by Derek Milman
There is a letter from Kingside Park Hospital—an administrator warning my dad to stop writing her, that he was interfering with her treatment. All his letters were returned by the hospital, which is why they’re in the folder. The rest of his letters—and there are a good half dozen or so—are unopened, still in their envelopes, sent back by the hospital. They had obviously stopped giving them to my mom.
In her final letter to my dad, dated less than a year ago, my mother writes, pretty lucidly, that she forgives my dad for “fathering a boy within the same walls as our two sons.” Once again, she requests to see me. “My heart still breaks for young Dario and what I did to him. Please, Lucien!”
I was emancipated by then. My father could have forwarded the request to Keenan. My mom obviously didn’t know where I was.
I don’t know if my dad was punishing me or punishing my mom. Or both. My mom and I have something in common I never realized—we both incurred Lucien’s wrath for the same reason. We left Moldavia. We abandoned him.
I sit on the rock clenching and unclenching my hands until I hear someone behind me. I turn around. It’s Hayley, crunching through the sand and beach grass, wearing a black cashmere cardigan. She sits beside me.
Hayley was close to my dad—he meant a great deal to her. And so did my mom. Hayley knows there are plenty of dark shadows lurking behind Moldavia’s walls, but I decide not to tell her what I found in the folder. Instead, I ask her something else:
“There was an old letter my mom wrote to my dad. She said she forgave him for fathering a boy within the same walls as her two sons.”
Hayley looks out at the lake. “My mom lost a baby here.”
I look at her. “What? When?”
“While we were shooting Zombie Children. So your mom may have gotten confused about all that stuff.”
“My mom was gone by then.”
“She and your dad kept in touch, though.”
I think about Aida sobbing, my dad whispering in her ear while we were filming that climactic scene. I never knew what that was all about.
I thought Valerie was playing the part.
I want Aida to do this.
Why?
Stop asking questions. Focus. This is the Curdling. . . .
Holy shit. My dad did the same thing to Aida that he did to me, and my mom, and probably everyone he ever worked with. He used people’s pain in service to his movies, in his forever quest to spelunk out of the underground, into a wider spotlight. He was shameless.
“Why did . . . that upset . . . why would that have confused my mom?”
She shakes her head. “It was my dad’s baby, if that’s what you’re asking me.”
“It is.”
“Lucien never went that far, Dario.”
I snort. “I’ll leave an extra rose on his grave.”
“But it’s possible your mother wasn’t sure if he had.”
Is it possible Hayley might want to protect me from the truth so much she’d lie to me? Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.
I watch a seagull dive down and glide along the water, skimming the surface in a focused, brutal way. Something’s being hunted. There’s always something being hunted.
“Did my dad visit my mom much at the hospital?” I ask.
“He used to. Not so much anymore. Lately, it’s just been me. But your dad wasn’t really well enough.”
I open the file folder. I take out all the letters and papers and envelopes, and I tear everything into small pieces. Then I cast all the pieces into the lake. Hayley watches me but says nothing.
“Ancient shit between my mom and dad no one needs to read,” I say quietly.
“She asks about you.”
My heart skips a beat. “Oh?”
But I guess that’s no surprise, given everything I just found out.
Hayley lays her head on my shoulder. “Every time I visit. She always asks me where you are.”
I hug myself against a cool breeze. “I’m glad you told me.”
“I’m glad I told you, too,” she says, softly.
We sit for a few minutes, looking out at the lake. A couple pieces of the torn letters float back and get caught behind a rock.
When I wake from a nap I don’t remember taking, I hear crickets outside. Moonlight leaks through my window.
I eat a bowl of potato-chervil soup, which was sitting on a covered silver tray by my bed. As it gets later, I hear people shouting and laughing, running down the halls. It’s not midnight yet, but the costume ball has already started.
I put on this cheesy devil costume Hayley left for me—hooded, salsa-red pajamas with little horns and a tail. Jude decides he doesn’t need a costume—he just puts on his Mexican wrestler outfit, mask and all, since he feels more comfortable in that.
I was never really allowed to stay up for the costume balls, so I remember only glimpses. One time I peeked inside and saw this purple-lit extravaganza: mirror balls and champagne glasses, and sequins and glitter and gilded masks sparkling in this fevered way. I tried to run inside, but someone picked me up and carried me off while the music echoed through the castle until it was only a distant thumping.
Crepuscular Dusk is really just everyone pretending Halloween comes once a month. Some people take it really seriously, spending all their downtime designing costumes, consulting with the special effects wizards upstairs; there’s no formal competition, but people treat it like one, and there have been some legendary costumes.
Kat Trenton, one of Moldavia’s costume designers, once wore a long coat made out of dozens of coiling, battery-powered snakes. Henry Ashe, our resident still photographer, once went as a three-headed rabid bat with three sets of glowing eyes and foaming mouths. And Samantha Childress once went as a fairy godmother in a gown made out of silverware, with a magic wand that shot real sparks.
The Karloff ballroom isn’t as big as the grand ballroom in the Carpenter Wing, but it’s cozier. Two sets of French doors are swung open, looking out over the east lawn. Someone turned on the spotlights buried in the grass, so the grounds are aglow with rainbow colors reflecting off the glass doors. The ballroom was designed to merge the interior of the castle with the landscaping outside. There are Tiffany lamps, red-leather booths with candy-green-apple-colored tables that match the marble floors, lots of giant ferns everywhere, and leafy vines crawling up the stone walls.
A makeshift DJ booth has been set up in the back of the ballroom. I can’t tell who’s at the decks, but so far I’ve heard at least three separate remixes of “Monster Mash,” which, while maddening, matches the general theme of tonight’s ball. People have gone all out as usual, but there’s something inherently classical about people’s costumes this time. Of course, this is the first ball since my dad died, so everyone seems to be paying tribute to his “creature of the night” B-movie legacy.
I love seeing the drooling werewolves, the mummies, the vampires, the zombies, the witches, and various different takes on Frankenstein monsters. The makeup and costuming are top-of-the-line. The mirror ball spins specks of toxic yellows and greens. People are tearing up the shimmering dance floor.
Jude and I sit at one of the leather booths; immediately a waiter appears, dressed as some sort of wraith. “What can I get you boys? Great costumes!”
“Thanks, man. Do I know you?”
“I’m Will. I’m a production designer. You’re Dario!”
“I am.”
“I volunteered to wait tables for the ball. Tonight’s menu is all unhealthy, amazingly delicious comfort food. Buffalo wings, chicken fingers, pigs in blankets, deep-dish pizza bites, devils on horseback. Anything, really. What can I get you?”
“What are devils on horseback?” Jude asks.
Apparently those are bacon-wrapped dates filled with blue cheese, so yeah, we just order everything. Jude orders a beer. I order a dry martini, Bond style.
The music takes a soulful swerve into some Otis Redding, and I nod in appreciation. In the booth next to our
s the ghosts of two mountain explorers frozen to death (complete with icicles glued onto fake beards!) canoodle over some frothy cocktails and a plate of cheese fries. Jude takes off his luchador mask and lounges back in the booth, crossing one leg over the other. He gives me a euphoric look, and instantly I know what he’s going to say because he looks more chill than I’ve ever seen him: “I’ve never felt so comfortable just being me.”
I laugh. “This place is the Island of Misfit Toys.”
“If I hadn’t met you all those years ago, I just don’t know.”
“What don’t you know?”
“Where I’d be now. You took me here and it turned out to be the one place in the world that I belong.”
Of course Jude fits in here. He wears all his freakishness on his freaky sleeves. That’s why I’ve trusted him the most in my life—he can’t get more weird or damaged, it’s just not possible. There’s still stuff I don’t know about him, but I know how far down the slope he can slide. I know the contents of his heart.
“I got to know some of the electrician dudes,” he says. “They’re called juicers!”
“I know.”
“They came upstairs and were boxing with me.” His smile fades a little. He looks into his lap. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve had a rougher time. You seem kind of upset.”
I wave away his concerns. “I’m okay. I’m glad you’re making friends. I’m sorry I haven’t been around as much.” I keep getting caught up in Moldavia chaos, and I feel like I’m being a shit friend to him. “We should just have fun tonight.”
The waiter returns with our drinks and steaming platters of food, and we just dig in. Jude holds up his beer. “Cheers.” We clink glasses. “This place is a beautiful nightmare, man. You gonna get out there or what?” Jude looks toward the dance floor.
I look around at all the monsters and ghosts dancing around. What a weird optimism they represent: that a part of us—our souls, our decaying bodies, our vaporous imprints—could go on. It’s hilarious, in a way. Is everything we do here just giving hope to people’s fear of obliteration? Is that what horror really is?
Jude laughs, pointing at a booth of blood-spattered vampires eating nachos.
“Listen,” I tell Jude, “Moldavia is a drug. Just know that. People can get trapped here. This place is kind of messed up.”
He shrugs. “But so is life, right?”
“Yeah, but this isn’t real life,” I say. “Look around.”
He does, and giggles at everything he sees.
“That girl loves you,” he says, turning back to me.
My heart leaps into my throat. “Hayley?” I ask, stupidly.
He nods, chewing on a chicken wing.
It’s weird hearing this from Jude. I’ve gotten pretty clear about my own feelings, but I never assumed anything on Hayley’s end. It’s not something you can just ask. I guess it takes someone looking in from the outside to see the truth of things.
“Stuff happens for a reason,” says Jude. “Maybe there’s a reason you had to come back here.”
“Because of Hayley?”
He takes a swig of beer. “Yeah, but maybe you need to heal some of these wounds from your childhood . . . in order to move freely to the next level of adulthood.”
I roll my eyes. “My life isn’t a Freudian video game, Jude.”
His expression is serious. “Not everyone gets that opportunity. I was too young, too weak, too little, and then it was too late.”
I just stare at him.
“I couldn’t stop him from hurting her,” he says. “And he’d hurt her over and over and over again.” He points at me. “I know you know what it’s like to be helpless. But I wish I could go back in time. As a bigger, stronger me . . . be home on that day . . . when he hurt her so bad she was never going to be right again.”
His eyes are empty and cold. I put my hand on his arm. “Jude?”
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I know where he lives now.”
“That’s not the answer. You have to promise me . . .”
He looks at me, his lips trembling a little. “Promise you what, man? You’re gonna tell me you don’t understand revenge? Wanting to make shit right?”
I just press my hand down harder into his. “You have to promise me.”
He pulls away and sits back, splaying his hands innocently.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I say.
He shakes his head. “Nah, man. But I see the way Hayley looks at you. I’ll be lucky if someone ever looks at me like that.”
“Yeah, but—”
He kicks me under the table. “Speaking of.”
She materializes out of the flashing, feverish haze: a fairy princess with gold-spangled wings, her face all glittery, hair wild and teased. She has on blue-black eyeliner and blood-orange lipstick. “I’m a fallen fairy,” she explains. “Literally.” She hoists up her gown, licks her index finger, and tends to a bleeding knee. “I tripped in these heels.”
“Are you benched for the night?” I ask her.
She looks at the dance floor. “Fuck no. I’m dancing.”
We all hit the dance floor. Jude accuses Hayley of being nerd porn, and Hayley accuses Jude of being a luchador heartbreaker. I wrap my arms around Hayley’s waist but Hayley pushes me away and wraps her arms around Jude, sticking her tongue out at me. Fine, let her tease me. I kind of like that.
The dance floor parts in the middle. Oren, confined to his antique wheelchair, cuts a path through the revelers. He’s dressed as Dr. Everett Von Scott from Rocky Horror, plaid quilt thrown over his legs, fake mustache, striped tie, spectacles and all.
“Hello, hello!” he says. “I don’t want to disrupt!” he cries, doing just that. “I don’t want to steal away attention!” he yells, doing just that. “I just wanted to make a brief appearance to say hello.” He spots me and comes to a halt because I’m standing right there, glowering at him. “And how are you, dear brother? How was your night?”
I bite my lip. “Very restful. Thankfully that tea you gave me was so weak.”
Oren studies my face. “Oh?”
“Just like you: Watered down. Flavorless. Ineffectual. A little bitter.” I give him a tight smile. “So how was your night?”
“My knife?”
“Your night,” I say, hitting that last consonant.
He rolls his neck around, luxuriously. “I had a wonderful night to myself. I listened to some French Freakbeat and read some illuminating poems by Anne Sexton. The pressure is off me, Dar. I’ve never felt so free.”
“Good to hear. Hopefully you’ll heal soon? The kitchen could use some help mincing vegetables.”
Oren rolls over my foot totally on purpose as he makes his way across the floor.
“Ow!” I scream, holding up my hooved foot.
“Whoops, sorry!” He waves a hand over his shoulder as he barrels across the room, greeting various people, so everyone gets a turn to pour on the sympathy and shower him with attention while he brushes it all away, pretending he couldn’t care less.
The lights come up halfway. The music is turned down.
Someone wheels in a TV on a rolling stand. Mistress Moonshadow appears on the screen, flashing a well-lipsticked leer. Everyone gathers around. She’s filming her monthly web series live from the castle. These are always taped in tandem with the costume ball and streamed on Moldavia’s official website, followed by an old Moldavia flick. The whole thing is done for all the fanboys, made to drum up interest in the studio and its back catalog. Moldavia fans wait with anxious anticipation for these vlogs, or any glimpse, however brief, inside the castle walls.
Mistress Moonshadow shows plenty of cleavage in her leather vamp outfit. Her cherry-red wig, streaked with silver, flows behind her as she reclines against a velvet couch, surrounded by flaming candelabras, old wooden coffins, and lots of spider webbing strung all over everything. There are old-fashioned spooky sound effects in the background: creaking doors, cackling, heavy chi
mes on an organ.
Jude looks like he’s in a trance. “Who is that?” he says.
“Mistress Moonshadow.”
“Take me to her,” he says, without blinking.
“Good evening!” Mistress Moonshadow purrs. “Live from Moldavia, I am Mistress Moonshadow! The halls of Moldavia once again wail with a thousand restless spirits! It’s another Crepuscular Dusk!” There’s a thunderclap, and the camera zooms in and out. “A kiss for my fellow Spine Tinglers, currently dancing the night away in the ballroom of the Karloff Wing, paying their deepest respects to the creepy crawlies of the underworld and to our dear departed master visionary, Moldavia’s founding father, Lucien Heyward. Scream all night, guys. Elsewhere in the castle, filming is nearly complete on our next feature, No Chance in Hell, which stars me. Look for it soon!”
“I think I’m in love,” says Jude.
“We continue our series of underappreciated Moldavia mystery thrillers from the mid-eighties with tonight’s selection, Life Buoy!, wherein the H.M.S. Mayfair returns to port with all its passengers murdered except one—Daisy Barrington, the mistress of billionaire playboy Lance Boom. Starring Spine Tingler favorites Hefford Scott, Marjorie Jaropie, myself as Muriel Marcato, and Lorenzo Mayberry as Lance, this is the film that critic Daniel Gable described as ‘a smear on the very concept of logic itself as it courses through any form of reality that sanity could accept.’”
The movie plays silently as the lights go down again and the music continues.
I spot Gavin across the room wearing his signature oversize funeral suit, serving food to a table of caped sorcerers. He does everything neatly and super-formally, as always, and when he’s done, he swings the tray to his side, begins to glide off, but then spots me staring at him and stops. For a moment, we just stare at each other.
I forgive you for fathering a boy within the same walls as our two sons. . . .
And then Gavin does the strangest thing: he drops the tray on a nearby table, turns, and begins to run.