The Nightmare Game

by Martin, S. Suzanne

  A sharp, angry cry far away in the distance cut short my daydream. Mad and enraged, it wasn’t the cry of a human nor of any animal I’d ever heard.

  “What was that?” I asked, but when I turned to the woman, her eyes were wild with fear.

  “Go! Now!” She grabbed me by the arm, roughly and tightly, and pulled me bodily out of the room.

  Still towing me by the arm, we raced down the hall, out the door, down the stairs and into the apartment. She let go of my arm and slammed the sliding glass door shut.

  She turned to me, eyes flashing. “This is real important, darlin’ for you to pay close attention right now an’ to do as I say. Real important. Jus’ go about your business an’ act like nothin’ happened until you hear from one of us again. Act like you never had no dreams and like you never saw upstairs. You understan’ me? Jus’ go about your business. But don’ you never, ever take off that necklace, you hear? Not when you’re takin’ a bath or goin’ to sleep or nothin’, Never take it off for no reason. That necklace is on you now. It’s your only protection. It stays on, always, no matter what. Always. You hear me?”

  I rolled my eyes upward, reluctantly nodding my head. When I looked back to speak to her, there was no one there. She was gone and I was all alone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In shock, I stared at the empty air where, less than a second ago, the strange woman had stood. The frail shadow of a scream escaped my lips before I freaked out completely.

  “Okay,” I said aloud, “that’s it. I am outta here!”

  I ran back into the bedroom, threw on my shoes, grabbed my purse and keys and as fast as my legs could take me, left the apartment, afraid now to stay even a minute longer.

  “What the hell was that?” I thought aloud, my heart pounding as I walked quickly toward the general direction of Jackson Square. I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure that no one was coming after me. Not slowing down, I was aware of nothing except putting space between myself and that apartment, unable to shake the feeling of being followed. When I hit Royal Street, I turned off of Toulouse, crossed over to the other side of Royal and ducked into a souvenir shop to think.

  Walking to a back corner of the shop, I hid among the T-shirts, baseball caps, Junior League cookbooks and guides to New Orleans, afraid that someone or something would come in to drag me out. The scream was burned into my brain. What sort of unholy shriek was that anyway? It didn’t sound like a scream of pain, but more like one of extreme frustration and anger. Murderous frustration and anger. Where on earth had it come from? It seemed to have come from no place in particular but rather from all around me. Okay, I reminded myself, that in and of itself wasn’t so unusual; in a densely populated area like the Quarter, it was often hard to tell specifically where a sound originated. The bigger questions were, who or what made that horrible sound and why was that woman so frightened by it that she physically dragged me out of the main house immediately afterward. And speaking of that woman, where did she go? She was standing right in front of me one second and the next she was gone. She’d just vanished. I thought back to Rochere’s warning to me not to go into the rest of the building. Was it somehow connected with that scream? My mind searched for answers as to what I should do next. Should I call the police? And tell them what? That I heard a scream that came from goodness knows where made by goodness knows whom or what but that it’s okay, officer, the woman I was with heard it too. You could ask her but she disappeared into thin air after we got back from trespassing into a part of the building I was specifically told not to enter. By the way, did I mention to you that it was all very harrowing as I walked off with this necklace that I just stole?

  No, I couldn’t do that. I would do what any level-headed person would do. I would leave. I would book a room in a hotel, any hotel, and when I got my nerve back up I would return to the apartment, quickly retrieve my belongings and move them to said hotel. I would leave this necklace on the dresser, maybe with a note, and that would be the end of that. I had stayed at the Royal Sonesta years before; they might have a room there. Even if they didn’t, perhaps they could refer me to a hotel that did. I wasn’t too optimistic because it was the weekend just before Halloween and most of the French Quarter hotels were probably booked, but at least it wasn’t Mardi Gras so I should be able to find something, even if wasn’t right in the Quarter. That was it, my mind was made up. I reached into my purse and took out my cell phone to call directory assistance. It was dead. Shit, I just recharged it last night. I’d have to make the walk to the Sonesta, then. If they couldn’t help me, they had a nice lobby and I was sure I could get a phone book and access to a phone and I could call around to see if anybody else had a vacancy. Maybe there was a tourist board somewhere that could help me.

  Now that I had a plan, I slipped out of the souvenir shop and on to the street. I couldn’t recall exactly where the Sonesta was, but I knew it was pretty close. I remembered what it looked like, since it was quite distinctive, so I’d just head in the general direction and if I got lost, I’d just duck into a restaurant or a bar and ask directions. I was determined either to salvage my trip or make my way home. I’d made it up to Iberville Street when a piece of paper was shoved in my face. I tried to avoid it but the hand it to which it was attached was persistent.

  “Excuse me.” I said, very irritated, brushing the flyer aside. I was in no mood at all for unsolicited advertising but the flyer simply found its way back into my face.

  “The Crypt, ma’am,” a male Irish accent said. “It’s the only club in the Quarter that you can’t do without. Take one. Address is on here. You’ll get in free tonight.”

  “Not interested, thank you but no thank you.” I walked past, barely looking at the thin, almost waif-like youth attached to the piece of paper so as not to encourage him. He followed me anyway and the flyer reasserted itself in my face.

  Dodging the advert and walking away, I said “Look, buddy, I’m not interested in clubbing tonight. Leave me alone.”

  He grabbed my wrist and shoved a now crumpled flyer into my hand. He was much stronger than his form suggested.

  “Look, jerk, I don’t know what you think you’re doing…”

  Without letting go of me he stood in front of me and stared. With an urgent plea in his eyes, he appeared as though life itself depended upon my following his instructions.

  “You want to go here tonight” he said with intensity. “You really do. The address is on the flyer. Make sure you go.”

  What a psycho, I thought, looking for a policeman, hoping one was nearby, but I was out of luck. So just in case this guy got violent, I kept the flyer he’d shoved in my hand in order to placate him.

  “Okay,” I said only to calm him down, with every intention of throwing the flyer away the minute I got out of his sight, “Maybe I’ll check it out later.” My tone of voice could not have sounded less interested.

  “No, you have to check it out!”

  “What is it with you, buddy?” I said sharply, really getting irritated now. “Like I said before, leave me alone!”

  He pulled up close to me and whispered conspiratorially in my ear, “I can’t. You have the amulet,” he said, pointing to the necklace. “You’ve been chosen and there’s nothin’ you can do about it. There’s been nothin’ you could have done about it since you first set foot in this city.”

  I pushed myself away, “Chosen for what?” I said, in the most insolent voice I could muster in my alarm. He really was crazy, wasn’t he? But how did he know about the amulet?

  He grabbed my arm again and said, “You’ll find out.”

  “Find out what?” I said.

  “Go. This is just the first step. You’ll learn more later. The Crypt is the place to be.”

  “What? Who are you?” I asked, both fearful and annoyed, yanking my arm away and studying him. He was a slight man with stringy chin-length dirty blond hair hanging in his face. He was dressed in old-fashioned baggy white pants with suspenders and a bl
ack sweat shirt, neither freshly laundered, and he sported several tattoos. Going by his looks, I expected him to emanate a stench, but there was absolutely no odor of any kind about him.

  “A friend of Virginia. Your friend now.”

  “Who’s Virginia?”

  “You met her. She gave you that,” he said, pointing at the necklace again.

  “You know that woman? Who is she? Why – and how – did she disappear the way she did?”

  “Yeah, I know her. She’s a helper, just like me and now just like you.”

  “A helper for what?”

  “For ‘who’ is more like it.”

  “Okay, a helper then for whom?” I felt so intimidated and frightened that correcting him was my only weak means of asserting myself.

  “For the one who’s been tryin’ to reach you. I can tell by that expression on your face that you know who I mean. More, I can’t tell you right now. You’re bein’ pursued.”

  “Who’s pursuing me?” I asked. I was already scared when I left the apartment, but this guy was sending my fight or flight instincts right through the roof.

  “The witch. The one you hated right off the bat, and you know who I’m talkin’ about, is huntin’ for you. She’s trying hard to pinpoint you right now, but that,” he pointed to the necklace again, “is the only thing that’s protectin’ you, it’s the only thing keepin’ you alive. It makes you harder for her to find. She almost had you before. You were a lot closer to dyin’ than you realize. If that fella hadn’t come along and saved you, we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation right now.

  “Listen,” he continued. “I don’t have much time. I know what you’re thinkin’. You want to get outta here, you want to find another place to stay. They all do. They think they’re safer in a hotel room but they’re not. Then they all want to get home, think they’ll be safe there, but they’re not. I can see it on your face, you’d like to go home. Don’t do it. She’ll find you there too and you won’t have anybody able to help you there. You want to stay alive? Stay here. Stay put where you are and follow where you’re led. It’s your only chance to stay alive. You’re in the game now and there’s no leavin’ it. You play it through to the end or until you’re killed. You’ll probably end up dead anyway, but it’s the only chance you have. Play and you just might win. Quit this game now and you’ll be dead for sure in a few days. Nobody’s ever left and lived.”

  “Has anyone ever stayed and lived?” I asked, having no real idea of what he was talking about.

  “Not yet. You’d be the first and you’d be the last, but you just might live, you just might win. You have a chance. But like I said, playing this game is the only chance you’ve got. But you’ve got to go to The Crypt tonight. It’s your next move.

  “Jus’ don’t drink anything that comes from there. Not one drop. An’ speakin’ of drops, brace yourself for the fall.”

  I looked around to see if anyone else was witness to this, but found it odd that none of the passers-by seemed to notice. The whole situation seemed too outlandish, too much like a scene from an old TV spy series.

  “What fall? What do you mean? And what happens if I don’t go tonight? Do I just automatically die?” I asked, glancing down at the paper, but when I looked up, he was gone and I was standing there alone. Dumbfounded, I staggered back against a wall, now staring at the flyer that had been stuffed into my hand. Black lettering on red paper, it was now crumpled, torn and wet with the sweat of my hand. It showed an illustration of a screaming man’s face with a logo for “The Crypt” along with an address. No bands were listed. Instead, it simply read, “Attractions of the curious sort. You can’t sleep until you see this and you won’t sleep if you do.”

  “Oh, crap,” I thought, “What have I gotten myself into?” But I had not gotten myself into anything. This thing, this horrible game or whatever it was, had instead sought me out and now it seemed that for some bizarre reason, I no longer had any free choice of my own. I suddenly regretted all of my earlier displeasure with the course that my life had taken because now, looking back, the existence I’d been leading with my wonderful fantasies and my two sweet cats and my dull little job all seemed very nice and comfortable and cozy and safe. If what these people, with their sudden, bizarre appearances and disappearances, were telling me was true, my life was getting ready to come to a premature end very, very soon.

  I folded the crumpled flyer as neatly as it would now allow and stuffed it into the back pocket of my jeans. Crossing the street, I began to wander down Royal Street away from Canal, away from the Sonesta, away from any thing that represented any sanity or normalcy that could still be salvaged in my life. I had been duly warned and it seemed now that I was obliged to obey. I was being controlled; I was caught up in something that had robbed me of all free will, of all say in my own life. I was screwed. Somehow it had been preordained that I was going to die, but not before participating in some kind of quest, some kind of sick game into which I’d been entered without my knowledge or permission. I was confused, I was depressed, but most of all, I was really scared. I continued to walk, not taking notice of anything, looking down at my feet more than looking around, not knowing what to think. The enslavement to this obscure task that had been put upon me felt heavy. Thinking about it only made my confusion worse. Task? What task? All anyone would tell me was that they didn’t have the time to explain this monumental thing I was supposed to do and whenever I tried to ask, they just simply disappeared, quite literally. I shivered, feeling an electric chill go down my spine; someone, according to the old wives’ tale, had just walked across my grave. The sensation was so strong that it stopped me in my tracks. I looked up from my feet and peered about. The shop window to my immediate right caught my attention. A large eye painted on the window was staring at me. It was flanked on one side with a right hand and on the other, a left, both palms up with heavy palmistry lines painted upon them. Against a backdrop of purple and gold fabric, a narrow display shelf held crystal balls and tea cups with Runes and Tarot cards fanned out symmetrically on either side. A fortune teller, I thought, maybe she can shed some light on this. All rationale had left my mind. Ration just didn’t seem to apply any more. In less drastic situations I normally thought that fortune telling was silly but right now I didn’t know where else to turn. My situation was so outside of normal reality that this made as much sense as anything else that I could think of. So I went inside the tea room.

  It wasn’t a bad place, I supposed, once inside. I’d half-expected stale, decades’ old incense to hit me in the face while an old, skinny, overly-tanned bleach-blonde woman named “Madame LaRou”, my last fortunetelling experience, to pounce on me, sporting exotic-looking shawls and a voice that was spooky, not from psychic insight but from lifelong use of too much whiskey and too many cigarettes. Instead, while it did smell of incense, it was a pleasant fragrance and the place was clean, nicely cluttered, but still clean. A very level-headed looking youngish woman, a light-skinned African-American with green eyes and dark golden-brown hair in long Rasta braids came toward me. She looked as though she might have come from the Cayman Islands, but when she spoke, it was with a light Jamaican accent.

  “Hello, ya wan’ ya fortune told. My name’s Adelle,” she said, motioning to a small table with a fabric tablecloth and two café chairs. “Please, have a seat. What form of divination would ya like today?”

  I sat down. A tiny lamp illuminated the table and a small, laminated rectangular piece of paper lay upon it. I picked up the paper; on one side was printed the selection of teas that they offered and the other side their list of fortunetelling methods and prices. “I don’t know,” I said, my voice sounding as befuddled as I felt. “I don’t know, it’s been years since I’ve had this done. Having my palm read seems a little long-range to me. I might not be around long enough for that.”

  “Ya concerns are more immediate then?”

  “Yeah, my concerns are real immediate. What about Tarot cards? I’m more fami
liar with those than anything else.” Having had a roommate in college that read Tarot cards incessantly, I knew just enough about them to be able to pick up whether she was completely bullshitting me or not.

  “Always a good choice,” she said in a tone that sounded as if I had deep wisdom of which I was unaware. I felt a little played. “Now, I take it ya don’ wan’ a year spread.”

  “No, nothing over three months,” I replied.

  “Now, do ya have any preference for a particular deck?”

  “No, I’ll leave that decision up to you.”

  She got up, walked over to a shelf and picked up a wooden box, bringing it to the table and sitting back down. Opening the box, she pulled out a deck, unwrapped it from the silk scarf in which it was stored and went through the cards, pulling one out. “Ah, here ya are, here’s the card to describe ya. You’re the Queen of Rods.” She pulled it out, set it to one side and began to shuffle the rest of the deck. She handed it to me, giving me directions as to how to shuffle the cards, cut them and reassemble the deck. I then handed it back to her.

  Deftly, she dealt the cards upon the table in a spread with which I was unfamiliar. “I don’ go so much by what the books say the cards are supposed ta mean,” she explained. “I’ve kinda got my own way of seein’ them. An old witch woman told my mam when I was born that I got the sight, so I interpret ‘em my own way. It jus’ works better for me. I find my readin’s are better that way, more accurate. Now I’m doin’ ya readin’ for three months inta the future, but I like ta do some past readin’ first. It helps me make sense o’ things.”

  She hummed to herself, studying them. “Okay, now. Let’s see what they have to say.” She turned over the first card. “This card represents ya past, but not ya immediate past. Ya alone a lot, I see. Alone, but not lonesome. This is nice, it is a comfortable card. And this one,” she turned over the second card, “this one represents the more immediate past. Ah, I see the loneliness settin’ in. Ya haven’t been happy for awhile now, have ya?”