Flickers

by Arthur Slade

  They avoided the occasional tree branch or strand of seaweed and detritus the ocean had coughed up. She thought of diving into that warm blue colour and swimming away. She would grow fins and gills and return to the oceans where all life came from, away from the madness. She would never set foot in the mansion again.

  They strode past a large stone fence—the marker for the property line—and crossed into the estate of Charles Huxon, a bonds investor. His mansion had been built to look like a giant Victorian cottage. Even the trees and the horses had been imported from England.

  With each step they put distance between Mr. Cecil’s estate and themselves. The sand was soft. The gulls swooped over the waves. Beatrice had never walked this far from home before.

  “We have to go back,” Raul said after a few more minutes.

  “I’ll never go back,” she answered. She had picked up her pace to a jog.

  “I have to. You’re safe. If I’m seen even walking through any of the other rich men’s places and anything is broken or stolen it’ll be my fault. It’s happened before.”

  “I’ll tell them you’re with me.”

  “No one will recognize you, Beatrice,” he said. And she knew this was the truth. “And besides, it won’t matter.”

  She stopped and looked down at her shadow; her scarves were moving in the wind, reminding her of Medusa. “I can’t go back. I’m sorry, Raul. I just can’t. You go back. You tell my sister to run. Then you run, too. You and your father aren’t safe there.”

  She broke into a run, not waiting for a reply. Her legs had decided that she needed to move. Raul didn’t follow.

  The presence of Mr. Cecil loomed behind her, over the mansion, over the estate, over all of Hollywood. She had to get away from it. She went along the stone property fence and up to the street, then continued between the rows of palm trees. She wanted to pound her feet until that image was out of her head.

  “I’ll go back,” she whispered. “In a few hours. I just need to stretch my legs a bit. It wasn’t real.” She thought of Isabelle, alone in her bed. So vulnerable.

  If I go back to the mansion, what will happen?

  1.I’ll die.

  2.I’ll die.

  3.I’ll die.

  She couldn’t call the police and report what she’d seen. Mr. Cecil could pull strings anywhere.

  So she kept running, then eventually slowed to a walk. There had to be a safe place to hide. Who did she know outside the mansion?

  No one. No one. No one.

  No, she knew Robert Russel. But he was gone. And it was logical to conclude that he had met the same end as the servant. His body dissolved by acid and washed down the drain in the sarcophagus.

  It wasn’t until an hour had passed and her feet and legs were aching that she heard a soft buzzing. Then the sting on her leg began to throb, at times so hard she nearly collapsed. She forced herself forward. The buzzing grew louder. She turned and looked up, but could only make out a shadow that zipped away.

  The Lincoln Town Car pulled up beside her, keeping pace. The windows were black. Mongo, of course, was driving, his face sombre. She quickened her pace.

  The car stopped, its wheels scraping on the pavement. A few moments later there were footsteps. Someone was now walking silently beside her.

  After a short while she turned slightly to see that it was Mongo. The giant rumbled along, his shadow stretched out behind him. He smiled, which made the scars on his face move. He held out a pad of paper and a fountain pen. She stopped. He was so many times larger than her. He could just pick her up and carry her back, but instead he was holding out pen and paper.

  The scars were writing on his face. He jotted something down on the paper. He frowned and she thought perhaps he was sad. Or he was concentrating.

  “Yes, Mongo,” she said.

  He continued to scribble. Then showed her what he had written.

  Come back.

  He scribbled again. He will consume her.

  She read it several times before the meaning sank in. The wind made her scarves move and again the shadow behind her looked like Medusa. “I can’t let that happen.”

  Beatrice glanced back at the car. The sun on the windshield made it look like it was on fire. “Is Mr. Cecil in there?”

  Mongo nodded. Then scribbled away.

  You can’t escape. So be strong. Be strong.

  Beatrice was surprised at the emotion in his eyes. She nodded and tried to picture her sister as she took each step toward the Lincoln Town Car.

  When Mongo opened the door to the back compartment, she drew a deep breath and climbed inside.

  33

  The buzz was inside the compartment.

  Mr. Cecil was at the opposite side of the seat, his hands resting on his knees. His face was perfectly calm. She may have, at one time, even thought he was looking kindly at her. “Please sit, Beatrice,” he said. He gestured at the seat across from him. “You must be tired. Despite what your instinctive responses are telling you, you’re safe. There’s no danger.”

  It took all of her will to sit this close to him. To breathe the same air. Mongo gently closed the door, shutting out much of the light.

  One of the scorpion hornets rested on Mr. Cecil’s shoulder, its tail curling and uncurling. He gestured and it flew into the air. Beatrice jerked up a hand to defend herself, but the insect dived into his pocket. He buttoned it closed.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I know you feel safer without the Zebûb present. I apologize for not putting it away earlier. How was your walk?”

  “Fine.” Her voice sounded steady. She willed her hands to stop shaking.

  “I knew you were in my study this morning. I saw you there. Smelled you. Did you feast your eyes?”

  “W-what are you?”

  “What am I?” His smile was almost gentle. “Oh, I’m certain your imagination has gone wild with different scenarios. Even though you are so perfectly logical, the primeval side of your brain will react automatically: danger, shadow, threat. You might even call me a monster. Or a demon.” He paused. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

  “Those things—those creatures aren’t real. But are you . . . are you a demon?”

  He knocked on the driver’s window and the car began moving. “Surely you don’t believe such things as demons exist.”

  “No. But—but—”

  “Rest easy, child. I am outside your hypotheses. Tales of demons are but symbols, stories that mankind has made up to explain that which they cannot fathom. But I’m not listed in any religious texts or book of horrors. I am a simple facilitator. I make things happen. Movies: I make them. Doorways: I open them. I needed the Zebûbs, so I created them.”

  “You bred them, you mean?”

  He rubbed the empty place where his little finger used to be. “No. I created them. They are a part of myself drawn from another place. To bring them into this world, I sacrificed a finger.”

  “That makes no sense.” She suddenly remembered the finger bone at the bottom of the scorpion hornet jar.

  “It’s just a matter of knowing the rules. They are my will incarnate. They find a way to accomplish the tasks I ask of them.”

  The Zebûb was pressing up against his pocket as if it wanted out.

  “But . . . where are you from?”

  “Outside. That’s the only way to explain to your kind. Reality is a bubble around you. You feel. See. Touch and taste it. Imagine there are a hundred bubbles pressed together, each with its own reality. And imagine you can travel from one bubble to another if you know the rules. My job is to use those rules. And I’m good at my job. My employer will reward me when His time comes. When enough doorways are open.”

  “No one employs you,” Beatrice said. “You own half of Hollywood.”

  “I do have an employer. He does exist, despite reports to the contrary.” Then that smile again. “Now you know an aspect of me that I’ve kept hidden from all except a trusted few. You know how I feed.
Your hypothesis has been tested. Have you come to a satisfactory conclusion?”

  “You were eating his brain.”

  “You make it sound so uncouth. It’s entirely natural. All living things must eat. It’s not a particularly painful process.”

  The car was still moving straight down the road, but the world outside seemed to be revolving around them. “What did you do to Jolly?”

  “Jolly was much smarter than I gave her credit for. She realized her fellow orphans were vanishing. She hid and tried to discover my secrets. Instead, she discovered the Zebûbs. They acted instinctively. Sad, for I hate to waste victuals. You know how that story ended.”

  “So you created the orphanage to feed yourself?”

  “I hear the judgment in your tone. Do you know how many slaughterhouses your species has set up on this earth? I created a secure food supply. People with no connections to the outside world. My lower-rung servants fill that need now.”

  “And Mr. Russel, what happened to him?”

  “Mr. Russel contributed in his own way to a greater good. He gave me his strength.”

  “So he’s dead?” Her voice didn’t waver. Each bit of knowledge she was acquiring made her feel older.

  “Everyone dies, Beatrice. Well, except me. Or my kin. Or my master. But we operate by a different set of rules.”

  He’s dead. He’s dead. The voice threatened to take over her thoughts. Beatrice breathed in and out. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “And what happened at the theatre. The scream. That horrible, horrible scream.”

  “It worked,” he said. “It’s working now as we speak. All that imagination, that fear. Ah, it is too hard to explain. I can only say that a doorway has been opened. A way to pass from one bubble of reality to another.” Mr. Cecil slowly rubbed his hands together. “I don’t enjoy causing you consternation, Beatrice. It’s upsetting to me, in fact.” He spread his arms. “You’ve been revealed a truth about me, but it was your choice. The fruit of knowledge, it is not so sweet, is it? It was my intention to allow you to blithely live through these events. Your part is soon over. You have been such a support—a pillar to your sister. In many ways you are a facilitator, too. She wouldn’t have been able to do all the things she’s done in her short life without you to lean on every night. Soon you can rest.”

  “I’m not going to lie down.”

  “Just rest, Beatrice, when we get back home. Go straight to your sister and support her. She needs your support. She’s tired, and now that the film is done she will be bereft of direction. And she has only one more part to play.”

  She was silent for several seconds. “Don’t touch my sister,” she said. “Never. Ever.”

  “We’ll leave that for her to decide. Human beings make their own decisions. They have free will. It’s what makes working here so interesting.”

  They drove onto the grounds of the Cecil Estate. The gates closed behind them.

  34

  Isabelle was awake and sitting up in bed. An empty bowl of porridge sat on the side table. A plate with a half-eaten cucumber sandwich was beside it. “Where were you?”

  “A walk,” Beatrice said. “I went for a walk.”

  “A long one. It’s almost two in the afternoon. I had breakfast and lunch brought to the room. I’m too tired to get out of bed. Why weren’t you here to entertain me?” She said this last sentence with a smile.

  “I lost track of time.”

  “Oh. I see. I had this odd feeling that something bad had happened to you. It was stuck in my head. But I think it’s just leftover stuff in my brain from the premiere. Nothing bad happened, right?”

  Beatrice drew in a deep, slow breath. “Something bad did happen, Izzy. I found proof that Mr. Cecil killed Robert Russel. And Jolly. And maybe many others. Lots of people.”

  The words made her sister sit up straight. “What are you talking about? Have you gone crazy?”

  “You have to believe me. I went into his study And I—”

  “You went in his study again! Why didn’t you take me?”

  “I—I—” I didn’t think you could handle it. “It was on an impulse.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  “I saw things that proved my conclusions. Several things. There was a hat. It belonged to Robert Russel. And a sarcophagus with acid.” Beatrice sat on the bed. “And a kind of torture chair with straps.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  Beatrice had always used words so carefully. Had loved them all her life. And now they were failing her. “Mr. Cecil eats people.”

  “Eats people? He’s a cannibal?! You’re starting to sound a little batty.”

  “No. No. Forget I said that. I know how it sounds. It’s just that . . .” Nothing. No logical explanation came to her mind. Then: “Do you remember the feeling you had—the things you saw—just before you fainted? You said you saw Uncle and Aunt looking like skeletons and that Mr. Cecil showed you his real face and it was like one of those Rorschach inkblots. And it caused you fear, right?”

  “Yes.” She did look a little paler.

  “Those are gut feelings. But they are the truth. More than feelings. They are real. Your gut is trying to tell you the truth about him.”

  “He’s a merciless director. But he’s not a murderer, Beets.”

  “Just trust your guts.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

  “It is. Today.”

  Miutes passed in silence. Beatrice watched her sister’s face, saw her finally come to a conclusion. “Whether he did those things or not, we aren’t safe around him anymore, are we?”

  “No. We aren’t. Do you ever think of going somewhere else?” Beatrice asked.

  “Yes,” Isabelle said, “to Paris. Or New York. I think about having my own place. You’re there, too, of course.”

  “Away from the mansion? From the set.”

  “And from Mr. Cecil,” Isabelle said. “Just for a while. I need to get him out of my head.”

  Beatrice laughed glumly. “A fine choice of words.”

  “Why is that so funny?” Isabelle asked.

  “We should leave. Now. Just pack up and go, sneak out and disappear.” She went to the window and looked down at the estate. Was there someone moving there?

  “Go? Now? Oh, sis, you are being naughty. But it would take me days to pack.”

  Two of the guards were looking up at the window. She rarely saw them away from the front gates. “You would go with me, wouldn’t you? If I really asked. If I demanded.”

  Isabelle laughed. “Yes, I would, Beatrice. It would be the cat’s meow to finally have an adventure together. Even when you’re crazy as a kitten now. You must be hungry. Maybe that’s all you need to calm your mind.” Isabelle offered her the remains of the sandwich. Despite the queasiness in her guts, Beatrice ate it.

  They didn’t leave the room. Instead they read and played cards and rested. And rested. Mrs. Madge brought them a meal of fried chicken. Isabelle fell asleep early.

  Beatrice put the chair up against the door and went to the window, but Mr. Cecil’s car was still gone. The guards continued to stand there, the red glow of their cigarettes clearly visible.

  Beatrice opened her notebook and wrote down things she could take from the mansion in the morning. Isabelle had hundreds of necklaces they could sell. And diamond earrings. They could pack them all in a bag and maybe head north. Away from the heat. From this place. Maybe Raul could drive them part of the way.

  Later, she picked up her collection of newspaper clippings, all so carefully pasted in her scrapbooks. So many of Robert Russel’s words were here. But what had his last moments been like? In that same chair? Each of those words taken from his head one by one, sentence by sentence.

  She couldn’t let that happen to her and Isabelle.

  Beatrice shook her head but couldn’t get the image of the proboscis from her mind. She lay beside Isabelle, her eyes open. She became convinced that she
would have no sleep for the rest of her life. There had to be a way to get her sister out of here.

  35

  The male voice came through a thick, almost malleable fog. “You are asleep,” he said. “As I speak these words you will rise from your bed and take my hand. You will keep your eyes closed.”

  Beatrice tried to open her eyes, but failed. She hadn’t risen as the voice commanded. She couldn’t even move her arms. Her left side was now cold. Her sister had just rolled away from her and was sitting up in bed.

  “You are a vessel. You are a star. Rise, Isabelle. Rise and take my hand. We are going to see your film once more.”

  Mr. Cecil’s voice was so soft it was almost unrecognizable.

  “Now walk to the door, Isabelle Thorn, and wait there.”

  Stop, Isabelle! Stop!

  There were footsteps as the floor creaked on Beatrice’s side of the bed. A gust of breath touched her cheek. “I know you’re awake, Beatrice. It’s best if you just lie there. Do not fight the inevitable. That’s what killed your father.”

  She tried to open her mouth to shout, even to spit, but no part of her body would obey her commands. Hypnotism!

  “Don’t struggle, please. After tonight you’ll be separated forever from your sister. That fact saddens me, though sentimentality is a weakness. But contracts must be honoured. Enjoy these last moments. Perhaps relive your favourite memories from your childhood.” The blankets were pulled up over her shoulders.

  He’s tucking me in!

  “Now sleep if you can, Beatrice Thorn. Thank you so very much for your years of service.”

  Footsteps led away from her. “Take my hand, Isabelle. I’ll guide you downstairs. We’re going on a short journey. You have one more role to perform. Your most important role.”

  The main doors opened. Then came the thunk of a car door and the sound of the Lincoln Town Car’s engine revving. The car pulled away.

  Beatrice lay for what felt like hours, feeling her sister get farther and farther away. She couldn’t even lift her little finger. Maybe it was better for her to just lie there. She couldn’t fight such a powerful man. No, he was more than a man. He was something she could not name. Could not classify.