The option to leave is still with her. There are still no signs of life in this house.
She closes her eyes and stands in the muted sunlight for at least a quarter of an hour, not allowing herself to think. Then she rationalizes her still-present desire to see Maria by saying to herself she has to see her, to discover what’s going on here. It’s the only right-minded thing to do. Surely, there is some explanation for what she’s seen. Perhaps the bodies are an art installation, not even real, crafted from plaster, silk strands for the hair…
What, are you crazy? Get the fuck out of here! Now!
She ignores the voice and exits the room. This time, if Maria is behind one of the other doors, she will find her. Find her and confront her. Find her and love her.
Oh God, what’s wrong with me?
Elise stands frozen in the hallway. She notices she’s trembling, and wonders how long her hands have been quivering. The stairs down are just a few steps away.
There is a sound: a slither of cloth hitting the floor, almost imperceptible. Elise turns and believes she knows, now, behind which door at least one of them slumbers. Taking in a lungful of air and letting it out slowly, she screws up her courage and walks toward the door at the end of the hallway, from behind which she assumes the sound has come.
She pauses outside. A large, dark-stained mahogany door is before her. She leans in close to the wood, listening. But it’s still. Is this the wrong door?
That question has only one answer. Elise places her hand on the doorknob, but doesn’t turn. She waits. Her heart is thudding against her chest, painful. Blood is rushing in her ears. Opening this door, she thinks, could have far more significance than the simple act of swinging a panel of wood inward.
“If I told you your art is some of the most meaningful I’ve ever seen, would you believe me?”
Elise recalls Maria posing just such a question to her, only last night, but already their time together is taking on the sepia tinge of a memory far older than just a few hours. The question had confused her, then. Was Maria being genuine or merely flattering her for her own selfish purposes?
“No, really. There is something that comes alive in these drawings you do. You draw death, but by making it so real, you emphasize life. There’s a contrast there and I understand it. I understand you.”
And Elise sees Maria then, standing before her, holding her face in her hands with all the care of a patron, someone who has a deep appreciation for beauty, who knows beauty that goes far beyond than merely being pleasing to look at. Elise recalls the dark, dark eyes of Maria boring into her own, seeing her pain, her vulnerability, but also her talent, the essence that gave her no choice but to create.
That frozen moment before Maria leaned in to kiss her.
Again, Elise tells herself such a woman would never do anything to harm her. There has to be an explanation for everything, and the only way to get that explanation, to resolve things, is to confront her. Elise turns the knob and swings the door open slowly, trying to make sure it doesn’t creak, trying to take her time because of the very rational fear of what might be lying in wait for her on the other side of the door.
She pauses at the threshold. It takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
All three of them are there, lying next to one another on a huge canopy bed. A red velvet coverlet conceals much of their sleeping forms. Heavy red velvet curtains are drawn at the window. Elise experiences a flash of jealousy that almost burns. She hates the thought that Maria left her bed to return to this one, is sleeping with these two men, with these men, one of whom is pompous and arrogant—a user.
But she realizes she doesn’t know what their relationship is, what history they share.
Elise waits a little longer, hand on doorknob, until the light in the room becomes gray and she can see well enough to approach the bed. Her resolve withering, she thinks maybe it might not be a bad idea to postpone her confrontation—no, make that talk—with Maria for a little while. What is she going to do? Shake her from sleep and make demands:
“Why are you living in this abandoned house?”
“How do the three of you support yourselves? How do you pay the bills? How do you eat?”
“Do you eat?”
“What are those skeletons in your closet?”
Elise lets loose a mournful laugh at this last question. She’s never thought of it before in such a literal sense.
No, she will wait. Slowly, she moves closer to the bed. She wants just one more look at Maria; just to see her again will be enough. She approaches, a small smile creasing her features. Just a chance to lay my hand on her cheek while she sleeps will make this trip worthwhile. As she nears, she sees Maria’s tousled black hair sticking out from under the top of the coverlet.
She freezes.
Something is wrong. It takes her a second to figure out why this tableau is so disturbing, and when she does, she doesn’t want to accept what she sees: These people don’t appear to sleep. There is no rise and fall of chests, no sounds, no drowsy slow movements.
They lie still as corpses.
Suddenly, the darkened room seems oppressive, the flocked wallpaper closing in. Elise moves nearer, noticing that Maria’s face looks different from the one she remembers with such passion from the night before. All of their faces, in fact, look scarred; darkened areas rim their mouths. Elise brings her face close to Maria. Crusty dried blood covers Maria’s face in patches. Elise finds she cannot swallow when she sees tiny flecks of skin in the corners of Maria’s lips.
She cannot stand. Elise drops to her knees next to the bed. She is panting and her shortness of breath makes her wonder why she felt no breath from Maria when she leaned in close to her face.
Her stomach roils. The room spins. She is certain she will faint, but steels herself against the possibility, though she is not sure she can stop herself. She raises her head enough to look again at Maria’s face in repose, just to reassure herself she isn’t hallucinating, but it’s all still there: the crust of blood, the sickening, still-moist bits of flesh, like rotting meat.
Perhaps she’s hurt herself. Stop it! Elise admonishes with an internal scream. Just stop it. Your own eyes are not lying to you. Your eyes have been the one reliable thing in your whole miserable life. On shaky legs, Elise manages to stand. She is biting the loose area of flesh on her hand between thumb and forefinger.
It’s kind of a relief. Common sense is rushing in, replacing her wild desire and near obsession for this strange woman who managed to carve a significant place in her life in such a short time. Was it through trickery? Seduction? Black magic? Hallucination?
Elise stands and stares at the dark shapes in the room: the armoire, the fireplace, the heavy draperies pulled tight against summer’s light just on the other side. She realizes she must leave. If—later—she hears a motorcycle pulling up outside her building, she will hide and will not come out until the knocking at her door has ceased and the sound of the motorcycle diminishes as it rumbles away.
She will go back to working on her art, but she will also work on getting someone else to look at it. Someone who at least appears to breathe, who does not sleep with blood on her face.
The thought of the blood causes a fresh wave of horror to hit her. And the horror pumps up a rush of adrenaline, enough to make her walk to the bedroom door quick and sure. I can do it, she thinks, I can really do it. She begins to walk faster, the doorway yawning open before her, welcoming: a means of escape.
Just as she gets to it, though, Maria’s voice from the bed stops her. “Elise? Elise, please don’t run away.”
Elise turns around slowly, feeling herself pulled in two directions at once.
Maria is sitting up. The red blankets have fallen away; her breasts are ghostly white in the darkness. The sight is so beautiful, it weakens Elise. She swivels her head toward the open doorway to regard it longingly, as if someone has actually placed hands on her shoulders and is preventing her from walk
ing through it.
“Elise, my darling. There’s so much I have to tell you. So much you don’t understand.” Maria holds out her hand. “Come. Lie beside me and let me tell you, tell you everything.”
And Elise starts toward her, wanting so much to feel the touch of that cold hand on her skin.
“Don’t be afraid, my sweet. As you know, I would never harm you.”
And then Maria smiles. Elise raises a knuckle to her mouth, to stifle the scream.
Maria displays not teeth but rows of tiny fangs.
The room blurs, then darkens completely as Elise collapses.
Chapter Ten
1954
With each descending step, two warring factions in Edward’s psyche revved up, arms drawn for battle to the death. The common sense camp, which—even before he ran into Terence—was a rag-tag team, weak and disorganized, was attempting to band together to convince Edward that taking even one step further down into the gloom and shadows, the cold, mildew-scented air, and the ghostly strains of Vivaldi’s L’inverno was one step closer to insanity, pain, or even death. This camp, fear heightening its readiness for battle, was urging Edward to flee, knowing him well enough to realize that his fight abilities were, at best, very limited.
The other camp, the one that Freud would call the id, and the one others might refer to as the hedonistic faction, was a stronger bunch: wild, hearty, and unaware of their own strength, or perhaps heedless of it. Ruled by pleasure, a disregard for danger, and a love for the unknown, this group urged Edward forward, arguing that, first, he might miss out on great pleasure and love if he were to turn back now, and second, his art might prosper from what promised to be a unique experience.
It didn’t really matter which side Edward paid more heed to, because while his mind was reeling Terence was leading him further and further down the long flight of wide stone stairs.
They reached the bottom, and Edward tapped around with the toe of his boot, searching for a path free of obstacles. Terence had no problem moving through the darkness.
“Give me a second,” Edward whispered, although he wasn’t certain why he suddenly felt the need to use a softer voice. “I need a second for my eyes to adjust.”
Terence moved behind him and encircled Edward’s waist with his arm. He laid his chin on Edward’s shoulder. “Not much farther.”
The closeness, Edward thought, should have made him feel more at ease, but it served only to ratchet up the tension. Terence’s chill body against his own was at once deliriously exciting and oddly repellant.
Edward didn’t know if his eyes would ever adjust, but gradually they did. He could see enough in the almost pitch darkness to know they were in a second subway station, this one below the first. This one was deep beneath the streets of New York City. Above, people traversed crowded sidewalks ignorant of the bizarre little journey taking place below their hurried paces. To his left, a deeper shade of darkness indicated where the platform dropped off to the tracks. Ahead of him was the even darker entrance to the tunnel, so black it appeared almost palpable, a solid wedge of black; Edward imagined it felt like icy velvet. He could just make out the slightly curving tile work above the opening. He wondered how long ago a train had last snaked through here. He wondered how long ago anyone had stood on this platform, entering or exiting a train. Had anyone ever stood here?
A cold whisper of breath touched his ear. “Ready?” Terence’s breath was fetid; it had a note underneath of something rotting. Edward shivered, imagining what was going on inside Terence, beneath the pallid exterior; were worms writhing inside, the stink of their movements escaping out of his open mouth?
There was no turning back now. “I guess so.” Edward didn’t know if he was heading toward his death, and the thought, curiously, did not terrify him. He imagined death in this scenario as a welcoming embrace, a soft landing, removing him from worldly cares.
“You need to let me lead you. I know my way around better than you do.”
“How did you find this place?”
Terence took both of Edward’s hands in his own and, walking backward with an almost feline grace, began leading him toward what Edward was sure was the tunnel entrance. “I’ve often found that life is much livelier if one allows a little mystery. Some questions remain unanswered. Some questions have more satisfying conclusions if their responses are delayed.”
Edward wished he had the faculty of standing up for himself, the strength to not accept Terence’s silly, couched-in-elegance response. But all he did was slog along behind Terence, relying on him for safe passage.
At the entrance to the tunnel, Terence released his grip on Edward’s hands. The sudden lack of contact almost induced in Edward a feeling of falling. He reached out to Terence, his hands those of a blind man fearing a pitch into an abyss. The metaphor wasn’t far removed from the truth.
“Now, I’m going to drop down from the platform onto the tracks so we can proceed into the tunnel. Once I’m there, I’ll help you get down.”
“This is crazy.” Edward felt like he was whimpering, adopting a childish tone he had assumed he had left behind a long, long time ago. But then, how would he have known he would have ever faced a situation akin to the one he was confronting now? “What if we step on the third rail? We’ll be electrocuted.”
“My Edward, so untrusting. Do you really think I’d let anything happen to you?”
Edward wanted to respond: “How should I know what you would or wouldn’t do? I don’t even know you, beyond the fact that you like to drink blood and are leading me into the tunnel of an unused subway station!” But all he said was, “No.” He could see the ghostly glow of Terence’s white suit as he squatted, then leaped into the darkness of the subway rails. It was like watching a glowing skeleton. Edward’s common sense told him that now would be an excellent time to turn and run. But common sense was being drowned out by a hedonistic chorus, who were singing to Edward the praises of the undiscovered, telling him his life lacked excitement and that to turn away from something as unusual as this would be the folly of the pedestrian. No real artist would ever deny himself such a bizarre experience.
“Coming?” Two white forms, oblong, reached up: Terence’s arms, poised to lower him.
Edward took a step closer to the edge. “Are you sure I’m not too heavy? How much do you weigh, anyway?”
Terence sighed. “I’m stronger than I look.” He snapped his fingers. “Come on. I won’t let you fall.”
Whatever would happen, would happen. Edward closed his eyes and stepped off the platform’s edge.
Terence’s embrace was amazingly strong. Edward felt like a child in his arms. He had expected to be helped down, but Terence was able to easily lift him and swing him through the air, gently setting him down on one of the large wooden beams that ran horizontally beneath the metal tracks. Again grasping his hands, he began to lead him into the tunnel. “It’s not far.”
Edward followed him down a short length of track, making sure his feet never came into contact with metal. The music grew louder as they approached. After about thirty or so paces, Terence stopped. “This way.”
The two turned to the right and suddenly, they were in a smaller, lower tunnel. Gone were the train tracks. Edward’s feet crunched in gravel and dirt. Cobwebs brushed across his face. He heard the twittering and rustling of rats. Something scurried down his collar, making him gasp.
But he noticed that the light at the end of this tunnel was growing brighter as they approached. He could now smell something warmer above the damp mold: roasting pork. The music grew louder and he could differentiate the strings: the violins in continuo. The music and the warmth were doing little to allay his fears, but Terence’s cool firm grip and his movement through the tunnel, effortless and graceful, helped make him feel a bit more confident this adventure would not be his last.
The tunnel ended. The two men stood poised at the entrance to a high-ceilinged room, a cavern.
Edward had never seen
anything like this. The ceiling of the space disappeared into complete darkness, so he had no idea how high up the ceiling was, or if it even existed. Perhaps the room continued upward into infinity. Likewise, the shadows claimed the corners of the room, so it was hard to tell how truly large it was.
What he could see took his breath away. Save for a couple of flocked wine-colored upholstered benches, what might have been called, in an earlier era, swooning couches, there was no furniture in the room. There were candles, hundreds and hundreds of them: pillars, tapers, and votives in a variety of holders. There were tall stands of metal, twisted into gothic crosses and spikes. There were lanterns, with flames encased in glass. Chandeliers had somehow been suspended, and these were all lit with candlelight, casting out sparkles and reflections from crystal and gold. A blazing fire occupied the center of the room and a bubbling pot, steaming, sat atop the flames. The music sounded almost as if an orchestra was playing, but he could see no musicians, or even a radio anywhere. He was too dumbfounded to ask about the source.
The candles illuminated a vast and varied collection of art. Paintings and drawings had been mounted around the space on easels. Some hung from wires suspended from that eerie, undefined ceiling. The paintings were all of people, in various ages, sizes, colors, and races. Some were impressionistic; some representative with an almost photographic attention to detail; still others seemed informed of a more romantic sensibility, a la Rembrandt. There was nothing expressionist and Edward thought for a moment how good one of his body-slammed paintings would look here. Unique selling point: you need to fill this niche; it’s missing from your collection.
In addition to the paintings, there were sculptures, all people in various poses, done in various styles and media marble, plaster, papier-mâché, wood, and metal.
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