Black Static Horror Magazine #1

by TTA Press Authors

  "I think I get the idea."

  "And like I said, the drugs do the trick. But occasionally, when she feels she's not quite getting into character, she'll stop taking them for a day or so. She calls it ‘recharging her empathy'. Her artist's insight, if you like."

  Voryzek touched his dripping hat rim. “I understand. Thank you for your help."

  "One thing,” the actor said. “If you're going back to the theatre, it's not advisable to force her awake. We tend to leave her to it. She'll be alright."

  Voryzek walked back towards the bridge, avoiding the puddles that had formed in the cobbled road. Narcolepsy? And he had always thought she possessed a lazy streak, never suspecting a recognised medical condition. But perhaps it had worsened over the years. Reaching their bench, he felt a twinge of guilt for when he used to snap at her. He sat on the wet surface, stifling a yawn, trying to determine his next move. He was tempted to leave it for tonight, to go home and get out of these damp clothes. He could raise the issue of breaching regulations tomorrow. Surely the visiting company was responsible for one of their actresses? What sort of people would leave her alone in a dark building anyway? Those actor-types were an irresponsible bunch. But what if Milena awoke confused and disorientated? She might fall in the darkness. This very minute she could be lying injured.

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  The theatre's baroque façade was in shadow, the windows dark. Rainwater flushed off the main entrance's glass awning onto the pavement. Voryzek approached the stage door entrance, reaching in his pocket for his keys. He checked his other pockets then remembered leaving them hanging on a hook in Pytlik's booth. He cursed. Was nothing going right tonight? Pytlik had the other set, but he lived miles away.

  Voryzek remembered the cellar window. He had been complaining to the maintenance man for months to fix that clasp. He walked around the side of the theatre, stopping beside the wrought-iron gates. Feeling like a prowler, he jumped the gates into the narrow lane then trotted off among the shadows. He passed the entrance to the scene dock—the giant sliding door where scenery was loaded in and out. Alongside this was a stairwell leading down to the cellar. He descended carefully, as the mossy steps were slippery, the damp-smelling recess thick with a mulch of dead leaves.

  Standing on tiptoe, he forced the window open with his fingertips. He threw his hat inside then pulled himself up to the ledge. He squeezed through, snagging his coat, yet eventually managed to drop down to the other side. In the darkness he groped among the beer barrels and wine racks till he found the door. He didn't bother turning the lights on because it would only mean doubling back and turning them off again at some point. He walked along a corridor then came to the wardrobe store. The dusty room was crammed with costume rails and wicker skips. A group of mannequins stood motionless, some naked, others wearing period dress: a lady with a black veil, a man in top hat and tails, a soldier with epaulettes and shako. He quickened his pace, as the figures unnerved him in the darkness. As he was entering the prop store, he heard a noise. A dull clanging, a metallic tap-tap projecting through the plumbing. He listened again, yet heard only the dull throbbing of his temple.

  Then he jumped as a scream ripped through the silence. Muted by the pipes it had travelled through, but a scream nonetheless, a singular note of unwavering tone that made him shiver. Was that Milena?

  He rushed through the prop store, bumping into a table, knocking an old oil lantern onto the floor, barely hearing the glass shatter. Had he imagined its nightmarish tone, or was Milena in some dreadful predicament? In a fearful daze, he travelled through the dark building before eventually arriving at the stage door through a set of double doors. Once inside Pytlik's booth he grabbed his keys and the old man's flashlight.

  There was an unnerving quiet, which he half expected to be broken by a sickening wail. He tried composing himself. A clear head was needed here, free of frightful thoughts and digressions. Damn it—where could she be? Where would he go to look over a script if he did not want to be disturbed?

  He jogged back the way he had come and entered the auditorium through a side door, making his way to the centre aisle. Behind was the orchestra pit—fenced off with a brass rail—and beyond this the thick edge of the stage jutted out from beneath the iron curtain. He swung his flashlight across the galleries. The beam picked up the ornate gold-leaf designs that decorated the white-fronted balconies, and rows of empty maroon seats. He peered at the curved architecture of the boxes. Then he heard the scream again. Closer, enhanced by the auditorium's acoustics, drawing the hairs erect on the nape of his neck. In one of the boxes was a shadowy figure.

  He rushed out and climbed the stairs to the next level. He entered the box, pulled aside the heavy curtain. Milena was sitting in a chair, her back facing him, alone. There were several gold chairs in the box, scattered in a disorderly fashion. Her alert posture suggested she was watching a performance rather than sleeping.

  "Milena?” he whispered.

  Treading softly, he walked around her. Her eyes were closed. She did not appear to be in any distress. Must be having nightmares, he thought, relieved. He pulled up a chair.

  She had not changed a great deal in thirteen years: leaner in the face perhaps; tiny lines in the corners of her closed eyelids; more assured and elegant looking. Yet the hair that he had once run his fingers through was the same shade of walnut brown, the lips that he had once kissed the same soft pink. She did not make a sound. She might be dead.

  Close by was a vanity mirror on a swivel stand, a black leather bag, a glass of water, and a script which lay open on the box's red velvet shelf. He took the mirror and held it an inch from her nose, leaning close enough to inhale her perfume. He was relieved to see the mirror's surface blur. If she were to wake now he would be happy to talk with her. He felt confident with just the two of them, away from a crowd of sharp-tongued thespian types with their casual put-downs. The actor had said not to force her awake. It seemed good advice. To do so would be almost sacrilegious. He decided to wait until she woke, even if it meant for the rest of the night.

  After half an hour, her lips opened fractionally and a piercing scream issued forth. A strange sound, akin to the shriek of a bird, but no less unsettling than before despite his knowing she was in no danger. He wondered what terrible things she was dreaming of. He studied every inch of her; the contours of her waist and hips in a snug-fitting navy rayon dress, her smallish breasts pressing against the shiny thin fabric, the slim legs in tan stockings. The sight summoned carnal memories of her naked body—soft white skin, rosebud nipples and a thick tuft of mousy pubic hair—and he became aroused. He cleared his throat quietly, feeling ashamed, a voyeur. What if she woke now and saw his excitement? A distraction was needed.

  He took the script of Lady of the Crows and began flicking through. At first the words carried no meaning, and were just ink on paper. Yet after some time he began to recognise certain scenes, mostly those involving Kudlic, the role he had played at the Academy. Once again it puzzled him why Kudlic had loved Zeminova after she had murdered two husbands and tried to kill him. Voryzek read the text of Act Two, Scene Three, his favourite part of the play, certainly from an actor's point of view, as there were some dramatic moments.

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  ZEMINOVA enters Stage Left carrying a cup of cocoa. She places it on a coffee table next to KUDLIC, who is sat in his armchair reading. Absorbed, he does not look at her or acknowledge her presence. She stands at his side watching.

  ZEMINOVA

  Here Kudlic, I have brought you cocoa.

  KUDLIC

  (barely interested) You are too kind my dear.

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  Voryzek muttered Kudlic's line. As he did this, Milena's lips moved. He thought she might be about to scream again but she made no sound. He repeated the line, louder this time. "You are too kind, my dear." There was a prompt now for Kudlic to turn his head from his book and smile questioningly at Zeminova as he recited the next line. Voryzek turned to Milena. "Ar
e you going to hover about me all night like a little bird?"

  Milena's eyes were closed still but her face was turned towards him now in the manner of a sightless person, or a clairvoyant reaching to the spirit world. "I'm sorry," she said in a whisper. "I was wondering what you were reading, that's all."

  As she spoke Voryzek's skin came out in goose bumps. Was Milena dreaming the play? There was a scene towards the end where Zeminova screams in despair from her prison cell, and through the bars of her window the audience sees a crow settle on the sill outside. The crow's caw and Zeminova's scream merge as the play concludes. Could this explain why Milena had screamed earlier? Had she been dreaming the play's final scene? Or could she actually be rehearsing in her sleep? He felt both thrilled and disturbed at the prospect.

  This was the first time he had read from a script since that disastrous audition thirteen years ago. It was surprising how quickly he eased into it. He was soon in character, and with no overly critical directors watching, he delivered with the understated panache that had earned him such good marks at the Academy.

  At this point in the scene Zeminova is meant to be sitting opposite Kudlic, watching him intently still.

  "Drink your cocoa, Kudlic," whispered Milena. "It will turn cold. I made it especially."

  "What's that?" said Voryzek, looking up from an imaginary book. "Ah yes, thank you, my dear. You know, this novel really is very good. You should read it after me." Voryzek pretended to hold a cup in his hand. He made fake glugging sounds.

  But Milena failed to recite her next line. Her expression puzzled, as though waiting. So he took the glass of water and drank noisily. Only now did she speak. "Nice and creamy, your favourite."

  He pulled a face. "There's an aftertaste. Quite bitter in fact."

  "I added a pinch of nutmeg and cinnamon. Don't you like it?"

  "Unusual flavour. Very good though."

  Voryzek drank more water. In rehearsals years ago they had used real cocoa. At first it had been a novelty, but he had soon grown sick of it. For a moment now, he actually tasted the lukewarm powdered chocolate. There was just a small amount of water left in the glass.

  "Finish it. I will take the cup to the parlour."

  As he did so his middle finger twitched. It began as a tick, but was soon jerking uncontrollably. He put the glass on the floor, and as he released it his whole hand came away twitching. He clenched a fist, opened it, and repeated this flexing action as he said his next line. "Why do you look at me so?"

  "You are my husband. I shall look at you as I please."

  The spasm had spread all along his arm now. There was a tightness in his chest as though someone were sitting on him. His next line was uttered in a hoarse whisper, as there was barely enough air in his lungs to form the words properly. "You unnerve me with your stare woman."

  "That is to be expected. I have unnerved more than a few with my stare."

  Voryzek decided enough was enough. He felt too unwell to continue, stricken with a sudden bout of influenza or something. He had to go home immediately and rest. He tried standing yet discovered it would take an extraordinary amount of effort, and a command of his limbs that he did not possess. His legs were convulsing now, his heels kicking the floor in a lunatic tap dance.

  "It will soon be over Kudlic," said Milena. "The poison is working on your nervous system. There is pain, I know, and for that I am sorry. But I have tried making the transition favourable for you. I included the ashes of a crow, a bird very dear to me. Listen out for her. Follow the beat of her wings. She will guide you to the next life."

  He saw his reflection in Milena's vanity mirror. An ugly vision: spine twisted violently, eyes wild and staring, jaw clamped in a woeful grimace. His body was in agony, yet his thoughts were coherent, his senses imbued with a remarkable clarity. From somewhere he heard the solid flutter of a large bird's wings, and instinct told him not to listen, not to seek it out. Something soft brushed his cheek.

  But wait! Hadn't Kudlic survived? Didn't Zeminova, wracked with guilt, have a last-minute change of heart and call for the doctor? Kudlic was strong, strong as a bull, and he fought for life.

  The script had fallen onto the floor at his feet. The text was a blur, and he could not remember the next line. He knew he had to get to the end of the scene. He knew that if he did so then the pain would go away. There was only one more dialogue exchange each before curtain down for a scene drop. But his throat was knotted. And what was that damned line?

  Milena's eyes were open. She did not appear to be focusing on anything, not in this world anyway, but her expression was reproachful. The look sparked a memory from rehearsals years ago. He forgot his lines and she prompted him, teasing him about it afterwards. Of course! The most absurd line in the play in his opinion. He had never understood the playwright's mentality with that one. Why would Kudlic apologise to the woman who had just poisoned him? With great effort, he forced the words out through the pinhole of his throat. "I am sorry ... Alena ... my love."

  "My love?" Milena laughed softly, though she seemed genuinely perturbed by this unexpected and final show of tenderness. "You weren't the worst, Kudlic. I'll grant you that. Perhaps things could have been different ... “ She shuddered. "But it's like ... like I have taken a ride on a train that never stops. A ghastly black engine pulling row upon row of funeral carriages. Once you are aboard, you cannot get off. And it gets faster! Faster and faster, Kudlic! My love? Why did you say that? Why make it so difficult for me?"

  As she said this, the vile intrusion departed his body. His vision swam into focus. And all at once he understood the reasoning behind that line. Kudlic's forgiveness, his unconditional love for Alena Zeminova. That's what saved his life. Voryzek only needed to look at Milena to understand.

  But now he must leave her, and they must never meet again.

  He managed to stand and stagger forward a few steps. Just as he reached the door she spoke, in a different voice this time.

  "Grigori? Is that you?” She rubbed her eyes, yawned. “It is you. I've been dreaming the play again. It never leaves me."

  Voryzek stared, speechless.

  "I heard you were working here still,” she said. Her smile was sincere, and it melted him. “How wonderful to see you again!"

  He felt a little queasy still as together they walked to the stage door. He related the evening's events and how he had come to find her asleep in the box, though he omitted the part about reading the script. She laughed and apologised for her “wretched condition.” They stepped out onto the pavement and he locked the doors. The rain had stopped. The monochrome streets were glistening and silent. A few deep breaths of cold air and he was soon feeling better.

  Across the road was an old man staring. Slowly, he crossed over, never taking his eyes from Milena. Voryzek recognised him from earlier in the evening. He had been last to leave the foyer after the show, and had been wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.

  "Alena?” he said, shuffling closer.

  Milena touched his arm tenderly. “No. It's me, Milena Palovsky. I'm just an actress. I thought you would've recognised me by now. You've watched every performance this week."

  "Oh,” said the old man. “I thought..."

  "It's late. Go home. No doubt we'll see you tomorrow for the matinee. You're our biggest fan. Good night, Kudlic."

  Voryzek offered to escort Milena to her boarding house, and was surprised and flattered when she accepted.

  A thick, static mist hung over the Vlatava as they walked across the bridge. She took his arm, the steam of her breath mingling with his. There was so much to discuss, so many lost years to catch up on, yet oddly, neither said a word.

  Copyright © 2007 Tim Casson

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  Visit www.ttapress.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

  orror Magazine #1