He mumbled something I could not understand, then he seemed to growl in Victor’s direction. It did not make sense. The funeral was over, he was buried. He had died in his sleep. Everybody knew. I couldn’t believe he was standing in front of me.
“This isn’t possible,” I said.
“You’re right, Penny. He’s dead,” Mad Dog said, drumming more quietly. Seven picked up the electrical cord of a rusted toaster and swung it to his pile. “But not one hundred percent dead.” He escalated his rhythm.
Victor shushed him. “You will come to my party. Velvet and I want you to help us.”
I took a deep breath. “This! …Is! …Insane! I yelled with everything I had. Mad Dog’s drumming paused. The sudden outburst made me lightheaded. I might have fallen if Victor had not leapt over Seven’s pile to steady me.
“You promised,” he said, sternly. Mad Dog modulated into a lighter cadence and Seven’s mechanical labors adjusted too. “He was not really meant to be a winner in this life. Was he?” We stared at Seven who now worked at a slower pace, oblivious to us, oblivious to everything.
“I don’t know. He was okay.”
“Okay? You can do better than okay, Penny Langston. You deserve to sit in the first chair, by me.”
He gestured at Seven, and waved him off. I heard a secret in Victor’s voice, teasing me, something he was not telling. I was arrested by the memory of that wrinkled reed I put in Velvet’s clarinet case. She did not know. He could not possibly know about that. But his sinister smile said he did. He projected the thought, the guilt onto me. It was impossible, but I knew that he knew. He reveled in my wrong.
I turned back to Seven. The one streetlight was behind him, so I could not see his face. I sensed he recognized me now, and he had something in his hand, something he wanted to give me. I edged closer and bent down to a cat that was weaving between my legs. I petted the cat and opened my other hand for Seven. Mad Dog and Victor were whispering with their backs turned to me. Seven looked so different. Inhuman, or I don’t know what. He gave me a string and folded my fingers over it.
I took several steps backward with the idea I would walk home. But I went only a few feet before dizziness overtook me. My legs trembled and I would have fallen if Victor had not jumped and caught me again. He grabbed me without thinking and clasped me to his chest. He was so strong. He held me like a feather and helped me to his car. “It’s Marie LaVey,” he said. “Even if you did have Lyme disease, that’s over now. And it doesn’t explain your weakness. You aren’t yourself. Marie LaVey is doing this. All of it. She did that to Seven. You cared about him, so I wanted you to know. But he isn’t human anymore. He’s a Voodoo zombie. It’s a spell she’s done. You’ve got to let him go. Don’t ever let yourself think about him again. Don’t ever see Marie LaVey again. Or she’ll turn you into a zombie, too.”
I nodded.
“I can help you fight the curse of Marie, but you have to trust me. You’ll understand it better after the party.”
He pulled into my driveway and waited patiently for me to get out. I fumbled with the handle and staggered away from him, up the steps and to my room. There was no reason for me to be so unsteady. When I looked in the mirror, my face was colorless—like Seven’s had been, like a ghost. The room was spinning and my cheeks were white. I slapped them to bring a flush but none came. I pinched my fingertips but they were only numb and tingling, a bloodless pallor of white.
Marie was doing this. I could die. I had never been so tired. Sleep crashed over me like a wave. Being closer to death was easier. I felt like I might never get up again.
Several hours later I came back around. I was sprawled on top of the bedspread, had not even taken off my shoes. I felt more clearheaded, more like myself. I could not be sure that any of it had really happened. Victor was right, I was getting weaker. There was a black shoelace in my pocket. I scrutinized it, wrapped it around two fingers, and pulled it tight. It was not my imagination. A black shoelace. I remembered. Seven, or a Seven-like thing, had given it to me.
19 Like A Christmas Caroler At A Black Mass Orgy
It bothered me that Victor had asked me to help him and Velvet with something. That he would have us both for the after-hours party was a test. And when it was over, Velvet would have to slink off to find someone else. I was more strong-willed than she was. I had decided to beat her out and reserve the option to make Victor mine. Victor would like that. I did not have any integrity left with Velvet, or anybody else. Seven, maybe. My long-lost friend the zombie. My thoughts were jumbled, but every clear one was a distillation, a realization galvanizing, that all the bad things happening had started with Marie. I had misread her. She was more awful than she looked.
I needed to begin again, sleep more, eat better, and improve my strength. There was no point in apologizing—Velvet always suspected something about the clarinet reed. The air between us had never been cleared, so I did not know what would happen in a late-night exclusive invitation for just us three. Victor was self-indulgent enough that he might be bringing us together just to enjoy a fight. He would not get that, I had decided. I would deny any claims that I had tampered with Velvet’s clarinet reed. There was no way she could prove it.
I was awakened by the first gong and counted each to nine. They all sounded significant, deep, and sinister. Victor had told me the tolling bell would mark the commencement of his party. I had only meant to rest my eyes, but I must have dozed off because that was two hours ago. Victor’s convertible glided up our drive. He had been in my thoughts all day. Every other thing in my head was about him. I could not seem to shake how much I liked his face and how attractive he was, despite that he wasn’t very nice. I wanted to pet the coarse hair on his arm, and feel his hoof. He was a fascination, and so brute. Without exactly knowing I was supposed to be ready then, I was. I had applied a color corrector to the edges of my lips and the cracks spreading out onto my cheeks, then a concealer, and foundation over that.
I bounded down the stairs. The quick movements made me dizzy and I had to hold the rail for support. He should have come to the door, or I should have made him wait. But I was too excited. It was impossible that we had buried Seven and then he was sorting garbage at the dump. I couldn’t think about it anymore. It was too much.
Victor did not get out of the car or lean across to open my door. He was looking out the driver’s window as I got in. I gasped when he turned his head. His entire face was painted white like a skull, with sunken black eye sockets and the hinge of a jaw stretching to his ears. He had on a black suit and a tie like an undertaker from a hundred years ago. “Oh my God, I didn’t know it was a costume party!” He looked wicked and tempting and he appreciated my surprise. If being with him was supposed to be bad, then I didn’t want to be good. I needed the escape. But I was just wearing a simple white dress. I looked so plain.
“You look fine,” he said. And that was it. There would be no more talking. I felt nervous sitting so close to him, and I hoped Velvet would not be there. I was sure things would improve when we got there. Then later I could get him alone.
Two lines of cars led a quarter mile up his winding driveway and the party was well underway. “Behold the eternal moment of joy!” Victor bellowed from the stage. He had obligations as the host and had deserted me. “Celebrate my birth, celebrate my hoof! Celebrate my coming and celebrate me!” With every pause, the partygoers erupted. He brandished his hoof in the air. A rock band struck power cords and launched into a caterwauling song. Lights came up in the field below the house and I could see more clearly. Dozens of women were naked, except for bikini-placed ostrich feathers and bizarre bird-like masks. Others had painted themselves head to toe in iridescent reds, yellows, and blues. Only the whites of their eyes were real. They accompanied the band on stage and danced, slithered up and down golden poles, and crawled into the audience. The ones who were not performing seduced every man they could. Mad Dog was entertaining three. Sexually.
I felt like everyone around me was s
nickering. My white dress looked ridiculous. I did not see their lips move but I knew what they were saying: Who does she think she is? She’s the one who killed him. Nobody believes her anyway. I stuck out like a Christmas caroler at a black mass orgy. It was beyond paranoia. I reached back in my mind to a safe place, my mental image of swinging carefree in the backyard. My memory of it was fuzzy. I could not see through the smoke, could not find it and focus. For days this memory had been losing strength and now it was ridiculous to imagine that it could calm me. I concentrated harder, but got nothing. There was a tree at the top of the yard with a swing like ours and a girl in a white dressing was swinging. Long red hair flowed out behind her and she looked just like me. Too much like me. I stepped backward and tried to run, but the throng blocked my way. They pushed me back like an animal in a cage.
An extremely tall, blue woman had been chosen by two men and they battled for her affection. She encouraged them—fight to the death!
Ray Dimple was perfectly coiffed and shaven, wearing a loin cloth, and proffering a tray of shots and weed, white powder, and pills in a variety of shades. “To your taste, Penny Langston,” he said, bowing to me. I shoved him back and toppled his tray. A swarm of Vanderbilt frat boys dived into the mud, lapped up the liquor, and gobbled pills like swine.
Velvet’s crew discovered me, and came running up. “We’re so glad you’re here!” and they all hugged me. I was not so thrilled to hug them back. “Victor has chosen you,” a clarinet player said. “This night Victor will initiate you.”
The escape I had imagined was a much less vivid scene than this. “No. It’s not for me. I’m just a guest.” There was no way to run. My mind blanked from one moment to the next.
“The time has come, and we are here to escort you,” my former friend said. They whisked me along, a girl on each arm, almost carrying me. I had not known they were so strong.
At the backdoor to the mansion, they placed me down and knocked. The door opened and a red light pulsed down a long and narrow case of stairs. They pushed me in.
Velvet was waiting on his round bed. She wore a black bra that passed as a top, a miniskirt and artfully torn fishnet hose. Spiked heels were tossed to the side. Her patent leather collar was fastened to the ceiling by a chain. She had a gash of red lipstick, a smear of makeup nearly as thick as mine.
I had been ashamed of my white dress all night. I was covered up like a nun compared to her. The effort of walking down the steps had made me short of breath, and I felt like sitting down. Velvet patted the bed and I sat beside her. The relative calmness of this basement room was an improvement on the mayhem outside.
Victor could tell I was uncomfortable and he gave me a martini glass filled with luminous green liquid. “Oh, no,” I said. “I don’t usually drink.” But that was pointless as I had already accepted the glass and was fascinated by how it glowed.
“Absinthe and sugar, with a splash of datura. Shaken, not stirred.” Velvet said. “It’s our favorite.”
The alcohol was strong. It had a heavy taste, like licorice masking something sharp and more bitter, fresh leaves. “What’s datura?” I did not want either of them to think I was a total dud, so I took a deeper sip. Victor nodded approval. I may have even worked up a blush. It might have been the drink, but for whatever reason, I was overwhelmed with gratitude, elated to have pleased him. He had no intention of answering my question and I wished I had not asked it. They were both quiet, watching me. My tongue felt numb and thicker. I rolled it over my teeth like it was disconnected, a wriggly snake in my mouth. “Oh, wow,” I said. He took the glass away just as I flopped backward. I saw myself in the mirror over his bed, my hair splayed out and pretty. Red hair on a red rug on a round bed. I dug my fingers in and it felt like hide. My choice of white dress was not so bad. I looked pretty, and felt good about being there, felt good about everything. That I would continue the vendetta against Velvet was crazy. She looked pretty too. We should have always stayed friends. She was smiling, her face above mine, she leaned down, and kissed my cheek.
It was like being asleep while I was awake, or conscious of a dream. “By embracing hatred for my enemies, I feel love for you more purely,” Victor cooed to Velvet. His voice was above me, floating like I could touch it. “The idea that we do not hate others, or that we should not hate is a lie. Hatred is real, just as love is. It is as strong as love, and as necessary. By admitting hatred for those who deserve it, I know love better, love you better, and I do not confuse the two.” His voice was resonating, disembodied, and sure.
Velvet moaned agreement, smooching and slobbering on him. “Oh, yes my love. Love is hatred. You will sire the devil’s child tonight!”
I strained to turn my head, to shake myself awake and open my eyes. As I burst out of the dream world, I found that I had not moved from the round bed. I was still there in Victor’s basement, his dungeon equipment hanging on the walls. My eyes lit on a huge bongo drum that I had not noticed before. It was blue with swirls, as tall as me. There were crossbones painted on it and the menacing smile of a skull, its mouth sewn shut with cord. It looked familiar. I was drawn to it and wanted to play it, even though I had never played a drum in my life. The skull stared back like it had an inner life.
Victor’s voice had not really come from above, but from across the room, where he and Velvet were hanging by steel cables from the ceiling. They were seated together in a leather contraption, harnesses around their torsos, and somehow they had hoisted themselves in the air. They were dangling, painlessly in an embrace, loving each other, and whispering, caressing, nuzzling, their arms bound around each other with rope and tied. “She’s awake,” Velvet said. “Come here.”
I sat up and shook my head, trying to clear the grogginess. My thoughts had dispersed, lost their way so that I could not call upon my own voice in my head. There was only static, a box of crud. Memories came back slowly. Blackness with a tunnel, images I could focus on through the dark. Tracking backward, I was at home getting ready. Victor had picked me up. His face was painted like a skull. I glanced over at him. He and Velvet kissed deeply. His face was still painted like a skull. He had given me a drink. I must have passed out.
My white dress was still on. Nothing had changed except the strangeness in my mind. I had done it wrong and they would humiliate me. I knew I had done it all wrong, again.
Victor sighed. My failure to respond to Velvet’s command had irritated him. The room was silent and the air so still even the slightest movement was crystal clear. “Come to us,” Victor said. “We need you.”
I rose from the bed and crossed the room. “Oh, she’s coming,” Velvet shrieked. “She’s going to hurt me!” She squirmed in the harness, pretending to agonize, that she could not get free.
Victor was calm. “Have another drink,” he said.
“That’s okay, I’d rather not.” I made sure that I was not imagining things, that their feet really were not touching the floor. I peered around them and behind, at the elaborate cable system and straps that buckled them together.
“Take the duster,” Victor said. I turned and saw that his laboratory table had an array of weapons and threating things, torture devices. One of them was a yellow feather duster on a braided black handle.
“Bring it,” Velvet said. I picked it up and the feathers swished through the dead air like a fan. “Tickle my face,” she said. The floppy handle made it hard to control.
“You guys are into some weird stuff. Maybe I should just go home.”
“You owe her something, don’t you?” Victor said. “Do as she says.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Do it!” Victor boomed. I choked down on the feather duster’s handle and whisked it across her face. He threw his head back and howled. “Do me, too.” I swept the downy feathers across his skull-painted face. He opened his mouth and lolled his tongue, tried to suck the feathers. “Harder!” I swirled it on him, down his neck. He writhed in the harness, tugging Velvet closer to him.
“Me, more. Me!” Velvet bucked, drawing nearer to the duster. I waved it across her face and she squealed.
Next they made me brandish them with a horse’s tail, and I could see we were working our way toward dirtier deeds. “I don’t think I’m going to do this anymore,” I said.
“You will!” Velvet yelled. “Because you’re bad. Bad people hurt others. You have to!”
Victor snarled behind the skull paint, his savage teeth and pink gums glowing in ultraviolet light. “I’m not bad!” I said. I was breaking down, losing control of the situation, losing control of myself. “You can’t make me do this!”
“I should be punishing you,” Velvet said.
“You know why!” Victor chimed.
“No, no, no,” I sobbed.
“Yes!” They bellowed together.
I wailed an empty protest but it only made them laugh. I was a puppet to them. Doing whatever they said, I was empty. I was no one, no one at all. I had never felt so worthless. They could use me and I was under their will. I don’t know how it happened, how I had become their toy. But they could see through me, all of me—the little naïve girl I was, the child who wanted revenge. Penny Langston was nobody, a wisp of smoke that had faded away.
“The table,” Victor said. I wiped my tears and focused on the table. “Bring the reed,” he said.
I had not noticed it before, but a clarinet reed was among all the other bondage and torture stuff. A reed that had been filed to a point, to an edge like a tiny dagger. “Cut me with it,” Velvet said. “Like you did at the audition. Like you did to cheat me. Cut me, now.”
My hands shook and I held it out like poison. It was the same reed, the one I had warped with steam. “I wasn’t sure you knew,” I muttered, unable to meet her eye.
She grabbed it and poked the tortuous vein bulging from Victor’s forehead. It puckered and returned to form like rubber. “Don’t make him angry.”
Blue Bottle Tree Page 15