and jolts into action. She circles the room. There’s a door in the back, but, as Eve tugs on the handle, she sees the huge padlock that holds it locked.

  So much for that.

  She makes a beeline for the cabinets, but the ones that contain anything sharp are conveniently locked up too.

  In that moment, the door shakes. The chair with which Eve propped it up creaks alarmingly. Someone—Isabella—pounds on it with her fists. There’s nowhere to go, Eve realizes in a panic. Then she sees the solution—she’s standing on it. A huge trapdoor with one of those built-in rings.

  “Open the door, Eve,” Isa’s voice. At least now it sounds like Isa. “Come on. Please. I think we got off on the wrong foot. I just want to make things right.”

  Moments ago she was freezing, but now sweat runs down Eve’s back and pearls on her forehead. She tugs at the ring, and the heavy trapdoor begins to budge.

  “Don’t be silly, darling,” Isa’s silvery voice, muffled by the door, takes on a threatening note. “Let’s work this out. Open the door.”

  Eve finally throws the trapdoor open. Sweat rolls into her eyes. I’d have to be crazy to go in there, she thinks.

  The door shakes. “Open,” growls the voice, no longer Isa. “Open, or I’ll—”

  Wooden steps lead into darkness. Eve decides not to think about it too much. With a sharp intake of breath, she dives into the space.

  At first, the weak light from above isn’t enough, and she doesn’t see the light bulb on the ceiling until its string hits her in the face. She yelps, then, realizing what it is, pulls on it.

  There’s a strange smell down here, overwhelmingly cloying, like perfume gone bad or something. Eve looks around. There’s a bunch of construction materials, some boards, some broken tiles. She almost steps on a pile of rusted, bent nails.

  The cellar is bigger than she thought. Maybe there’s a way out. A tunnel or another trapdoor leading outside. She advances cautiously, boards creaking softly beneath her feet.

  The pale face takes her by surprise. With a shriek, she stumbles back and nearly goes sprawling, which, with all the rusted nails and sharp bits of tile underfoot, isn’t a good idea. She regains her balance and finally sees that the face, which looks like it’s floating in darkness, disembodied, isn’t a real face. It’s just a canvas propped up on an easel. Another painting of Isabella.

  Eve comes closer and inspects it. There are Isabella’s familiar features, the pale, foxlike face, the green eyes. But the rest of it dissolves into sfumato. When she leans closer, she sees that the edges of the canvas are blank, untouched by brush or paint.

  Eve is both fascinated and repulsed. That’s not how paintings are made. Who would paint the center with such detail and leave the rest for later?

  Eve reaches out gingerly and her fingertips brush the surface of the paint.

  Still soft.

  She pulls her hand away like she touched acid.

  “What the hell is going on?” she yelps, and her voice echoes nightmarishly, bouncing off the walls. She stumbles forward, and that’s when she sees the body.

  Eve freezes, unable to force herself to move. The dark figure is lying on a piece of cloth on the floor, wearing what she at first thinks is a long, black Victorian mourning gown. She can see the glint of her gray hair. The hands are veiny and claw-like, folded on her chest, and Eve can tell that they belong to someone in her eighties. There’s a ring on the right hand, which is an oversized skull with red rhinestones for eyes. The ring, too, looks like she’s seen it somewhere before.

  Then she remembers. She’s seen it in Alexa’s selfies on Insta.

  This is her ring.

  This is…Alexa.

  The only clear thought in Eve’s mind is, I have to get the hell out of here.

  Isabella on the other side of that door suddenly seems like something she can handle. She spins around with the intention to run as fast as she can.

  Right in front of her, the shadows move.

  Thirty-Five

  “How did you get in here?” Eve hisses.

  “Keep your voice down. You’re Eve, right?” Once he throws off the hoodie of his black sweatshirt, the guy looks familiar. It’s not hard to guess that this is Nick Swain, the heartthrob.

  “And you know that how?”

  “The same way anyone knows anything. Instagram.”

  “Oh.” That doesn’t explain what he’s doing here, though.

  “Listen, Eve—”

  “Does Isa know you’re here?”

  He looks bitter. “I’m not sure Isa is aware of much of anything right now. The house sure is, though. I think I’m trapped too. I can’t get past the first couple of stairs no matter how I try.”

  What is he on about? Eve briefly wonders if he, too, has gone bonkers. Then again, with everything she’s already seen—

  “And I’m starting to think that only you can save her,” Nick says.

  “Me?”

  “You’re the only one this house hasn’t yet sunk its claws into. And that’s why you�
��re here, aren’t you?”

  Eve gives a weak nod. “How long have you been hiding here?”

  He shrugs. “I think—it must be days. And I think I might have figured out how to undo all this.”

  Eve gulps. He continues:

  “What you have to do is get upstairs, to the fourth floor. Concealed behind the portrait room is another room. It’s where Isabella stashed away all her many mirrors after she was disfigured. That room—it’s the epicenter of everything. The heart of the house, where Isabella is the most powerful. She’s never been able to let go of her faded glory, not even in death, and she lives in the house, in the mirrors and the portraits. She feeds on any girls who wander in here, consuming their youth and vitality. That’s what happened to Desiree. My cousin. The house lured her in and destroyed her.”

  “But not Isa?”

  “It’s different with Isa. Eventually Isabella won’t be able to sustain herself anymore—and now she’s found a way to leave the house altogether, to go out into the real world again, by using her new host.”

  Eve is filled with panic.

  “But how do I find the mirror room?”

  “There might be a way. Come on.”

  He advances toward the stairs that lead back up into the kitchen. Hesitant, Eve waits a beat too long to follow.

  “Are you just going to stay there until you get repurposed into another painting? Like Alexa?” he snarls over his shoulder. Eve starts after him without another word.

  When they make it up the stairs and through the trapdoor, the kitchen is empty. A cold draft sweeps through the vast space. The door stands ajar.

  Nick curses under his breath.

  A voice startles them both, seemingly out of nowhere. “Oh, wow. Do forgive me, I didn’t realize a gentleman was in attendance, or I would’ve worn something less drab.”

  Eve can’t help it—she shrieks when the silhouette of one of the girls appears in the doorway, seemingly out of thin air. This isn’t Isa, just one of the imitators. What was her name again?