Night Film

by Marisha Pessl

  “How did they act?” Cleo asked. “Any strange behaviors? Whispering? Twitching or tics? Trancelike countenances? Any talk of death or violence?”

  I couldn’t answer her. The horror of what I’d unknowingly done made me feel as if the room were caving in on me.

  I’d brought the Cordovas right to Sam.

  It’s a tapeworm that’s eaten its own tail. There’s no end to it. All it will do is wrap around your heart and squeeze all the blood out.

  “Hello?” Cleo prompted.

  Why in hell didn’t I turn away when I had the chance?

  “Excuse me, but we have a real live black witch on the line,” Cleo hissed, clamping her hand over the receiver. “We interrupted her while she was gutting a milk snake for an intranquillity spell. And she sounds like she’s three breaths from going tits up. If I were you, I’d focus. How did the children behave?”

  “I didn’t see my daughter with it. My ex-wife found it in her coat pocket. But she seemed normal.”

  “What about the others?”

  “One child was deaf. He was upset when he dropped it. He nearly had a tantrum, but calmed down when I returned it to him.”

  “Irrepressible imprinting,” Cleo whispered hastily into the phone, then glanced at me. “The third?”

  Devold’s daughter.

  “I wasn’t around her,” I said.

  “You saw nothing out of the ordinary?”

  I thought back to that night, the dark yard strewn with forgotten toys, shivering trees, the dog barking in the distance, baby screaming.

  “Her favorite doll was found decomposing in a kiddie pool,” I blurted.

  Cleo was startled. “A baby doll?”

  “It’d been missing for a few weeks. They’d looked for it everywhere.”

  “And?”

  “Her father fished it out, gave it back to his daughter, even though the thing looked demonic, eyes missing, clumps of hair falling out.”

  Cleo waved me on impatiently. “What happened when he gave it back?”

  “She was very upset. She cried. But later she chased me down the driveway, cradling the doll, and attempted to give me the figurine.”

  “Definitive evidence of doll magic,” Cleo blurted excitedly into the receiver, relaying what I’d just explained. She listened for a minute.

  “All right. I’ll try it.”

  She stood up, hurried to the back of the room, scribbling something on a yellow slip of paper. “I’ll tell him. Thank you.”

  She hung up. Without a word, her face somber with concentration, she crouched down, rummaging through the cabinets, pulling out books, candles, and balled-up newspaper. She returned carrying a pair of electrician’s pliers, a red bowl, a black-and-white reversing candle—the same kind she’d given us during our last visit—and some tweezers.

  She meticulously laid out the items on the table like a doctor preparing a makeshift surgery.

  “We’re dealing with doll magic,” she announced flatly, lighting the candle.

  “What’s that?”

  “Poppets. Voodoo dolls stuck with pins. It’s a doll connected by magic to a person to control their behavior. They’re pretty common. This leviathan was bound by sympathetic magic to each child, which explains why the boy didn’t want to let go of it. And we’re about to find out why.”

  She sat down stiffly, closed her eyes, whispering something. She picked up the figurine and placed the head between the pliers. With one hand covering the serpent’s body, she squeezed the handle, hard. It didn’t budge. Cleo’s face began to turn bright red, the bracelets and pendants clanging louder on her arms the harder she squeezed, her face wincing as if in pain, gnashing her teeth.

  Suddenly, there was a loud sucking pop. Something flew past my face, hitting the wall, and fell to the floor with a sharp crack.

  Right beside my feet, there was now a small black rock wrapped in copper wire.

  “Don’t touch it,” Cleo shouted.

  A strong smell of sulfur filled the air. The figurine was not solid wood as I’d thought, but a thin shell. Using the tweezers, Cleo was cautiously emptying the contents—a gold-brown liquid, bits of dark hair and mud—into the bowl.

  The sight of it, knowing this had been intended for Sam, made a wave of nausea rise in my throat. I’d been so arrogant believing Ashley had been a viable way to get to Cordova, to avenge myself, get my life back, when I hadn’t realized that I had my own fragile corridor. Sam. He’d reversed my own plan back onto me. It was as if the man had had access to my head. Now there would be no end to it.

  “Is my daughter cursed?” I asked.

  Cleo blew out the candle.

  “What do we do?” I pressed. “Tell me.”

  “Nothing,” she answered flatly.

  “Nothing?”

  “This figurine contains a protection spell. It’s not malignant. Quite the opposite.” She smiled at my bewildered face, standing and moving to the back, returning with one of the volumes of Hoodoo—Conjuration—Witchcraft—Rootwork. She sat down, flipping through the index.

  “ ‘Compelling oil,’ ” she read after paging to the entry. “ ‘Commanding oil, calamus, a piece of obsidian rock,’ which is volcanic glass wrapped in copper wire—that’s what flew onto the floor.” She glanced at me sternly. “It’s a molten wall of protection.” She grabbed the bowl, swirling the contents. “The leviathan was used to ward off any evil that tried to advance upon the child. The spell inside protected the carrier. Any child given this toy would play exclusively with it for the heyday of the spell. About a hundred and one days. Any other deeply loved toy would have to be confiscated and hidden, so as not to compromise the potency. To submerge it out of sight in a body of water is ideal. That was the first hint this was domination through doll magic. This person—Ashley—must have stolen the doll, hiding it in the pool so as not to compromise the effect of the figurine on the child. But when the doll was returned to the little girl, she reclaimed her beloved toy and could no longer play with the leviathan. The protection was broken.” She frowned. “There’s one slightly weird detail that the witch mentioned.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In magic, you fight like with like, so using the form of the leviathan, the symbol of envy—thou shall not covet—Ashley seemed to believe these three children would be envied and coveted. Any idea why?”

  I could only stare at her, incredulous.

  The exchange. A simple transfer of debt. Ashley knew her father, Cordova, and her brother, Theo, would come looking for her after she escaped from Briarwood. Encountering the children in her path as she tracked down the Spider, she must have been concerned Cordova might try to use them, one soul for another, in a final attempt to save her life. This led to the rift between Ashley and her family, Marlowe had said. Because when it was finally explained to her, Ashley wanted to accept her fate. But Cordova was always searching for a way out. He did until the very end.

  “My daughter … ?” I managed to ask, my voice hoarse.

  “She’ll probably be fine.”

  “Probably? You’re not sure?”

  Cleo stared at me. “A tornado knocks a house down, killing the owner, and it’s a tragedy. Then you learn a serial killer lived there and the same act becomes a miracle. The truth about what happens to us in this world keeps changing. Always. It never stops. Sometimes not even after death.” She stood up, grabbing the yellow scrap of paper she’d scribbled on, handing it to me. “This is where you send payment to the witch. Any amount you think is fair. She prefers cash.”

  It was a P.O. box in Larose, Louisiana.

  “What do I owe you?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Just go home.”

  I gazed down at the beheaded leviathan, capsized on the table. It actually looked as if it had faded to a slightly lighter shade of black, as if it’d started to wilt like a flower clipped from its life-sustaining branch—though perhaps it was just my imagination. I’d walked into this room with a belief that I co
uld distinguish between what was factual and what was an invention of the mind. Now I wasn’t sure I knew the difference.

  I stood up, the chair shrilly scraping the floor.

  “Thank you,” I said to Cleo.

  She nodded, and I stepped back through the black curtain, leaving her staring after me.

  All of the customers were gone, the lights switched off so the scarred wooden floors were doused in orange light spilling in from the street. Two workers waited behind the register, speaking in low, worried voices, though they fell silent as I walked past them and unlocked the door.

  “Where you guys from?” the woman asked me.

  She was plump, with a round friendly face. She’d been behind the desk the night before, when her husband had checked us in.

  “Saratoga,” I answered.

  “Not too bad a drive. You guys’re up here to go paddlin’?”

  She must have noticed my car had a canoe strapped to the roof.

  “It’s gonna be cold the next few days, so be sure to dress in layers.”

  “About that extra key?” I asked.

  “Right. You’re in room … ?”

  “Nineteen.”

  She unhooked the keychain, handing it to me. “Need any maps or directions?”

  “No, thanks,” I said, grabbing the shopping bag at my feet.

  “Our restaurant serves supper till eleven. Everything’s home-cooked. We got a mean apple pie. You should check it out.”

  “Thanks for the recommendation.”

  I exited through the glass door. As it dinged closed behind me, I turned back and saw the woman’s friendliness had been erased from her face and she was inspecting me carefully over her bifocals.

  I waved and took off down the covered walkway.

  Last night, after sizing up every roadside motel along NY Route 3 between the Adirondack towns of Fine and Moody, I chose Evening View Motel & Restaurant because of its anonymity. It was in Childwold, forty miles north of Crowthorpe Falls, and sat sulking right off the side of the road: twenty dreary rooms, each rationed one cruddy window and a brown door. The motel had a popular eatery, the parking lot crowded with cars, license plates from Michigan to Vermont. Across the street was a busy RV campground—Green Meadows, THE NORTH WOODS’ FRIENDLIEST COMPOUND, read the wood sign—so I’d guessed Evening View saw enough traffic for the proprietors not to pay close attention to any particular guest.

  I was way off on that one. The woman had stared at me as if she knew within a matter of days she’d be picking me out of a police lineup.

  I made my way along the walkway, scanning the parking lot. It had cleared out after lunch, leaving only a handful of cars, nothing suspicious, no one watching. A bald man exited a white sedan, stretching and yawning as he made his way toward the motel office.

  I stopped outside #19—second to last on the end—and knocked once.

  Hopper opened it. I slipped inside.

  “How’d you make out?” He locked the door behind me.

  “Fine. I had to go all the way to Tupper Lake.” I handed him the shopping bag, and he pulled out the new camera battery—this morning he’d discovered his wouldn’t charge, so I’d gone out for a replacement. “She only has one extra room key. Who wants it?”

  “Give it to Nora.”

  I walked over to the far double bed, where Nora was sitting, eating a protein bar, and handed it to her. She smiled wanly, her eyes lingering a moment too long on my face.

  I knew what she was thinking, what we were all thinking: What if this plan we’d methodically prepared over the past twelve days was a mistake?

  We had weighed the possibilities. There was no other option. If I called Sharon Falcone and told her that I suspected occult crimes had been taking place at The Peak, she’d tell me what I already knew: Police would need hard evidence for a warrant, evidence I did not have.

  The one thing I did have was knowledge of a covert way to access the property. The Spider had claimed he’d cut open the fence for the townspeople along a narrow stream. Marlowe had mentioned it originated from Lows Lake.

  Inspecting detailed maps of the area, I could find no such river. It was only after finding an Adirondack geological map that dated back to 1953 that we uncovered where it just might be—a frail, nameless rivulet that twisted off the lake’s north shore, meandering through dense forest, right onto The Peak grounds.

  If we managed to locate this stream and covertly enter that way after nightfall, we could see what was at The Peak, once and for all—if there was evidence not just of occult practices but what the Spider had suggested, actual child killings. We’d gather what proof we could, exit the way we’d come before dawn, then get it into the hands of authorities.

  The plan was a blind risk—not to mention illegal, immoral, crossing the line of even the slackest ethics of investigative reporting, totally outrageous. It could very well get one of us arrested—or injured. For me, it could mean a new low of professional disgrace. I could only imagine the headlines. Back for More: Fallen Journalist Caught Breaking Into Cordova Estate. Judge Orders Comprehensive Psychiatric Evaluation.

  I’d explained all of this to Nora and Hopper, emphasizing that it was my decision, one that was personal, not professional, and they’d be better off remaining behind. But Hopper was as resolute as I was. He said grimly, “I’m in,” as if it were something he’d resolved long ago. Nora was also adamant.

  “I’m coming,” she announced.

  And so it was decided.

  Over the course of the past week, however, as we’d memorized the plan, assembled supplies, even as we’d driven the seven hours to the Adirondacks, a bleak landscape of gray sky, roads smothered with trees—the reality of what we were doing seemed to swell exponentially in magnitude. It was a mountain we’d started climbing, which grew beneath us into a rambling skyscraping ridge, pushing us back, the summit snowcapped, lost in clouds.

  Every word Nora chirped in her singsong voice—Mind if we stop at that gas station? I’ll have the French toast with maple syrup—sounded doomed, made me regret that I’d even allowed her to come along.

  I was concerned that as much as we’d uncovered about Ashley and her father, I still didn’t have the complete picture. Cleo had warned me of this: The truth about what happens to us in this world keeps changing … it never stops.

  It was possible The Peak—and Cordova himself—was like that locked hexagonal Chinese box of Beckman’s I’d tried to pry open years ago: something that should remain forever sealed, its contents hidden from the light of day for good reason.

  Though Cleo had assured me the spell inside the leviathan was not malevolent, there was little solace in this. Even if Ashley had meant to protect Sam, even if Hopper had loved Ashley, she was still a shifting cipher, her movements that night at the Central Park Reservoir impossible to fathom. The mystery of how Sam came to have the figurine in her coat pocket, the idea that Ashley had once approached her, shook me awake in the middle of the night, filled me with anxiety made all the more acute by the knowledge that it was my fault.

  I’d put her in harm’s way. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had shown me my true nature, a raw view as infinite and irrefutable as two facing mirrors, the selfish blind man I was and always would be. My countless phone calls to Cynthia to check on Sam went ignored.

  And then there was the question of the Spider and The Broken Door.

  I went back to the antiques shop after leaving Enchantments, the same day of Samantha’s fall. I found the store locked, windows black. Nora and Hopper returned with me the next day, and two days after that, every day after. We monitored the building from the shadows of the stoop across the street, waiting for a light in an upstairs window, a curtain gently pulled aside.

  Yet the building remained inscrutable and silent.

  The Spider had obviously come back, packed a suitcase, and vanished into the night—perhaps forever. It wasn’t hard to imagine; his past had caught up to him, after all, first with Ash
ley, then the three of us. Yet The Broken Door’s red crumbling façade, the mystery of his absence, and even more chilling, what exactly had happened to Sam in his shop—all left questions that ate away at me, exhausting me, like a fever that wouldn’t break.

  I wasn’t even confident I was thinking lucidly. Sam was a line that had been crossed. Staying so nimbly out of sight, letting us view only the twisted shadows he made on the wall, Cordova still existed primarily in my mind—the most powerful place for any enemy to hide. His very films told you that. The suspected but unseen threat, fueled by the imagination, was punishing and all-powerful. It’d devastate before you even left your room, your bed, before you even opened your eyes and took a breath.

  That leviathan figurine with its quivering shadow, sliding along the table with a mind of its own—it was proof of a hidden world beyond the one I’d taken for granted all my life, the reality that science and logic assured me was ever constant and changing only within a fixed set of laws. That misbehaving shadow was the edge of the unknown. The world’s certainty and truth had revealed a fault line. It was a minute tear in the wallpaper, which could be ignored, chalked up to my mind playing tricks on me. Or it could be torn back, farther and farther, into an ever larger and grotesque piece, eventually tearing off completely—exposing what type of wall? And if that wall were knocked down, what lay beyond it?

  The only way to handle these uncertainties was to shove them aside and concentrate on a concrete plan.

  Hopper had finished lacing up his boots. He stood up, zipping his jacket. Nora was in front of the mirror, applying, for mysterious reasons, red lipstick fit for a Parisian jazz club. Smacking her lips, she crouched down, pulling up her army fatigues and thermo-underwear to rearrange the hunting knife strapped to her ankle, which I’d bought her yesterday at a Walmart in Saratoga Springs.

  The least I could do was make sure she could defend herself.

  “Okay, troops. Let’s go over this one last time.”

  I unzipped the backpack, removed the map.

  Our carefully hatched plan—it was the rope for us to hold on to.