To my left began the main portion of the L-shaped house, ushered in by a curving staircase that led into the balcony of the its second story, which actually seemed to be the main floor of the home proper. White lacework wrought-iron railings set off the freshly painted dusty pink walls of the house like confectioner’s icing. The main entrance to this floor was a set of large French doors that, along with the flanking door-height windows, were framed on each side by white slatted shutters and topped with fanlight windows. The third floor, which had a white wood balcony railing, was largely covered by a sloping garret with small, narrow windows set out from the roof. The first floor apartment, where I was to be staying, had a porch light lit even though it was afternoon, probably to point my way. This floor, which may have originally been a sort of floor-level basement, was set slightly back underneath the balcony. Unadorned and straight-forward, this section that contained the apartment area, with its sliding glass door that opened into the courtyard, looked as if it had been cheaply remodeled into an apartment more than a few decades ago with no thought to keeping with the style of the building, for it really did not fit with the rest of the house at all. I wondered why anyone would do such a nice job of reconstructing the rest of the building without touching this floor, especially considering that, if flooding had been the motivating factor, the floor level would have needed it the most. Past the apartment section, the house came to a right angle and ran directly opposite the gate at which I was standing until it came to an abrupt end. At that point the house was adjoined to a plain, short building, most likely the slave quarters originally, by ramps joining it to the main house. An archway barely revealed a portion of these ramps and the plain wooden staircase leading to the second and third floors; the rest was hidden in shadows.
A luscious fragrance wafted toward me from the dripping blossoms of the wisteria vines that clung to the house, embracing it tightly. Picking up my bags, I walked over to the sliding glass door, unlocked it and let myself in. After only a bit of fumbling, I found the inside light switch and turned it on. Not previously having seen any photos of the apartment interior, I was rather disappointed. In complete contrast to and disregard for the charm, grace and romantic majesty of the home’s exterior, the apartment itself was sadly low-rent. It looked like a eccentric cross between a passable vacation beach condominium and a room in a rent-by-the-hour motel with a broken, flashing “vacancy” sign. Eclectically decorated in mixed styles that were popular from the 1940’s through the 1980’s, it was cheerful enough not to be depressing and strange enough not to be cheerful. Wicker furniture, lively tropical print wallpaper and a glass and chrome dining table reminiscent of the early 1980’s lived side by side with a ceiling-to-floor corner lamp from the fifties. A cheery flowered sofa in the same room’s tiny “living area” was flanked by a distressed World War II era end table topped with a large ashtray in the popular kidney-shaped style that went out with the Eisenhower administration, a plastic palm plant and a small table lamp that would have looked at home in an old Havana nightclub. The crowning glory for me, though, was the surprisingly well-preserved and clean looking wall-to-wall shag carpeting held over from the late sixties in a bizarre bright burnt orange, a peculiar shade whose popularity had not survived the decade. The haphazard furnishings, the fact that so much reconstruction had been done on the rest of the building and none here, combined with Rochere’s repellent attitude only to validate my theory that vacation renters were, in her eyes, viewed as lower life forms.
“Well, at least it’s different,” I said to myself.
I peeked into the kitchenette. It looked efficient and clean. It was nice to see that the stove and refrigerator were white and not the avocado green or harvest gold that I was expecting. Then I walked into the bedroom and checked it out. Shag carpeting aside, it looked much more predictable than the dining and living areas, containing only plain, generic motel furniture. Two double beds occupied it, along with a large dresser, an armless chair and an end table holding a lamp, phone and clock that was placed between the beds. A sliding closet door ran parallel to one of the beds and a door leading into the bathroom was at the opposing wall near the other bed. I kicked off my shoes, put my purse on the chair and put my bags down on the bed nearest the closet, opening up my suitcase and unzipping my carry-on. I would take the bed closest to the bathroom, I decided, keeping with my usual rationale that it was more simply more convenient. Grudgingly, however, I had to admit that having to sleep in a bed by a closet still, to this day, gave me the heebie-jeebies, a hold-over from the horrible nightmares of my childhood.
I went into the bathroom to use the facilities and to wash up from the trip. Standing at the sink, I was shocked at my reflection. I had talked myself into thinking that what happened in Rochere’s office had been some kind of severe and bizarre psychotropic allergic reaction, for all the major symptoms disappeared as soon as that strange odor was gone. While still profoundly exhausted, I thought the worst was over now. The mirror told another story. White lips, a pale, dry, scaly complexion, large, dark, purple shadows and sunken bloodshot red rimmed eyes stared back at me. Who was this strange, sick woman, obviously so much older and dilapidated than myself? I looked puffy, my normally grey eyes were watery. I actually seemed to have shrunk some in height from my normal 5’5”. Even my recently colored, light brown hair joined the damage and had the consistency of straw. This was not the reflection that normally greeted me. I started shaking and backed out of the room with my eyes still focused on the stranger in the mirror. I grabbed my purse and pulled out the tiny bottle of Jack Daniels that I’d bought on the plane and was saving for later. I slumped onto the bed, my hands trembling as I opened it and, instead of sipping it slowly as I had planned, downed it all at once. Now anxious and scared, I laid down, fully dressed, on top of the bedspread.
My mind kept going back to the events or non-events in Miss Rochere’s office. What exactly had happened there? Was it real? It couldn’t have been. Things like that didn’t happen in real life. But if it wasn’t an hallucination or my mind playing tricks on me, if it truly was real, why didn’t I have any marks on me? The super-fair Irish skin I’d inherited from my dad’s side of the family welted fast, stayed red for a long time and bruised easily; as I’d noticed when I checked earlier, the signs of any real attack would still be quite evident, but there were none. Was it some kind of mind control similar to hypnosis? I didn’t remember being hypnotized but maybe I wouldn’t. And if it was only hypnosis, why did I still feel so unclean inside, so incredibly tired and so troubled? Why did I look so sick?
I didn’t remember falling asleep. One minute I was lying on the bedspread clutching the tiny empty bottle of whiskey and the next I found myself on the foggy boulevard, the one I had seen so many times, over and over again. But this time, instead of following my beautiful mysterious gentleman, I was face to face with him. For the second time, I knew it was the dream even while I was dreaming it. This time he pulled me toward him and looked into my eyes, imploringly. My heart pounded wildly as I stared into his beautiful warm brown eyes speckled with deep, rich gold. He took me into a tight embrace and our bodies melted into each other. The beautiful music once again flowed from the crystalline dragon’s mouth and I could see the notes of its song wrapping around us protectively. My gentleman’s hand gently pushed aside my hair as he placed his lips so closely up to the side of my throat that I could feel his warm breath against my skin.
With an English accent, he whispered gently into my ear. “Heed my friends, pay attention to what they say. They cannot help you much, but they will do what little they can to guide you. And wear the necklace always. Never take it off, not for any reason, not for anyone. If you take it off, you will die.”
He held out a tiny, sweet-faced, winged dragon which he laid upon my chest. As it crawled up, the fluttering of its wings slowed to a stop, its long tail tenderly wound itself around my neck, and, settling comfortably into position at my bosom, it sank its sharp baby c
laws into my flesh. I gasped, finding this neither painful nor displeasing, but incredibly exciting.
“You need strength now. The one you must fight has taken much away from you.”
With one hand he then lifted my head up toward his face and, while my breath quickened, brought me close to him. His lips were so near to mine now and he was leaning in, I thought, to kiss me. I opened my mouth to meet the open mouth of my dream lover, but instead of delivering the kiss I thought awaited me, he began to exhale his breath into my mouth. As his breath poured into me, a newfound strength surged there also. The more he breathed into me, the stronger I felt, until, with a cry of joy, I awoke suddenly in the bed, alone.
I felt refreshed, as if I had slept an entire night, but when I looked at the clock, I’d been napping for less than ten minutes. I stretched out on the bedspread, yawning, luxuriating for a while in memories of this latest dream. The recurring theme had always tired me before, but this time it had left me feeling more energized than I’d been in years. Getting ready to rise, I sat up a little, propped myself on my elbows and looked around. With a start, I noticed a figure standing in the doorway.
“Who are you?” I said, frightened. Was it a burglar? Or worse? Not moving a muscle, I hurriedly glanced around the room to see if there was anything I could use for a makeshift weapon just in case. The night stand lamp was the closest thing to one that I could find. Before I could reach it, the figure, a woman’s, entered the room, walking toward me without any sound whatsoever.
“I said, who are you?” I was now even more frightened from the stranger’s lack of response.
She walked toward me without menace, a tall, elegant middle-aged black woman dressed in a long house dress and an apron. When she reached the bed, she stopped and held her right index finger to her lips for me to be quiet.
“A friend,” she said very quietly, “We don’ have much time. You’ve gotta come with me now.”
“Why should I? And whose friend are you?”
“His friend.”
“Who’s ‘he’?”
“The dream man. And now I’m your friend. He told you to expect me. We gotta go now, there’s no time.”
He told me? Yes, he had told me to heed his friends, but it was just a dream. How could she possibly know about my dream? It was impossible. She began to walk away, turned at the door and impatiently motioned for me to follow her. I got up and walked over to her.
“Follow me,” she whispered. “Leave your shoes off and don’ say nothin’ and don’ make a sound. She’ll hear us if you do.”
“Who will hear us?” I asked, also whispering.
She didn’t answer, she just put her finger back to her lips, whispered, “Shhh,” and began to walk away.
This was just too weird, I thought. Common sense told me that following a stranger that had just entered my apartment was not the wisest thing to do, but the ordinary rules of common sense seemed to have taken a holiday the minute I’d stepped into the realtor’s office. My instincts, my gut, told me to go with her. Intellectually, I knew that I was now awake but this felt as if it was still a part of my dream. I knew it was important that I follow this woman and do what she asked me to do. Why, I didn’t know; I just did.
She turned off the lights in the living area and courtyard, and we slipped outside. Hugging the building and keeping as much in the shadows as possible, we moved silently toward the archway to the annex of the building and made our way up the old wooden staircase onto the second floor landing, which led to one of the ramps that connected the old servants’ quarters to the main house. We crossed over, where the mysterious woman effortlessly opened the side door, a door that Rochere had insisted was locked, and we walked into a narrow windowless hallway that ran the entire length of the rear of the main house. On either side were doors leading into the home’s rooms. As we passed these doors quickly, I peeked inside each one, seeing nothing but ceiling chandeliers and the forms of furniture concealed beneath the white sheeting of drop cloths, looking like misshapen, discarded ghosts. Everything was covered with dust and cobwebs.
What the hell am I doing up here? I thought. The fogginess of sleep, with its feeling of still being connected with the dream, was leaving and, wide awake now, I felt a little stupid for tagging along with this stranger. Never one for venturing into places where I was not supposed to be, Rochere’s stern admonishments rang through my mind. The apprehension of getting caught was making my stomach grip. But curiosity and an uncharacteristic feeling of rebelliousness spurred me onward as I continued to follow this strange woman into parts of the house that I had been strongly warned not to enter.
She led me to a room at the very end of the hall, looking carefully inside before entering.
“Stay close to the walls & outta the light comin’ in the windas. Be quiet. When we need to talk, we whisper.”
Tiny dust particles caught the light coming through the windows as we entered an intimate, very narrow room, filled to overflowing with furnishings covered with the same white ghostlike sheets populating all the other rooms.
“This was the private study of the owner of this house a long, long time ago,” she whispered even softer than before, so quietly I had to strain to hear her. Stepping over to one of the sheeted furnishings, she pulled up the draping just high enough to retrieve something from a dresser drawer, closing it quickly afterward and returning the sheet to its original position.
“This is what I brought you up here for. This is what you need.”
She handed me the object she had just taken. It was an ornate crystal box, delicately carved and richly decorated in a design so unusual that I had never seen anything like it in my life. A bizarre yet elegant symbol as exotic as the rest of the piece topped it.
“This is beautiful, absolutely beautiful,” I said.
“Open it. Go on, look inside.”
I tried to lift the lid, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Push this button,” she pointed to a symbol on the back. “Then slide it open.”
I did as she instructed and on a hinge, the lid slid open to the side without friction. The almost glowing inside revealed an object that was set into the molding of the box, the object for which this box had obviously been created. I gasped. It was a tiny crystalline dragon cast in a style that reminded me of the one in my dreams. Its wings spread and its tail curled, it was attached to a short, sturdy yet delicate, seamless rope-chain made of what appeared to be white platinum. Its face, cute and ferocious at the same time, had two small emeralds set into it for the eyes. The woman then reached into the box, took out the necklace by its chain and placed it gently around my neck, securing the clasp. It wasn’t heavy, but it felt substantial. I could tell that it was an expensive, important piece of jewelry. I could have sworn I heard it sigh as I absentmindedly positioned it into place at the top of my chest.
“This belongs to you now, most probably for the rest of your life,” she said in a tone of voice that implied that the rest of my life might not be as long as I’d hoped. “You’re stuck with it, it’s stuck with you and you’ve got to wear it from now on or you’ll be dead for sure.”
“But I can’t wear this,” I said nervously, her words and her tone filling me with dread. I tried to remove the it, but the clasp, now hard to find, had become hopelessly entangled in my hair. “It isn’t mine. Taking it would be stealing.”
“It’s not stealing. It was brought here jus’ for you, for you and you alone to wear. And don’ try to take it off, it don’ want you to. He don’ want you to.”
“He who?”
She pointed to a portrait hanging on the wall opposite to the direction in which I’d been facing. I’d been too absorbed in the woman’s actions and the necklace to notice until now. Unlike everything else, this portrait was not covered in white sheeting. Blanching, I felt my legs go weak, as I began to shake. I could feel sweat breaking out on my upper lip. I heard a small, hushed cry escape my lips.
“You know who that is, d
on’ you? He’s the rightful owner of this house, not the witch. He tol’ you to wear it, I know he did, and he tol’ you never to take it off.”
There he was, my dream lover, in that painting upon the wall, looking down at me as if he could see me. There he was with his kind eyes, sporting his witty smile. He was dressed in the same kind of beautiful old fashioned clothing as he was in my dream. His sleek golden brown hair curled slightly just below his shoulders as he stood so elegantly, one hand resting easily upon the back of a chair, the other by his side. So he wasn’t just a dream, a figment of my imagination, after all. He was real and I was in his house Studying the portrait, I became mesmerized by it, lost in it, transported back into my dream world. I felt his arms around me, his breath upon my neck, his lips upon my own.
The Nightmare Game Page 4