Mask of Silver

by Rosemary Jones

  Lulu hugged her and Eleanor hugged her back. “All ridiculous,” said Eleanor. “I’ve seen far worse awake and survived quite sane. No matter what the New York critics say about my scripts.”

  Paul wouldn’t say what woke him, but Hal told of a nightmare where he was being chased by chickens.

  Max reached for the scotch bottle and tipped the remaining drops into his toddy cup. “I dreamed that I was poor again,” he said. “I dreamed of the steps leading down to my childhood apartment and how they always smelled of garbage and damp. And I knew if I went into that basement apartment again that I could never leave. That’s frightening enough.”

  “Oh, Max,” said Betsy and tried to pat his hand. But he turned half away from her and took a long drink.

  Tidying up the kitchen, Fred said, very quietly, “I was back in the trenches. And a mortar blew my hands off.”

  I watched Fred’s clever hands stack the cups neatly into the sink. I could not think of a worse nightmare. All of them had already lived their worst nightmare. More than ever, I hated the Fitzmaurice house and wished we were anywhere else.

  But what could I say? That the house was haunting us? The script that Eleanor and Sydney hadn’t even finished writing? The mask staring with sightless eyes at me whenever I looked up from my bed? We made up stories like this all the time. We knew that such tales were just tricks of light captured on film. No wonder Sydney slept peacefully above. He was the storyteller who directed these scenarios. Why would he be frightened? Why would any of us suffer from nightmares when we were the creators of terror?

  Chapter Twelve

  I went into the pantry to fetch the bread and cheese as well as some leftover bacon. Fred found the skillet and between the two of us we made a hearty middle of the night meal for everyone.

  We sat up the rest of the night, talking of the next scenes to be done, what we thought Sydney wanted, and where we intended to go when this film was over. Lulu and Eleanor wanted to return to New York. Hal still spoke of a chicken farm so eloquently that Paul offered to go halves with him. Turned out Paul had raised chickens as a boy on an Iowa farm, so that Hal’s plans made more sense than usual. Fred, of course, had ideas for improving 242, this time centered on the sidefinder that he had built for the camera. He even talked of applying for a patent.

  “I’d need help drawing it up, and filing the paperwork,” he said. “But there’s guys I knew in the army who do such things. Engineers.”

  “I can help you with any drawings,” I said.

  Conversations ended when we heard the rattling of the dairy truck delivering the day’s eggs and milk. Ethel arrived not long after with Mrs Mayhew and a couple of girls who did the Monday laundry and heavy housework. They chased us out of the kitchen with only a few words about the dirty dishes in the sink.

  A second round of baths and naps followed, despite Sydney coming downstairs for breakfast and to chide us all for being unprepared for the day’s filming. “If you slept normal hours…” he started but Renee stopped him.

  “We don’t all take powders before we go to bed,” she said. “It was an uncomfortable night.”

  “Storm’s coming,” said Mrs Mayhew, passing through the dining room to direct some business around the polishing of mirrors. “You could feel it last night. That sticky heat.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Sydney. “I’m sure that was all it was. A long day outdoors and a warm night. If we get some rain, everything will cool down.”

  “Solstice in a few days,” said Mrs Mayhew. “Always brings bad weather. And trouble.”

  Sydney waved her off. “Nonsense. It’s the best day of the year. The most light, the least dark,” he said.

  “That’s why,” said Mrs Mayhew. “Dark gets jealous. Tries to grab more than it deserves. It’s a bad time to be opening doors. Worse time to be standing in doorways.”

  Sydney frowned at her and started to say something. But then he turned to Max and began talking about the scene to come, the coffin to trap Lulu.

  Mrs Mayhew watched him leave the room with a dissatisfied expression on her face. She looked over the rest of us. Only the women were still lingering at the table.

  “Some of you appear to have more sense than others,” she said, looking directly at me. I glanced at the others, but they were occupied with letters, newspapers, or just peering with tired eyes into the bottom of their coffee cups.

  “Thank you,” I said to Mrs Mayhew, when nobody else responded.

  “It’s not my place to interfere,” she said while gathering up the dishes left behind. Like Florie in the diner, she balanced a tray skillfully on one arm with all the plates neatly stacked on it. “It’s not my place to gossip.”

  “Of course not?” I said, still unsure on why she was looking so hard at me and ignoring the others.

  “Watch the mirrors,” she said. “Count how many doors you see in them.”

  I glanced through the dining room archway into the long hall. We had moved the long narrow mirrors back into their original places after finishing the ghost portrait scene. One of the mirrors reflected the edge of the table, and Mrs Mayhew looming beside it. Except she wasn’t a large woman. Taller than me, as most women were, but not by much. No, there was a larger shadow behind her, someone almost as tall as a man. I turned my head to look down the table, but nobody had moved from their seats and the angle was all wrong for that.

  Mrs Mayhew didn’t move herself, other than to watch me look over her shoulder, but she gave a little nod. “Sensible. You turn and count noses when you see people in a mirror. Keep noticing. It will help,” she said. Then to the room at large, “More coffee?”

  A murmur of denials ,but Eleanor asked where she could find more paper for the typewriter. “I’ve finished almost all that I brought,” she said.

  “There’s probably some in the library,” said Mrs Mayhew, “or you can go into town. The stationers would have what you want. If it’s just plain and not fancy, the five-and-dime would have it too.”

  “Let’s go to the five-and-dime, darling,” said Lulu. “I love a good small-town five-and-dime. There’s sure to be something that I need and a half a dozen things that I don’t.”

  Eleanor groaned a little but agreed to a trip. Betsy looked intrigued. I asked if they could fetch some notions for me. “Bits of trim and other things that I could use,” I said.

  “There’s a five-and-dime?” said Fred, wandering back into the room to grab another slice of toast. “I need some wire. Maybe some nails.”

  “Don’t take Fred,” I advised the others. “He takes hours in those stores.”

  While we made plans for shopping, Mrs Mayhew slipped from the room.

  After lunch we gathered in the long parlor where we’d filmed the scene with the ghosts. Paul, Hal, and Jim were all rigged out like undertakers with top hats, long black coats, and black gloves. All the outfits were taken from the attic and there was a strong smell of moth powder lingering around them.

  Taking advantage of the long windows, Fred and Humbert placed the rigged bed in the center of the room and moved sun reflectors, made out of silvered canvas screens, around it. Lulu arrived in a long pale champagne silk negligee straight from her trunks. She’d brought several. Sydney earlier rejected those with ruffles, fox fur, ostrich feathers, silk fringe, or ribbon flowers. This particular robe was the simplest of her collection, with only a few wide panels of lace for decoration.

  “Mind you,” said Lulu as we powdered her for the scene, “that lace came from Belgium before the war. They said it was made by nuns.”

  “I’m sure the sisters will be delighted that their work is in the movies,” said Eleanor. “Are you sure about her eyes?”

  “Yes,” I said, painting a little extra arch onto Lulu’s eyebrows. “Sydney wanted them emphasized.” As I’d imagined the day before, Lulu looked even frailer, as if she was made out of porcelain
, a doll or a corpse. But an exquisite corpse.

  Betsy, who loved fiddling with makeup as much as me, took a long look at Lulu. “It’s perfect,” she pronounced. “She looks unearthly.”

  “Not too dead,” said Lulu.

  “No, no,” said Betsy. “Just right. You’ll match the ghosts from the earlier scene.”

  We lowered Lulu into her bed and arranged her hair so it became a blonde halo surrounding her. She looked lovely against the linen and lace draped pillows from upstairs. Betsy whispered to me: “What will Mrs Mayhew say?”

  “Something unpleasant about making powder stains on the best linen,” I responded, “but she’s working for Sydney. He can talk to her.”

  Sydney leaned over Lulu to give her his instructions. “Wake up slowly. You have dreamed of strangers. Of gods in distant cosmos, vast beyond your comprehension, stirring in shadows. And, and… oh damn, what did you write, Eleanor?”

  Sydney waved his hand at Eleanor, who handed him a scenario page. Sydney skimmed down it. “Oh yes, here we go. You wake in your comfortable, ordinary bed. You realize that your night terrors are simply dreams. Relieved, you stretch up your hands to pull down the sheet. But you cannot. You are trapped. You are tied to the bed by these simple luxuries that have so comforted you… Max, are those my monogrammed silk sheets?”

  Max, who had been conferring with Fred about something, swung around. He glanced at the bed where Lulu was still lying, waiting for us to start. “Yes, Sydney, those are your sheets. You said she’s trapped in a bed by the silk sheets. You have the only silk sheets in the house.”

  “Damn it, Max, what am I to sleep on tonight?” said Sydney. “You’ll have to go out and buy more.”

  “Sydney, we will have to send to New York. Or you can sleep on cotton or linen like the rest of us until these are laundered,” said Max. “And do not tell me to hang the expense. The whole point of filming in Arkham was that you could have the atmosphere that you wanted for half the cost of creating it in California. Remember?”

  Sydney, who had been halfway through saying “hang the expense,” just sighed. “What one sacrifices for art,” he said and started to read from the scenario again. “You are trapped. You are tied to the bed by these simple luxuries that have so comforted you. You and the audience slowly realize that the silk sheets and lace pillows do not decorate a simple virginal repose.”

  Lulu giggled at the last. “Really, Eleanor, simple virginal repose?”

  “It was late, my dear,” said Eleanor. “And I was longing to get done. One puts in some words to fill the space and hopes to change them later.”

  “I like it,” said Sydney. “Now will you all stop interrupting?”

  I heard a muffled laugh from Renee but when I looked over my shoulder, she was innocently sitting in her chair, apparently helping Pola with her knitting. They would have a scene after this one and were partially costumed with towels around their necks to keep their makeup from staining their dress collars.

  “Do you think it will take as long as the stair scene?” said Betsy.

  “I hope not,” I said. “We’ll be here all summer at this rate.”

  Sydney growled and continued on, reading over the whispered conversations floating around the room. I was thankful that there was no Arkham reporter or violinist today to create even more distractions.

  “Your silk sheets and lace pillows,” bellowed Sydney above all the noise, “are the decorations of a coffin. You realize that you are trapped and about to be buried alive!”

  Lulu pursed her mouth. “How can I be buried alive if there’s no top to the coffin? Can’t they just see me struggling? Oh, and you’re not throwing dirt on me. Not this negligee! It’s Belgium lace.”

  Sydney clenched his teeth against his cigarette holder. “You wake up. You look happy. You look distressed. You look terrified. Then the sides and top of the coffin come up and close around you! Can you do that?”

  “Of course,” said Lulu, snuggling down into the silk sheets. “Just yell when you want me to open my eyes.”

  “Fred!” said Sydney. “Max. Places. Now, begin!”

  Max waved the slate in front of the camera to mark the scene and the take. Fred cranked steadily. Lulu remained absolutely still, looking beautifully asleep or perhaps even dead. The audience would not know at the beginning of the scene, according to Sydney and Eleanor.

  “Now,” said Sydney.

  Lulu’s eyes fluttered open. She allowed herself the faintest of relieved smiles, portraying the sister who had awakened from a disturbing dream to find it was only a dream. Then she shrugged one shoulder. Her negligee slipped, revealing a silken strap and bare skin.

  “Show off,” muttered Betsy as she mimed the same movement with her own shoulder. I was sure I’d see it in one of her future movies. Eleanor shifted to stand beside us to get a clearer view of the action.

  Then Paul and Jim shoved on mechanisms that cranked up the coffin sides and lid built by Fred and Humbert. The coffin banged into place around Lulu.

  “Thank God that nobody in the audience will hear that,” said Eleanor to me. “About as scary as a trunk lid being snapped shut.”

  “Depends on whether or not you are in the trunk,” I said. “What did you do in the theater?”

  “Oiled the hinges and had the orchestra play extra loud,” said Eleanor.

  Fred straightened up from the camera. “Good enough. Take it apart, boys.”

  Jim and Paul pulled on the lid. Nothing moved.

  “Oh hell,” said Fred. “It just snaps loose from the side. Twist it.”

  “It’s stuck,” said Paul. “Stuck fast.”

  Muffled banging sounded through the room. Eleanor swore. “She’s terrified of small spaces,” she said. “We never left her in our box past the curtain banging down.”

  The banging from the coffin increased in its fury. Appalled for poor Lulu, I joined Fred pulling on the lid.

  “Get her out,” Eleanor cried. “Oh, please get her out.”

  I knew how Lulu felt. I once got locked in a closet by another girl at the orphanage. It seemed to last forever, even though Renee tore open the door only minutes later. I glanced up and those horrid mirrors reflected us all banging on what looked like a real coffin.

  “Pull!” yelled Fred.

  We all pulled. Even with all of us shoving and pushing, the lid of the damn fake coffin stayed firmly shut. The banging inside became more frenzied.

  “Lulu, Lulu,” yelled Eleanor, “keep still. We’ll get you out.”

  Sydney broke off a discussion with Max about the next shot to wander over. “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “The coffin won’t open,” Eleanor panted as she twisted the lid.

  Fred left the room running. The frenzied knocking inside the box continued and a wailing shriek rose from within. At least we knew Lulu wasn’t suffocating. Fred raced back with a crowbar. He shoved Eleanor to one side and applied it to the coffin lid. Made of cheap wood, it splintered apart. Lulu rose out of the shreds of wood and tangle of silk sheets.

  “I am never, ever doing that scene again!” she cried. Tears coursed down her face. Her makeup streaked her cheeks. No movie corpse ever looked more appalling.

  And the mirrors reflected it all. Except, as I turned fully to the door, the mirrors were back in the hallway and there was no earthly reason I should see the room so clearly in them.

  “Watch my sheets,” retorted Sydney. “Don’t snag them.”

  “Damn your sheets. Damn your movie!” Lulu clambered out of the wreck of the coffin and stalked across the room. There were bits of wood in her blonde hair and she’d ripped out at least one seam on the negligee. Eleanor hurried after her.

  Sydney eyed the wreck of the coffin bed. “I don’t know,” he mused. “That has a certain Gothic charm. She wakes in the ruins of a coffin.”

 
“I don’t think we can get Lulu back,” I said. I looked out the door. I could barely see the edge of the mirror or Lulu’s passing as she stalked toward the stairs. The disorientation made me feel strange, as if I had taken a step and missed my footing. That odd fall that happens somewhere between waking and dreaming.

  “Renee, darling, come here.” Sydney motioned to my sister. “What do you think?”

  Renee looked over the ruins of the bed as she would have looked at any set up in any movie. Props did fail, all the time. Walls fell down. Glasses shattered. Actors tripped over footstools. All of this was simply the stuff of an ordinary day of filming. I looked down at my shaking hands. Why was I suddenly convinced of some supernatural malice? It was ridiculous.

  Renee discussed possible solutions with Sydney. She shone at this, the ability to quickly adapt a scene and get an extra thrill out of it. “Show one sister going to bed in the coffin and then show another rising from it?” she said.

  Sydney nodded. “That’s the ticket. Fred, can you cast a shadow across Renee’s face to make the suggestion of the mask that is to come?”

  Fred nodded and started to shift the curtains and reflecting walls about. Using one lamp, he was able cast a dark shadow across the pillows left disarrayed by Lulu’s escape. “Like this?” he asked.

  “Very good,” said Sydney.

  “I need to change,” Renee said. “I have a robe that is similar to Lulu’s upstairs.”

  “I’ll help,” I said and ran up the stairs ahead of Renee to fetch her white robe out of the closet. Once she joined me, I helped her take off her dress and placed the robe over the simple peach slip that she wore.

  “No need to change completely into a gown and robe,” Renee said. “Especially if Sydney’s concentrating on my head and shoulders.”

  “Do you want to redo your makeup so it’s closer to how we did Lulu?” I sorted through the brushes and pots on her traveling case. It opened out in three tiers, with trays stored above and below that were filled with makeup that Renee favored.