SLClimer - Rumours of the Grotesque

by Rumours of the Grotesque (v1. 0) [lit]

  False Angels

  "Remember stories Aunt Alice used to tell us about Kuolema?” Melanie smiled as she and her sister, Dale, drove down the long, winding road to Alice's old farmhouse.

  "What's Kuolema?” her strikingly beautiful, lithe sister asked.

  Melanie couldn't believe she didn't recall. “Kuolema. Don't you remember the stories? Kuolema was the personification of death in Norse mythology. Aunt Alice used to tell me stories that every time a fish was caught, Kuolema was there to take the fish to the afterlife; and every time a Viking was slain in battle, Kuolema was on the battlefield. When Uncle Joe died, she told me Kuolema was in the cemetery."

  "I don't remember any of that.” Dale sighed as her eyes wandered out the window. “God, I didn't want to come with you anyway. You were her favorite."

  "Please, don't be like that,” Melanie said. “She loved all of us."

  "She was creepy."

  "She was eccentric."

  "Eccentric?” Dale laughed. “She grew mushrooms in her basement, and she always had that foul stinking pot simmering on her woodstove. I never figured out what that crap was."

  "It was mistletoe and herbs, and the hooves of a horse.” Melanie smiled at the memory. “I liked that smell."

  "Whatever.” Dale fiddled with the radio and checked the time. “I knew I shouldn't have come. I have better things to do."

  Melanie seemed hurt by her sister's ambivalence to their mission. “Look, Ms. Popularity, you'll be back at college soon enough. Your sorority won't miss your lovely face."

  "It's not the sorority I'm missing,” Dale grinned, always capitalizing on a chance to point out their differences in appearance. “I'm sorry, Mel. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

  "Hurt my feelings?” she asked rhetorically. “You've always had a talent for those one-sided comments."

  "Look, I don't want to fight with you. Let's just get there, go through her stuff, and get back to school."

  Dale turned up the radio so she wouldn't have to speak to Melanie anymore. It was at times like these that Melanie wished they were closer. Their father had died two years ago, and since then things had never been the same. Glancing at Dale, who began to drift off to sleep, she felt the familiar emotions of envy and jealousy.

  Dale was so beautiful—too beautiful to look at, almost. Sometimes the sight of her made Melanie ill. It was a sickness in her heart, though. She was never the popular one, or the beautiful one. Maudlin Mel, that's what her Uncle Joe had called her once. Aunt Alice had exploded because of that crack. She had screamed at him about self-esteem and protection, and all those things feminists readily preach about at rallies these days. Aunt Alice always told her that her hair was a beautiful, sultry shade of blonde; others called it pee yellow. It's true, Aunt Alice was a queer, lanky woman with peculiar habits, but she was Mel's most favorite person on the earth.

  After another uncomfortable hour in the car, they finally arrived at Aunt Alice's remote farmhouse. As Mel pulled to a stop on the muddy road before going up the winding dirt driveway, Dale awoke from her nap.

  "Are we here?” she asked.

  "We're here,” Melanie answered while gazing upon the house's impressive, gothic facade.

  "What are we doing, then? Drive up there."

  "Just a second, I want to look at it from here. I want to remember how it looks."

  "Earth to Miss Memory Lane—let's go,” Dale prompted her sister rudely.

  "You really should have more respect,” Mel said while putting the car back into gear.

  As they eased up the hilly drive, Dale noticed something peculiar about the estate. “Why isn't there anyone else here?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, there's no cars, there's no people—nothing,” Dale observed. “I thought people would be crawling all over this place to get their hands on her antiques."

  "I don't know,” Melanie agreed with her sister. “It does seem too barren."

  "Devoid of life is more like it."

  Melanie stopped the car near the old, dilapidated garage and chicken coop, and they got out. The muddy soil stuck to their shoes as the sisters walked up the broken walkway. Melanie paused upon reaching the large, wrap-around front porch, and suddenly stopped. The porch brought back more wonderful memories of summers past with Aunt Alice. She was the only person who ever loved her, Melanie thought. Dale was always so beautiful and popular, and she was always overlooked.

  Melanie smiled at the buckled boards of the floor and remembered how she thought they were waves in the ocean. Aunt Alice used to tell stories about how dragons lived in the ocean off the coast of Scandinavia—their ancestral home. She said the waves were just like the floor boards, and maybe dragons lived under the porch, too.

  "C'mon, Mel, let's get this over with,” Dale said.

  The sisters wiped their feet upon the welcome mat before opening the front door. It was uncharacteristically unlocked; Melanie found that disturbing.

  "Hello?” Melanie called through the vacant parlor decorated in burgundy and mauve.

  Dale entered behind her older sister. “I can't believe it, everything's gone. What vultures."

  "C'mon, let's look around,” Melanie said as more memories flooded back from the past.

  The parlor was where Aunt Alice told her stories. She would spin fantastic tales by candlelight about ghosts and spirits, but mostly about Kuolema. Kuolema was everywhere death was, and if death wasn't there, she was waiting nearby. In her mind, Melanie could see the bank of vanilla candles glowing upon the library table. Their fragrant aroma filled her with warm memories of Aunt Alice and her extraordinary stories.

  "I can still smell the vanilla,” Melanie said.

  "Vanilla?” Dale grumbled. “All I smell is that horrible boiling pot."

  "I smell that, too."

  "No one is going to buy this house. That smell is in the carpet, the drapes, and I wouldn't be surprised if it's embedded in the wood."

  "Nonsense,” Melanie said. “C'mon, let's go upstairs. I don't see anything left in here."

  "I'll say.” Dale followed her sister. “I bet there's nothing left in the whole house."

  "If there's anything left for us, I know where it would be."

  "Really?” Dale said. “Did Aunt Alice have some kind of secret room or something?"

  Melanie paused in mid-stride on the stairs. “As a matter of fact, she did."

  As they climbed the stairs, Melanie's eyes scanned the imposing, deep oak staircase. She was saddened; all of Aunt Alice's ornate touches had been picked clean like grocery shelves before a hurricane. Upon the walls were white patches where pictures used to hang, and the stairs were perfectly preserved where Aunt Alice's Persian runner used to lay.

  Her death was not unexpected, but it hurt just the same. The family had prepared themselves for her death, but most were probably relieved to have the bizarre old woman out of their hair. Melanie was the only one who thought she was fantastic, she was sure of it.

  "Up this way,” Melanie said as she pushed open one of the heavy wooden doors into one of the many vacant rooms.

  "This is making me feel really weird,” Dale said while following. “She couldn't just get a trunk or a safety deposit box, could she?"

  The sisters crept across the creaking wood floor until they reached the huge walk-in closet of the bare bedroom. Melanie wasn't scared like Dale; this was practically her second home as a child. Dale couldn't appreciate a good secret hiding spot like she could.

  "Don't you remember this room?” Melanie asked. “We used to sleep in here when we were little girls."

  "I don't remember.” She dismissed the notion like a bad taste. “Anyway, I think it was a room down the hall."

  "No, it was this one. That's how I found this secret room."

  Dale scanned the closet. “I don't see anything. It's just a big walk-in closet. There's nothing in here. It's been picked over just like the rest of the house."

  Melanie grinned, pleased
with her little secret. She went to the far wall and felt along the seam where the wall met the low ceiling. It would take a careful eye to notice the hairline crack in the rough-cut pine was actually a small door. She shoved her fingers into the narrow space and popped open the small portal that only came up to her chest.

  "If she left anything of real value, it would be in here.” Melanie held open the door. “Do you want to go first?"

  "Not on your life.” Dale stood back. “You go first, big sister."

  With not an ounce of apprehension, Melanie scooted through the door and immediately found the naked light bulb hanging in the middle of the secret space. Dale followed and was genuinely surprised at the relative size of the secret room; the square footage was just shy of the smallest bedroom. As stark light from the bulb stabbed the shadows into submission, Melanie and Dale noticed the room was also as bare as the house—except for an antique trunk sitting against the far wall.

  "Look, Dale, you said why couldn't she just have a trunk.” Melanie went to it, but Dale was stunned.

  "That's it? She hid one lousy trunk?"

  "Maybe it's full of jewelry or money.” Melanie grabbed the worn leather handle and pulled it into the light.

  Dale waved at the dust her sister was whipping into the stale air. “Are there any other secret little rooms around here?"

  "No, none that I know of.” Melanie knelt before the trunk.

  Dale joined her. “Well, I hope she made this good."

  "She did, Dale.” Melanie popped the old metal latch. “I was her favorite."

  The ancient trunk lid protested its opening like an old alligator. Dust and cobwebs clung to the lip and stretched as the top was opened wider and wider. Melanie peered in the dark crack, hoping to be the first to see the treasure within. Then, as light struck the deep insides of the box, both sisters sighed with bewilderment.

  Dale stuck in her hand and pulled out a fistful of plants. “Mistletoe? She hid a trunk full of mistletoe up here?” She threw the plants back into the trunk. “She was crazy."

  Melanie, too, was disappointed. “Wait, maybe there's something else."

  "What else could be in there? She was insane."

  "Stop talking about her like that, she wasn't crazy. You may not have loved her, but I did. I understood her, and she was the only one who cared about me."

  Dale, stunned by the frank outburst, stood silent. Melanie returned her attention to the trunk and began to paw through the mistletoe. Feeling around, she hoped to discover some hidden treasure—if only to make Dale feel bad about talking so rashly about Aunt Alice. It could be true, though, maybe Aunt Alice was just a daffy bat. Then, her hand ran up against something solid.

  "There's something in here!” Melanie said excitedly.

  "Pull it out.” Dale moved closer. “What is it?"

  "I don't know, it's kind of hard. It feels like a hockey puck.” Melanie brought the foreign object into the light, but still couldn't figure out what it was. Then she turned it. “Gross, it's a horse's hoof."

  "Get it away from me!” Dale shouted with a look of repugnance upon her face.

  Melanie put it on the floor next to the trunk and began to search again. “There's got to be something in here."

  "It's just that shit she used to boil on the stove. I can smell it, and it's making me sick."

  "Wait, there's something more.” Melanie's hand came to rest on what felt like velvet. She pulled it through the loose mistletoe, and verified that it was indeed a swatch of velvet wrapped around an object the size of a baseball.

  "What is it?” Dale asked.

  "I don't know,” Melanie replied. “It's heavy."

  She pulled open the soft covering and revealed the mysterious commodity; it was a clear paperweight with a small crack deep inside. The fracture was incredible, and at first Melanie thought it was a decorative pattern. The break was about an inch in length, but other web-like cracks spread out like angel wings. In fact, it resembled a small brittle angel or preserved hummingbird.

  "It's a paperweight.” Melanie admired it in the light.

  "I've had enough.” Dale stood and looked around. “There's nothing left of value in this whole house."

  "This is worth something,” Melanie said, mesmerized by the beauty of the antique paperweight.

  "You keep it.” With three large steps, Dale was at the door. “I want to go back now. I knew this would be a waste of time."

  "Can I have the trunk, too?"

  "I don't care, whatever, let's go.” Dale stepped from the room.

  Melanie tossed the horse hoof in the old trunk, then carefully put the paperweight to rest as well. Then, she dragged the trunk to the secret door and out into the real world.

  "Help me get this down the stairs, please,” Melanie asked her sister.

  "It's your stupid trunk. I'm sure it's not that heavy."

  "But it's bulky."

  "Look, you're a big girl,” Dale snapped. “I just had my nails done and I'm going to a party. I'm not taking a chance on breaking them. Anyway, this was all your idea."

  "Fine, don't help me.” Melanie struggled to carry the trunk. “It's funny how gung-ho you were when you thought there was something of value here."

  "Funny—huh?” Dale echoed with bitchy sarcasm.

  Conversation ceased at that moment, and the two sisters didn't say a word during the grueling return trip. Melanie really didn't mind, though. She was able to be alone with her thoughts. Dale's behavior was typical of her spoiled little sister. Still, a small part of Melanie's heart hoped one day her sister would surprise everyone and think of others first.

  Melanie dropped Dale off at her sorority house and was ignored by everyone as the prettier sister returned to her world of popularity. Sighing, Melanie drove home. Her thoughts wandered to the trunk and the exquisite paperweight within. Aunt Alice never once mentioned such a beautiful object; Melanie would remember because she hung on Alice's every breath. It was also peculiar that the trunk was the only thing left in the house. Like vultures, all the relatives had picked the house clean of its meat.

  After pulling into the parking space of her apartment, Melanie went around to the hatchback to get the trunk. Dale had helped her get the bulky thing into the car, but there was no one to help get it out—much less navigate the treacherous stairs of her apartment house.

  Miraculously, she was able to get the trunk out and pulled it along to the door. Once she had built up a momentum, pushing it up the stairs wasn't as difficult as she thought it would be.

  The chest seemed much larger now that it was in her tiny studio apartment. Reaching down, she opened the latch. As the lid was lifted, Melanie could smell the aroma of the mistletoe and the lingering staleness of Aunt Alice's house. More warm memories were created by the stimulation, and she had the sudden urge to put on a pot of the boiling mixture.

  With the trunk open, she scooped up a handful of the dried dark green leaves and berries. Melanie took them to the sink, put them in a large saucepan, and filled it with water. Then, she placed it on the stove and cranked it to high.

  As the concoction heated on the stove, Melanie knelt in front of the trunk. Fishing through the sea of mistletoe, she found the horse's hoof and placed it on the floor beside her. Momentarily, she considered putting it in the water on the stove but thought it was most likely the source of any unsavory odors. She elected to boil pure mistletoe instead.

  Then, she pulled the velvet swatch from the chest. The paperweight was heavy in her hand, and the coolness of the glass was transcending the cloth trappings. Carefully, Melanie undressed the paperweight and felt the glass in her hand. Indeed, it was cool—almost cold like ice.

  Aunt Alice never mentioned the paperweight, and it was never out in her house. Why did she keep such a treasure hidden? And why was it in a trunk full of mistletoe? Maybe everyone was right; Aunt Alice was a strange bird. Still, Melanie didn't care at all. She just loved the old woman with all her heart.

  "This is s
o beautiful,” she whispered aloud as light caught the queer fracture within the glass.

  The break seemed bright, and it shimmered as if it were on fire. It was intense, too, like shimmering fireworks of a Chinese New Year. Melanie thought it was an incredible sight. The light had a quality of lucidity and liquid, but there was something puzzling and queer occurring. The light was pulsing and growing, surging forth like a slow-to-light incandescent bulb.

  Fearing the emerging quality of the paperweight, Melanie closed the trunk and placed the object upon the lid. She stood back and watched as the light swelled, surged beyond the boundary of the glass, and rose like a bean stalk above. Mesmerized and confused, Melanie could only watch the fantastic show before her.