House of Bathory

by Linda Lafferty

  She often thought of her father here, though he died years before it opened. He would have loved it.

  Tonight’s program, however, was the only reason she had flown to New York for the weekend. Carl Jung’s The Red Book—Jung’s illustrated chronicle of his journey of the soul and battle with madness—was on display at the Rubin. This original manuscript had been locked in a Swiss bank vault for fifty years. This was the first time it had ever been seen in public. Along with the book itself, the museum was presenting an extraordinary series of discussions that were virtually public Jungian analyses of prominent artists, writers, intellectuals, and mystics.

  Jung, a protégé of Sigmund Freud, had moved further and further away from Freud’s principles. He eschewed his mentor’s rigid adherence to sexual trauma as the root of most mental illness. Jung believed in the collective unconscious, that all humans shared a common pool of ancient knowledge and experience that they were not aware of, but which affected every moment of their lives. Dreams and intuition were valuable tools to not only the psyche but to the soul.

  At the age of thirty-eight, in the year 1913, Jung was haunted by his own demons, foreseeing the death and destruction of World War I. His visions tortured him further until he labeled them a “psychosis” or “schizophrenia,” but instead of trying to cure himself, he explored his visions in what he termed “active imagination.” He illustrated his dreams and began keeping a series of notebooks, which were later transcribed into a big red leather bound book, The Red Book.

  Each evening discussion in “The Red Book Dialogues” paired a Jungian psychoanalyst with one of the notable guests. The celebrity would be shown an illustration from The Red Book, seeing it for the first time right there on stage, and then the psychoanalyst would ask questions about the viewer’s feelings and interpretations of the drawing.

  This particular night the celebrity was a tarot card reader named Rikki Gillette, to be interviewed by Dr. Jane Kilpatrick from the C.G. Jung Institute.

  Betsy’s mother was originally going to meet her for this event, but Grace was still engrossed in historical research in Slovakia. Besides, thought Betsy, her mother never “got” Jung. This would be far beyond her comfort zone.

  She thought of her father. If only he had lived to see The Red Book tonight.

  There were plenty of familiar faces in the crowd. To see the manuscript, written and illustrated by Carl Jung himself, was a psychoanalyst’s version of making the pilgrimage to Mecca.

  Betsy waited her turn to peer down at the enormous tome, encased in bulletproof glass. Every few days the pages were turned. She gazed in awe at the twisting colors and bizarre forms on the two selected pages.

  Superimposed on a labyrinth of river blue and beige lines was a figure of a—turbaned man?—outlined in red and black. He fell back, staggering from a golden ray of light piercing—his heart? But if it was his heart, why did it look like a club, as on a playing card? His face showed no fear—surprise, perhaps—and…

  Betsy leaned closer.

  Ecstasy. The man was being touched by the divine.

  Others crowded around her, she could smell curry on someone’s breath, perhaps the woman behind her in line. Betsy only then realized that the man was standing on a snake, an angry snake ready to strike.

  “Excuse me—may I have a look if you are finished?”

  Betsy nodded, but it was agonizing to step away from Jung’s original work. She was thankful that her mother had given her a first edition copy of the book for her birthday a few weeks before.

  Betsy joined the slow-moving line into the auditorium. An usher asked her to pick a tarot card from the fanned deck in his hand.

  “It’s part of the shtick for tonight,” he said, winking at her. “Hold onto it.”

  Betsy turned the card over in her hand. Her breath caught in her throat.

  On the card was an illustration of a girl, sitting upright in bed. Her face was cupped in her hands—she was clearly crying or terrified. Above her were nine swords, dangling in the air. The bedspread was covered with zodiac symbols and roses.

  Betsy made her way to an empty seat. She pulled out her iPhone and did a quick search:

  THE NINE OF SWORDS COMMUNICATES AN INSTANT MESSAGE OF GRIEF, ANGUISH, AND EVEN TERROR.

  The lights darkened and the English curator introduced the two guests, analyst and analysand—the fortune-teller who would share her interpretation of one of Jung’s illustrations.

  Betsy read on, her eyes glued to the iPhone screen.

  IT IS CONSIDERED TO BE UPSETTING AND DISTURBING AS AN OMEN IN A DIVINATORY TAROT READING.

  “And would you all be so kind as to turn off your pagers and cell phones? Thank you,” announced the curator.

  The man next to her glared at her. She clicked off her phone.

  Dr. Kilpatrick presented Rikki Gillette with the illustration. It was the same one that Betsy had studied so intently a few minutes earlier. The audience was shown a projection on the wall: the red and black turbaned man and the maze background.

  “Tell me your immediate reaction to seeing this illustration, please.”

  “My first reaction is that I want to cry,” Gillette said. She thought a moment longer. “The maze is reminiscent of Van Gogh, his struggle for a way to go…the intercept of madness and of the Heart Chakra.”

  “Heart Chakra!” muttered the man next to Betsy. “Yeah, right! New Age—”

  “Shh!” hissed a young woman. Betsy noticed her long red hair and its glorious sheen, even in the dark.

  Gillette continued. “But I don’t see anguish in the figure’s face. No, I see St. Anthony, a dark walk of the soul. And the piercing light is illuminating, raising the man up.”

  “And the snake?” asked Dr. Kilpatrick.

  “He is not afraid of it. It is the light that captures him absolutely. If he focuses on the light, the snake is powerless. He is walking a razor line between rational and irrational. His spirit is speaking to him.”

  “As a psychic, do you feel a spirit speak to us?” asked Kilpatrick.

  “All the time. But you must go to a place of silence to hear it. Not the jabberwocky of language, of social commitments, of things to do. The spirit is giving you clues constantly, if you can just see them, just hear them…”

  She looked up from the illustration.

  “Each member of the audience was given a tarot card when you came in,” said the fortune-teller. “Look at your card please. Who has the Nine of Swords?”

  Betsy turned her card over in her hand.

  “I do,” she said, waving it. She stood up. “What does it mean?”

  “The tarot is a collection of symbols, deeply mythological and indicative of archetypes,” said Gillette.

  Betsy nodded. She knew that, as any Jungian would. But what about this particular illustration? What did it mean? Why did she find it so frightening?

  “The Nine of Swords is also called the Lord of Cruelty,” said Gillette. “It means you are or soon will be dealing with family secrets. Secrets you may have sensed. But you have not realized the depth and darkness of what was being withheld from you.”

  Betsy’s face began to burn. She felt hundreds of eyes on her.

  “There is a lot of pain here.”

  Betsy started to speak, but the tarot reader shook her head, continuing. “The content is getting in touch with your overwhelming sense of fear. Is there a Scorpio in your life?” Betsy tried to think. A Scorpio?

  “Talk about nightmares!” laughed Gillette, and everyone joined her laughter. “Keep a dream journal,” said Gillette. “And good luck.”

  In the question-and-answer session that followed, a distinguished white-haired man stood up across the aisle from Betsy. He was leaning on an elegant walking stick with a silver handle.

  “Could you speak to Jung’s theory of synchronicity and its implication in tarot cards, Ms. Gillette?”

  There was a murmur of approval from the analysts in the audience. Betsy noted the forei
gn accent of the man—Eastern European? She wondered if he had studied in Vienna as her father had.

  “Synchronicity? The entire universe vibrates to synchronicity, if only we can hear the rich symphony. The first strains of music, created at our beginnings, the notes wafting through space and time, gathering momentum. But it is only the attuned ear that can detect the chorus.”

  Betsy listened. She thought of her father. The third ear, you must develop the third ear, he would tell her.

  She shuddered in the dark so violently that the man next to her shifted his gaze to her.

  “It is chilly in here,” she muttered, fixing her stare at the two women on stage.

  “I am so sorry to conclude this fascinating discussion,” said the curator. “But our time is up. Thank you all so much for attending tonight’s ‘Red Book Dialogue.’ ”

  The audience clapped, and the lights came up fully. Some people rushed forward to ask the psychic questions.

  Who did she know who was a Scorpio…other than herself?

  She hailed a cab to her hotel. In the dark, her fingers fumbled over the tarot card deep in her jacket pocket.

  Betsy shivered in the darkness of the cab. She felt a strong urge to be back in Colorado, back to work. She knew she wouldn’t sleep that night, not until she was back in her own rumpled bed in Carbondale.

  Chapter 12

  CARBONDALE, COLORADO

  DECEMBER 6, 2010

  Before she left, Betsy had spoken with her neighbor at Marta’s Market—a Mexican food and clothing store—who had eagerly promised to take care of Ringo anytime Betsy had to be away from home.

  “This is just a quick trip,” Betsy promised. “A few days in New York.”

  “No hay problema,” said Marta, and her two teenage boys had nodded their heads, smiling from their work stacking crates of fresh vegetables. A waft of fresh roasted chiles came in from the back alley, green chiles blistering in a metal drum over a propane flame.

  “We take Ringo for walks, give food, water. Doctora no worry,” said Luis, the eldest. He put his bearlike arm around Betsy.

  Luis was the biggest—but gentlest—young man Betsy had ever known. The Latina kids in the neighborhood called him “Arbolon” or “Big Tree.”

  Then Marta shooed him away and gave Betsy a kiss on the cheek and a generous abrazo herself. She smelled of sweet corn masa from making tamales.

  “Luis and Carlos, they take good care of your doggy.”

  Betsy left them the key to the house, a bag of dogfood, Ringo’s leash, and the number of the vet only a half block away.

  And her cell phone number, just in case.

  Several times a day and once a night, Carlos or Luis walked to the town park with Ringo on a leash, occasionally letting him run loose when they knew a police officer wasn’t around to ticket.

  One evening, just after sunset, a girl with jet-black hair and a black wool coat and boots stopped Luis on the sidewalk.

  “Where did you get that dog?” she asked. “He’s not yours.”

  “It’s Doctora Betsy’s,” said Luis, eyeing her up and down. “Hey, where is the funeral?”

  “What?”

  “Where is the funeral, girl? You all dressed in black.”

  “Funny,” Daisy said.

  Luis shrugged, his heavy shoulders lifting and falling with a seismic shift.

  “You know Doc Betsy?” he asked.

  “Yes, I am a…friend. I was just going to visit her.”

  He eyed her silently. Friend, he thought. No, she must be one of the Doctora’s locos. No matter. Underneath all that black-and-white makeup, the girl was bastante guapa. Even with the wild colmillo, a crazy tooth like a lobo.

  “Good. La Doctora’s friends are my friends,” he said, winking. “Come have a beer with me, amiga. Doc is out of town for a couple of days.”

  Luis noticed the creases in her brow, plastered in white makeup. “You and me and a Tecate, bruja.”

  “I can’t. I’m—underage.”

  “Yeah? Cool, me too. Come on, funeral girl. Cheer up with some cerveza.”

  “I can’t, really. Hey, just let me pet the dog, OK?”

  “Sure. Sure. Girls always go for the pups.”

  Ringo pushed close to Daisy, licking her bare hand as she scratched his ears. Luis watched as Ringo twisted his body, wagging his tail frantically at the girl.

  “He likes you,” said Luis.

  “Yeah. I like him, too.”

  “Why don’t you come with me? I’ve got to feed him.”

  Daisy straightened up from petting the dog. “You have a key to the office, I mean, her house?”

  “Yeah, man. She trusts me with the dog, the house. Everything,” he said, puffing out his chest.

  Daisy hesitated for just a moment, then, “Sure, yeah why not?”

  They walked back along Main Street just as the streetlights flickered on. A gust of cold wind from the mountains barreled down the road, biting at their skin. Daisy put on a pair of black wool gloves.

  “Whew! This is when I wish I was back in Veracruz, man. Drinking a cerveza, eating ceviche. Watching the girls in their bikinis. Everyone sweating, drinking, having a good time. Mariachis—”

  Luis dug a house key out of his front pocket as they started up the walk. But as they approached the house, Ringo gave a low growl. Luis grabbed his muzzle, silencing him.

  Daisy saw movement in the office window, beyond the aspen trees. She put a hand on Luis’s arm. “Someone’s in there!”

  Luis’s body turned stone hard. He pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and snapped it open.

  “You wait here and hold the dog.”

  “The hell I will. I’m coming.”

  They crept closer to the window.

  A man in black stood hunched over Betsy’s desk.

  “What’s he doing?” said Luis.

  Daisy squinted in the darkness.

  “He’s going through her papers,” said Daisy.

  Ringo growled again. Luis tried to hold his muzzle, but the dog tore away and began to bark frantically. He leapt at the window, snarling.

  Luis raced to the door, struggling with the key in the lock, leaving Daisy with the dog, which lunged at the glass, still barking.

  The intruder looked up at the snarling dog. His eyes were the palest blue, the shade of a washed-out sky. His skin was ashen, with a bluish cast—the color of dead flesh.

  He looked straight into Daisy’s eyes, as if he could see her perfectly in the darkness. And then he smiled.

  She screamed so loud all Main Street heard her.

  Chapter 13

  DAISY HART’S JOURNAL

  ASPEN, COLORADO

  DECEMBER 6, 2010

  After I saw the burglar, I was so freaked out all I wanted to do was talk to Betsy.

  But she isn’t here. When I need her most. When she needs me the most, damn it! I got an eerie sense. Someone is out to hurt her bad.

  That dude rifling through her drawers had looned-out blue eyes, the color of glacial lakes. A sinister blue. He was looking for something—I bet it wasn’t money.

  I’m doing some research, trying to get a fix on Dr. Betsy, where she is taking me with all this journaling. I’ve been Googling Jung. He is wicked intense—like he was surfing the darkness when they were just inventing cars and stuff.

  But I totally get it. I’m thinking of starting a blog, especially for Goths. Dreams, especially.

  Ever since I started with Betsy, my dreams have become more…disturbing. I used to remember just bits of a night’s dream, weird fragments—a checkered tile floor or stones in the battlement of a castle. Red shoes.

  Now the dreams are intense. The colors scream, and every detail sizzles.

  There is one dream I will not share with anybody.

  I dream of blood. Vats of blood. Human blood. A woman made of white marble slides into a shiny brass tub with wide bands of copper. A tub of blood.

  Her body submerges shoulder deep and she si
ghs with satisfaction. Ahhh! she says. Ahhhhh!

  Like she was in a freaking bubble bath.

  She cups her hands and splashes her stony face, the red liquid clotting in her cuticles, coloring her fingertips.

  It is so freaking Goth, but it totally creeps me out. I wake up bolt upright in bed, screaming my head off.

  My mother runs in, shouting, “Wake up, darling, wake up!”

  But I can’t forget the last image in the dream: the rock woman smiling, slowly gliding down into the bath until she submerges completely, disappearing into the blood.

  Chapter 14

  SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 7, 2010

  Grace felt a cold draft from an open door and heard the hollow echo of footsteps. Blinded by the hood, she focused her other senses and her wits. The echoing footsteps. The cold draft, despite the warm fire she could feel and hear crackling somewhere nearby. She must be in a large building—too cavernous to heat effectively. There was a smell, musty and rich—and cold. Beeswax, cedar, the tangy odor of ancient carpets and mildewing tapestries, damp from the humidity of constant rains. The scents of a castle.

  “Are you ready to talk now, Dr. Path?” asked a man in fluent, if accented, English. Someone drew off the hood, making her gray hair stand on end.

  She looked around the room. Three emaciated women stood, staring at her, their eyes sunk deep into their sockets. They looked pathetically unhealthy—starving and pallid.

  She blinked, trying to focus her eyes. The women were wearing white face paint. There was a hunger in their eyes—starving beasts watching something to feast upon.

  She turned to the speaker—and recoiled in surprise. It was the man who had bought her champagne for no apparent reason in Piestany an hour before she was kidnapped. The stranger, a tall man with white hair, had skin as pale as a corpse, except for his purplish lips.