"Watch these steps. Some's fallin' apart. Some's missin'."
Olivia nodded, holding onto the rickety banister as she followed Yoly up. It was nearly pitch-dark by now, but Yoly moved ahead without a light, leaving Olivia to keep up as best she could. The fog was even worse up here, and as they came out onto the second-story gallery, Olivia caught only glimpses of long, darkened windows, some with broken fanlights and transoms, some half covered by sagging shutters. It was an eerie feeling—as if they were walking into nothingness— and Olivia wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shivering. She could hear warped floorboards
groaning underfoot, and as she peered off curiously to where she thought the balustrade must be, she sensed damp, open spaces and a sheer drop to the ground below.
"Here."
She nearly collided with Yoly as the woman stopped and began to fiddle with a latch on one set of tall French doors. As Olivia stood waiting uncertainly, the doors opened, and Yoly disappeared inside. Almost immediately a dim light came on, and after a brief hesitation, Olivia went in.
Her first impression was that she'd entered some sort of cave. The doorway was recessed deeply within the thick brick walls, and as she stepped out into the room, the ceiling loomed high above her, far out of reach of the light. The room itself was enormous, made even more so by the one candle flickering on a mantel before a huge mirror. Dust lay everywhere, and as she let her eyes wander over the torn wallpaper, she heard Yoly gathering up pillows and blankets, taking them outside to shake them. Olivia gazed around at the massive furniture, the stern, shadowy portraits, the full, loose swaths of mosquito netting that cascaded down on all sides of the four-poster bed. Like a casket, she thought, an open casket for viewing a body . . . Mama should have had a pretty one like this . . . She pushed the unwelcome image from her mind and turned around and stared at the windows.
Bars.
Bars on every one of them ... as tall as the windows were tall . . . from the wooden floor to the high, high ceiling. The room obviously lay at one corner of the house, for there were two adjacent walls with outside accesses onto the encircling gallery—and two
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French doors on each of them, all covered over with thick strips of black iron.
Olivia walked over to one of the windows. She ran her hands slowly along the bars, then lowered her head against them, closing her eyes. But he tried to hurt me, Mama, I had to do it . . . don't do that to me again, Mama — not again — I'll be good — I'll stay right here and be just as good as —
"There ain't no electricity up here either," Yoly said behind her. "There's candles in them drawers over there. Matches, too."
"Those other doors." Olivia opened her eyes and pointed to the two interior walls. "Where do they go?"
"That one—out to the hall, but it's locked. And that one—to the room next door, but it's locked, too. All the doors is locked. 'Cept the one we come in—you can leave that one open if you wants to. Might get a breeze in here."
"Why do the outside doors have bars on them?"
Yoly turned away, shaking her head. "It ain't nothin' to worry about. They's locked, I said. Nobody comes in those doors."
"I'm not worried about someone coming in—I just wondered—"
"I'll bring you somethin' to eat." Yoly moved toward the threshold. "There's a bathroom downstairs, where we come out the back. But be careful wanderin' around in the dark." She moved outside, but Olivia called after her.
"Can I thank her?" For suddenly she was thinking about her again, trying to conjure up the sound of that tired, old voice . . . Miss Rose . . . Grandmother . . . "The lady," Olivia clarified, seeing Yoly's puzzled look. "Can I thank her for letting me stay?"
"Miss Rose." Yoly's voice was flat, and she turned her back. "I told you. She'll see you tomorrow. Not till then."
Olivia watched as Yoly faded from the doorway and into the darkness beyond. She took a deep, shaky breath and curled her fingers around the bars of the window. She pressed her whole body into them and moved slowly, rhythmically, letting the hard strips of iron grind deep into her soft flesh. They felt cool and solid and safe . . . they felt hard and angry and punishing. . . I've felt this before . . . put my head right here, my hands right here in these same spots . . . I'm free of this now but it's happening again, trapped here . . . exposed here . . .
There were no curtains on any of the windows. As Olivia lifted her eyes to the black, black night, she could see flickering shadows reflected in the grimy glass, could see her face white and anxious and bewildered, I'll have to undress here without curtains . . . sleep in this room without curtains . . . but there's nobody here . . . we're miles and miles away from the whole wide world.
"Here's your supper."
She jumped as Yoly came up behind her. How much time had passed—minutes? An hour? She had no idea how long she'd been standing there daydreaming, crushing herself into the bars, and now the warm, heavy aroma of food was luring her back into the room. She watched as Yoly deposited a tray on a table. The black woman stood so close to the candle she could have touched it easily, and yet Olivia couldn't see any reflection of candlelight in Yoly's eyes. Fascinated, Olivia stared at her, then realized with a start that Yoly had been staring back the whole time.
"It's stew." Yoly straightened up, her big hands still outstretched toward the tray.
It smelled strange—strong and almost gamy, but whether from some sort of meat or an overabundance of spices, Olivia couldn't tell.
"I hope you didn't go to any trouble." She tried to sound polite.
"Leave the tray. I'll get it tomorrow."
"Yes. And thank you for—"
"Good night."
Up until that very moment Olivia thought she'd be relieved to have Yoly gone, to have the room all to herself and her thoughts. But now, as the silence caved in like an endless black sea, she had to restrain herself to keep from calling Yoly back.
But I'm here.
This is what I wanted.
Her head fairly swam with the miracle of it all. As she took another look around the bedroom, she left the tray where it was and carried the candle outside.
She'd never seen a night so dark.
If there were clouds or stars or a moon, they didn't seem to exist in this little corner of forgotten time. Holding her candle high, Olivia peered up through the fog at the overhang, which was also the floor of the third-level balcony above. Spiderwebs hung from sagging boards; in several places the flooring had decayed all the way through. She walked cautiously toward the balustrade, then stopped, afraid to get too close. Leaning over a little, she could make out the splintered wood of the railing and the rotting posts beneath. The gallery was surprisingly wide—at least twenty feet, she guessed—yet she pressed back against the wall once more as she moved on. Close to her
room a huge magnolia tree hugged the side of the house, pressing thick, gnarled limbs against the bricks, as if squeezing the very life from its walls. Long streamers of moss dripped from the eaves above; vines and leaves spilled over the railing and trailed across the floor. The air was so incredibly muggy it sucked the breath from her throat.
Deciding to continue her exploring by daylight, Olivia turned back toward her room. She was exhausted, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to finish her dinner and fall into bed. Remembering Yoly's directions and warning about the steps, she managed to find the bathroom without any trouble. The house seemed silent and strangely empty, as if nobody at all lived there, and she hurried back along the veranda, eager to get upstairs.
It was eerie the way sounds carried through the night.
When she heard the noises, she couldn't tell at first if they were below her on the walkway or ahead of her on one of the galleries above.
All she could really be sure of was that something— somewhere—was crying.
Soft, frightened little sobs . . .
Like a trapped animal.
Pausing, Olivia lifted her head, her ears s
training through the darkness.
For just a moment, she thought she'd heard laughter . . . and then a scream for help.
But the scream cut off—abruptly—
As if it wasn't meant for anyone to hear.
For the second time Olivia flattened herself against the wall and held her breath.
She could hear them now . . . within several feet of her hiding place. She could hear them slowing . . . stopping. One part of her mind told her to step forward, to reveal herself, but some other, deeper instinct warned her to keep silent.
The night seemed to thicken around her, the very air throbbing with each frantic beat of her heart.
And then she heard them again ... the footsteps . . . slow and deliberate . . . moving away from her.
Seeing her chance, Olivia moved as quickly and quietly as she could, up the steps and along the gallery toward her room.
She heard the floorboards creaking, like screams in the night.
She heard the footsteps coming after her.
In her fear, she got disoriented somehow—as she tried to open her door the latch jiggled uselessly in her hand, and she realized she'd gone too far along the gallery, missing her own room completely. Spinning around, she started back again through the fog when she realized the footsteps were right behind her now, moving unhurriedly along the wall. She threw herself into one of the brick alcoves and flattened herself against the door.
The footsteps went past her . . .
And stopped.
As Olivia drew in her breath, the mist actually seemed to part for an instant, just long enough to reveal a tall, vague form within its swirling depths. Mesmerized, she saw the head slowly lift . . . pause ... as if sniffing the very air for her whereabouts . . . as if gathering silent, secret signals from the night. In the black, black dark it was impossible to make out a
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face—yet she could almost feel the slow, careful tensing of the body, the way the eyes swept over her hiding place, seeing through shadows. Without warning, the mist closed in again, and she began to quiver, fire and ice rushing through her veins. And then she knew she had met this presence before—just that evening—beneath the oak trees leading to the house.
Olivia closed her eyes and prayed that when she opened them again, she'd be alone.
An eternity seemed to pass.
Finally . . . slowly . . . she worked up the courage to look.
The gallery was deserted.
Leaning forward out of the niche, she listened. And waited.
There was no sound. No movement of any kind.
It was as if whatever had been there had simply been swallowed by the night.
Thoroughly shaken, Olivia inched her way back along the balcony. She found her door but hung back at first, afraid to go through. The room throbbed with emptiness, shadows pulsing up and down the high, high walls. In slow awareness, she saw the candles on the mantel—dozens of them now—a flickering altar lit with blue and yellow tongues of tiny flame.
"Yoly?" she whispered. "Are you in here?"
As Olivia came farther into the room, the shadows seemed to slide away from her, hovering expectantly in the corners. She paused in front of the mantel and frowned at the line of candles. The fireplace with the large mirror above it stood just to one side of the bed, and she could see practically the whole room behind her reflected there in the glass. Someone had turned down the blankets and sheets and left a nightgown spread out across the pillows.
It was a pretty nightgown . . . long and white and clean.
No, Mama, don't make me . . . don't make me take it off. . .
Olivia looked down at the stub of unlit candle in her hand. Slowly she held it out to one of the flames, staring as the wick sputtered and began to burn. She tilted it, letting the hot wax trickle down onto the mantel, and then she held it in the small, soft puddle of itself until it hardened again and stayed upright.
From the spotted depths of the mirror she saw her own reflection, dark eyes too large for her thin face, light brown hair hanging down past her shoulders, arched brows and high cheekbones and a mouth that had never done much smiling. She gazed at herself in the glass and saw the shadows stirring at her back, closing in on her again . . . gathering into vague, formless shapes.
She unbuttoned her blouse and slid it from her shoulders, dropped her skirt to the floor and stepped out of it. In the mirror her movements were graceful ... mysterious. She slipped out of her bra, and she was only in her panties now, her body like a dream . . . soft and white in the darkness. She let her hands glide over her breasts ... the round, soft fullness of them, gleaming in the mirror ... in the glass of the doors and windows . . . yes . . . yes . . . this is me . . . here and all around myself. . . here in this house, in this place where I belong.
She walked to the bed to get her nightgown. It slipped from her hands onto the floor, and she bent slowly to pick it up. She went back to the mirror and raised her arms above her head, feeling the soft flow of cotton against her bare skin as the nightgown enveloped her like a cloud.
Behind her reflection the shadows shifted once more . . . dissolved . . . then stirred restlessly, as if trying to rearrange themselves into some definite shape.
And it was a human shape, Olivia could see it now, forming in the mirror, forming right behind her, a human shape—a head—a human face —indistinct again . . . fading . . .
As she stared in disbelief, two unearthly glimmers of light peered back at her from the darkness ... a warm trail of breath slid down the back of her neck . . .
The candles flared wildly.
One by one, they went out.
Without warning something pulled her away from the mantel and flung her across the bed. Kicking and flailing at the darkness, she felt herself being pinned on her back, and something pierced the inside of her thigh, causing her to scream in pain. Terrified, she tried to roll away, but she couldn't move, couldn't see, and her thigh—burning—throbbing—warm blood running down between her legs—
"Oh, God, help me!"
But whatever had been holding her was gone, and the shadows settled, calm and empty, around the bed. Moaning softly, Olivia managed to drag herself to the edge and get up. As she stumbled across the floor, blood oozed down over her foot and she slipped, grabbing out frantically for the wall.
But it wasn't the wall she touched there in the darkness . . .
It was someone's face.
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"Go ahead." The laugh again, but then it faded, and when the voice came once more it was pensive. "Screams don't mean anything here. You'll see." It was another male voice, another Southern accent, but not the one she'd heard downstairs. "Scream your little heart out."
Olivia backed farther away, but she could feel his eyes on her, following her through the dark. She could feel their unhurried inspection and the way her skin began to prickle with a strange, consuming heat—and it was a heat she'd felt before and not so long ago. She stopped abruptly, and a fierce rage began to grow inside her.
"Whoever you are, if you don't go away right now, I'm going to call the police."
"The police!" This time it was a full-fledged laugh, and as Olivia stared toward the mocking sound, she saw the tiny spurt of a match flame. "Yes . . . yes . . . that's a good one. The police."
After flaring, the match went out, leaving a lighted candle in its place. As the wick sputtered, the room seemed to draw in upon itself, but then a portion of the darkness receded, leaving the tall outline of a young man with his flickering shadow on the wall behind him. Olivia's eyes swept the room, searching for a weapon.
"The police," he murmured, and again there was the scratch of a match, the hiss of a flame. Another candle sputtered to life, and more of the shadows slithered away. "I don't believe in rules," the voice said, and it was a deep voice, gravelly and slow. "But. . . just this once . . . I'll make it a little more even. Just for you."
A third match struck . . . another dim glow . . . and even
as he was speaking he was moving around the
room like some dark ghost, lighting candles, so that at last Olivia was totally surrounded by dancing droplets of fire.
"And there you are," he said, stepping away from the final candle. He was behind the circle of flames, and she couldn't make out his features, yet she saw him lean back against the wall and fold his arms over his chest. "There you are," he whispered. "And here am I."
Her voice was surprisingly steady now, much steadier than her racing heart. "Are you going to kill me?"
"Kill you?" There was no laughter now, yet he sounded oddly amused. "Well ... at least not yet. If I killed you now, you'd be no fun to play with." He sighed and straightened up. "And anyway, what makes you think I'd try to kill you?"
Wincing, Olivia put one hand to the inside of her leg, pressing her nightgown against her throbbing wound. To her shock, it was high up on her thigh, very near her groin, and as blood seeped through her gown, she could feel torn flesh beneath the fabric. It took her a few seconds to even realize he was bending over her.
"Ahhh . . ." He drew his breath in slowly, and his voice lowered. "So now I see . . . you're hurt—"
"Of course I'm hurt—get away from me—"
"And ... / see." The voice grew thoughtful. "You think that/. . ."
Before she could grasp what was happening, he squatted on the floor in front of her, and she looked down into his upturned face.
A fox was the first thing she thought of—a sly, clever fox with a long thatch of brown hair over his high, wide forehead and a thin line of mouth and a narrow chin. In the flickering shadows his eyes looked deep and close set, cunningly narrowed, and there
were dark hollows beneath the high, sculpted bones of his cheeks. As he stared at her, one eyebrow began to raise, and his mouth moved in a secret sort of half smile.
Olivia felt herself looking back at him, helpless to turn away. Still holding her eyes with his own, he slid her nightgown up her leg and put one finger on her thigh. He ran his fingertip leisurely through the thickening blood. He lifted his finger to his mouth and slowly licked it with his tongue.
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