Able to recognize that voice anywhere, it was Zoe. Justin accompanying her, Missy tried not to let the nasal whine get to her. The meeting was bound to happen, but even if inevitable, there was just something about this skank that crawled under Missy’s skin.
“I love all your costumes,” she continued, striking the exact note of Nero’s violin, “but, Melissa, why on earth did you want to dress up like a rat? Not getting enough of being a rodent in our little dance extravaganza?”
The flush of humiliation spread over Missy’s alabaster skin, spilling like red paint on marble. About to say something, someone beat her to it.
“She's a freakin' cat, you smart ass bitch! Now back off and go haunt a crypt! It's where I hear you and Justin like to do it!”
A quick look confirmed that her defender was Kurt. Her knight in shining armor had come back with a vengeance. Casting a grateful glance, Melissa mouthed, “Thank you.”
Waiting a moment for Zoe to leave, she did so with flair. Pivoting, she took Justin and her French maid’s costume with her. The danger gone, Kurt performed a masterful bow.
“Now, if you'll excuse me,” he added.
Not about to let him get away without showing her gratitude, Melissa snagged a hold of his cape, rising up onto demi point. Pulling him down by his shirt collar, she planted a kiss on his cheek. Grinning widely, he ran back to his buddies who high fived him for being the first one at the party to get a kiss.
“Anyone want a drink? Brandi asked. “The cooler's over there.”
“Yeah! Hope there's some beer left,” Collette said, striding in the direction of the treasure chest of beverages. Ducking her head in, she pulled out a beer for everyone except Melissa.
“This okay?” she queried, handing her a diet cola.
“Sure,” Melissa replied. Pulling the tab she threw it into one of several giant trash bags that had been placed around the site. Music starting to flow through speakers, it attracted a crowd more than ready to move to something more primal than classical movements.
“Wanna dance, Missy?” Collette asked, taking a few sips of the domestic brew.
“Not really, but go ahead. I'll just sit here and watch,” she replied, nestling on a large downed tree.
“You don't mind?”
“Course not. Have fun,” she responded wistfully. Staring at the flames ascending and descending in an odd sort of ballet, she speculated on the reasons she wasn't joining the others. The fire spitting a response, she was afraid of intimacy. By taking herself out of the game before someone else did, she was preempting the rejection that was bound to occur.
A creeping mist traveling through her veins, she was getting that feeling again ... the one that insisted she was being watched. Placing her forehead against her fingers, she wondered if she should look around. It was silly to allow a foolish impulse to dictate her actions. Besides, there were most likely people watching. There was no doubt that plenty in the crowd were engaged in scoping out the talent, but even after the rationalization, the sensation remained. The problem was that the observation didn’t feel random. It felt fixated, malevolent, and as black as night.
“Hi, there.”
A barely male voice invaded her thoughts. It was Jeff—looking forlorn and uncomfortable. While she didn't harbor any romantic feelings, she didn't have any negative ones either.
“Hi, Jeff. Why don't you sit down?”
“Can I? I mean, is it alright? With you, I mean?”
God, he seemed so young! Just 18, kids grew up fast these days—or so she'd heard. Feeling a pang of sympathy for the polite Midwesterner, it wasn't his fault that he sucked as a dance partner.
“Sure, that's what I mean,” she answered, indicating the place to her side.
Reaching over, she added tinder to the fire. Quickly catching, she put on another log. On a night like this, she doubted anyone wanted the blaze going out.
The dancing had degraded from social to downright dirty. Both noting the lewdness, Jeff shrugged it off. His response was endearing and broke the barrier Missy had erected. Tepidly starting to chat about inconsequential things, the talk turned more personal as Jeff began to share his aspirations of becoming a top male dancer. Putting a marshmallow on a stick, she toasted it in the roaring flames as he poured his heart out.
“Do you think I could make it?” he asked.
“Why not?” she replied, gingerly touching the too hot scorched skin.
“What about as a partner? Am I any good?”
With the help of the wind, the charred surface cooled enough for a sampling. Nibbling, she pulled out a small bit, letting it melt in her mouth. The confection was absolutely delicious.
“Well?”
He wasn’t about to let the subject drop. Debating about what she should say, she definitely wasn’t one to give people false hopes, but she didn't feel in any position to be passing judgment on someone's skills either.
“I think you have potential, but a little rough around the edges. It happens when you start late, but you’ll be fine with a little more practice.”
Hanging his head, he rubbed his eyes, a wry smile turning his frown upside down.
“Fair enough. You know, I like you Melissa. You're not like the other girls. You seem so mature for your age.”
“You mean old?” Biting more deeply, she was rewarded with plenty of gooey, white sugar.
“Old? No, you look young. Real young. It's just you've got this sophistication about you. And I don't know why you didn't get Clara, or one of the other solos.”
“Thanks, that makes two of us,” she remarked sarcastically, her buddies interrupting the faltering conversation. Since they were back for a breather, Jeff took his leave, excusing himself.
“He didn't have to do that,” Tina remarked.
“Oh, yes, he did!” Collette joked, snapping her fingers.
The music suddenly deadened as the voice of Bradley Sachs harkened the partygoers to listen. Acting as an informal master of ceremonies, his ring master’s costume was perfect.
“Okay, fellow Zelofskyites! According to my moon dial, it's a couple hours to go until midnight and the perfect time for a ghoulish tale or two. So gather ‘round, pilgrims. You're about to be scared into such a state of hysteria that your parents will be paying for therapy for years. Now who wants to go first?”
Collette squeezed in next to her. Giving Tina and Brandi enough room, they happily co-existed on the huge log. The rest of the students crowded around the tree stump designated for the storyteller.
Hands shooting up all around, Bradley picked Gwen to begin. A small girl, she packed a powerful jump in her dance arsenal. Bending down, he picked a long stick off the ground.
“Okay, this is a talking stick. Whoever holds the stick gets to talk. Whoever doesn’t gets to listen.” Swiveling, he handed it to her. “When you're done, pass it on.”
Trotting over to the refreshments, he snatched an ale and claimed a seat next to his best buddy, Kurt. Gwen started. Her voice tremulous and shaky at first, it got better as she went along. Imparting her creepy tale about the strange doings at her hometown cemetery—it was a place where bodies didn't remain buried for long.
Putting her soda down, Missy rested her head on Collette’s shoulder. An owl flying overhead, it perched on a nearby branch of a poplar. His hoot added just the right ambience. Justin headed over to join his male compadres leaving Zoe alone. Standing awkwardly, she waved to Brandi who reciprocated. Taking it as an invitation she carefully wended her way through the crowd. With no more room on the downed tree, she sat on the ground. Doing her best to ignore the relocation, Melissa refused to be distracted by her negative presence. Although only separated by Collette’s trim body, she chose to be entertained by the tale, and not angered by the provocateur.
Gwen finished to a rousing round of applause. More speakers taking their turns, the stories were building in intensity. Thoroughly enjoying herself, Tina was next. Feeling her throat becoming parched, Missy reached fo
r her soda. Misjudging its distance, she almost knocked it over. Taking a few fast gulps, she resettled, listening to her friend’s retelling of her cousin's exploits. Breaking the cardinal rule of never going down in the basement with a faulty flashlight, it was something no one should ever do when alone.
Tina's story was a unanimous hit. Wondering how much of it were true, the cold was starting to get to her. Zipping her jacket up all the way, she snuggled closer to Collette. Yawning, she began to feel a bit tired. Remembering that cola contains caffeine, she took a few more fast sips of the soda. Looking up, she was surprised to see that Zoe had possession of the talking stick. While the troublemaker loved being center stage, she would have never pegged her for a teller of eerie tales. Supposing there was always a first time for everything, she yawned again, ready to hear another frightening object lesson of what happens to idiots crossing paranormal boundaries on Halloween.
A strong wind whistled through the trees. The light of the fire highlighting Zoe’s beauty, the branches swayed. Dried leaves falling, faint rustlings echoed in the woods. This was the scary place that Melissa had wanted to avoid, and yet, here she was sitting in the center of it. As Zoe began, a sense of paranoia was growing—the arm of her friend draped over her shoulder helping to calm her down.
“Buried deeply within the bowels of history, there was a time when pagan mythology mixed with Christian faith. The two disparate belief systems were combined, and out of the blend, a guarded secret arose. Attempting to explain the process we call death, the ending of a life was always what frightened us the most. The ancients were no different than we are today, and so they sought an explanation for the passage of the living into the world of the dead. The need precipitated an answer, and soon a spiritual outcast called the Angel of Death was blamed. Holding this dark spectre responsible for the evil, a suitable parable accompanied the birth of this ruthless entity that had no respect for the sanctity of life. The fable detailed his victimization, but he, and it, disappeared into the shrouded mists of time.
“Dark mysteries rarely find final resting places, and this legend was no exception to that rule. It lingered in the deepest recesses of our subconscious, haunting our imagination until it was resurrected by a plague. Called the Black Death, it was so named because it turned its victim's limbs to a gangrenous ebony. Sweeping across Europe, millions died in unimaginable agony, while others were forced to witness the harvesting. The reaping of souls cut through the fragile shielding of existence, and caused a panic to lodge in the backs of the throats of those valuing their feeble lives. It was in the midst of this turmoil, the ghost of a tale once told was revived.
“One by one, drawings of this taker of lives began appearing on the doors of a church. Occupying the hallowed Cemetery of the Innocents in Paris, Death was finally given a form—and a face. Depicted as a skeleton, he carried a sharp scythe. The forgotten tale emerged along with it. The stories told of the Grim Reaper wandering on dark, deserted roads. Waiting for a wayward traveler, when an errant journeyman crosses his path, he takes the intended victim by the hand, whispering, ‘Momento mori,’ in his ear. Meaning, ‘Remember, thou too shall die,’ it is a gentle reminder of our mortality. After delivering the ominous message, he leads the straggler to a clearing where he partners them in the Dance of Death.
“This is the legend that inspired Camille Saint Saens to write The Danse Macabre. It is a paean to our eventual fate. The Devil’s Key is housed in the music, and even the mention of its name can call this Dark Angel to your side. The ballet is said to be cursed, bringing death and destruction to anyone who attempts to dance it, and yet, it is this ballet that Una Velofsky has selected for us to perform.”
A masterful pause drew nervous titters and squeamish sounds to batter the forest's silence. A horrible exhaustion gaining ground, it dulled Melissa’s mind, making her more susceptible to the wicked queen’s words.
“Even now, after you’ve been made aware of the ballet’s tainted past, you may feel immune, but I can assure you that you are not. You see, there are others—made of flesh and blood—that will make sure this death sentence is carried out. What you do not know is that there is a secret society that honors this ancient tradition. Given birth under the crush of the black cloud that enveloped Europe, it’s this group that is responsible for the drawings that appeared on that church’s door. Appropriating the name of the holy place housing their drawings, they called themselves, ‘The Innocents.’
“The Innocents are true believers in the mayhem of death. Springing out of a mixture of fanaticism and sorcery, they are no more than a cult. Many branches grew out of the original lodge, but each faction was restricted to thirteen. The members are devoutly sworn to secrecy, and dedicate themselves to the retelling of the Danse Macabre in its entirety. To do this, each follower is given the chance to play the Angel of Death. Once cast in the role, it is they that get to decide who will live ... and who will die.
“I can see by your lack of concern that you think this is a fantasy … a bizarre story that I’m telling you on this night before Halloween, but you’re wrong. There is a method to my madness and a reason for my imparting this tale. You see, offshoots of this group are scattered worldwide. Clever and cunning, their agenda always included meting out their brand of terror on the unsuspecting public. More than successful in achieving that aim, there is even a branch of this demonic brotherhood residing in Holybrook.”
Alarmed shrieks emanated from several females. Their screams piercing the air, the hairs on the back of Missy’s neck stood on end. Her old fears crashing back, she was convinced that she was being watched. Her nervousness causing her throat to tighten, she glanced around. Most in the audience scared out of their minds, their restlessness made it impossible for the story to continue.
Swallowing several deep gulps of the carbonated drink, she wiped at the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand. Hearing the branches of the trees stirring, a frigid wind had kicked up. The temperature dropping, a proactive student threw another log on the dwindling fire. She was happy that at least one person had kept their wits. Nestling against Collette, her friend cradled her head in her arms.
“I see the skepticism in some of your faces, but you can see for yourselves. The evidence is all around! Just look at the carvings in the trees! The X's and number 13 are etched into the trunks with cutlery so sharp as to peel the skin from a baby lamb, and for very good reason. It is here that the unholy thirteen met. Their blasphemous ceremonies shielded from prying eyes, the forest was an accomplice in their crimes.
“You see, Death cannot exist without a victim, and it was under this paradigm that a diabolical scheme was carried out. All the members considered to be fine, upstanding citizens, they were aware that dead bodies draw attention. And so to keep their activities from being discovered, the brotherhood hid their hideous deeds. Adhering to the original legend, they drew hoods over their heads, choosing weary travelers to prey upon. Knowing that vagrants could be eliminated without raising a fuss, these victims fell with no notice that anything was wrong. And so it was that the legend about those who walked down a dark road meeting their end became true. A hitchhiker here, a drunk over there; one-by-one unwitting sacrifices were lured into the woods.
“The premeditated course of evil worked like a warlock's charm. With every death, they grew stronger. More adept in their powers. They sided with the Devil, and in return, they were rewarded beyond their wildest dreams. While non-believers did see lights and chanting voices coming from the woods, there was only speculation.
“It’s here that a disconnect took place. A sense of incompleteness festered within the group. It was stirred by the crimes’ anonymity. Victims no one missed didn’t inspire fear, and fear was the component that remained absent. They’d become too skilled at murder, and their success troubled them. Angry that their neighbors lived in comfort, they decided to teach the town a lesson in respect and humility. They sought an effective way to make the town obey their master.
“The remedy quickly became apparent. They all agreed that the next victim would be known. Narrowing down the options, they settled on a girl ... ” Standing, she casually strolled through the people now clutching together, stopping before Melissa. A sardonic grin overshadowing her young face with the callowness of sin, she pointed the long stick straight at the dancer she'd grown to hate, “…a girl very much like Melissa Solange.”
Zoe’s flawless face contorted into a mixture of disgust and condemnation. Spitting out the next words that collected as vomit, Missy hadn’t expected the verbal assault.
“Barbara Moore was also a nothing girl. A plain girl. A girl so ordinary and dull that you'd pass her in the street—not even noticing her walking by. She rarely went out, preferring to keep to herself. Awkward and shy, they devised a plot to lure her into the woods. The scheme hatched, a member was appointed to befriend her. The overture successful, they laughed as she lapped up the male attention. The insincere flattery worked better than they ever imagined. A few dates were all that were required to capture her heart.
“Now that she was in the member's hip pocket, the Lothario proposed a picnic in the forest. While she’d heard stories about the strange noises and flickering lights coming from the deepest parts of the woods, she dismissed them as talk. The girl that erred on caution didn't that day. Instead, she looked forward to a romantic dalliance under the cover of the hot sun and brilliant blue sky.
“She packed a few sandwiches, and took along fruit and homemade jam. Driving her to the location, the couple walked hand-in-hand to this clearing—the place where you sit. Spreading out a blanket, he poured a glass of wine in which he’d slipped a powerful sedative. It didn't take long for her to fall into a deep, unbroken sleep. Awakening at midnight, she was confused—and alone. She called out his name, but all she heard was a disembodied voice say an odd phrase.
ʻMomento mori, Barbara’
“She was decapitated—her head hidden in the hollow of one of these trees. Her family reported her missing, but no one except the cult knew what had happened. As the days and weeks dragged on, no suspicion was cast upon the murderers. They’d won. The girl’s disappearance elicited the intended paranoia as a cloud of hysteria descended upon the residents Holybrook. Wanting to believe that she’d run away, too many people had seen the bonfires burning brightly in the night. Too many had heard the distant chant:
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