by Rach Elle
Awilda considered leaving the ballroom; perhaps venturing out into the rose garden. Heaven’s Garden. But The Spot Doctors were blocking her exit through the large French doors. She knew she needed to go somewhere; she couldn’t just keep standing here for no apparent reason. She needed something to occupy her brain with. She began moving toward the spiral staircase, weaving through the hurried cleaning crew. She began her ascent slowly at first, unsure if she was overstepping her boundaries; after all, this was not part of the tour. But she continued, her slender hand running along the rich, cherry banister. She reached the top and looked over the balcony at the enormous expanse of the ballroom. The marble floor looked slick and the chandeliers twinkled in the natural light. She had a feeling they were going to look amazing lit up after dark.
Awilda turned her head and looked down the corridor not visible from the ballroom floor. It was lined with doors and looked to expand the entire width of the castle. She left the beauty of the balcony and began walking down the hall, unsure of what she would find; if anything at all. All of the doors were closed and she wondered if she should open any of them. She supposed if someone were to get upset she could just say she was looking for a bathroom. She stopped in front of a door and with a large inhale she turned the knob.
The door opened slowly as she poked her head inside. The room was large and filled to capacity with art supplies; everything from easels and paintbrushes to tools for woodworking. Several half painted canvases sat propped against the walls and abstract sculptures made from scrap metal filled a bookshelf next to the floor to ceiling windows on the back wall. She wondered which resident was the artist. She looked to the left of the door to see clear bins stacked on the floor filled with markers and watercolors sitting next to a pile of scrap wood; trim and molding in every color waiting patiently to be incorporated into a piece of art. Although the room at first glance looked like a dumping ground where art supplies went to die she had a feeling everything had a place and didn’t want to disrupt. She backed out of the room and softly closed the door before continuing down the hall. Her hand reached for the knob of the next room but before she could turn it her eyes noticed something out of the ordinary. About half way down the hall there appeared to be an alcove off to the side. Curious, she abandoned the door in front of her and headed for the nook only to find a set of stone stairs that led upward. A third story?
Awilda began her ascent up the stairs, leaving the light of the hallway and the activity in the ballroom behind. She climbed further, hearing each step echo in the darkness. The stairs began to curve and wind to the left. She pressed her hand against the stone wall to guide her through the black; every now and then running across a small, arched niche in the stone; perhaps where candles used to sit to provide light. Now, however, they were filled with dust and cobwebs that clung to her fingers as she continued her ascent.
Awilda kept a steady pace until finally she could see an ounce of light peeking around the corner. She hurried her steps as she rounded the winding staircase. The higher she climbed the brighter the light became as it began to fill the stairwell. She moved faster and had to lift her hand to shield her eyes from the natural light that shined from the small room sitting at the top of the stairs. She ascended further and stepped through a threshold into a large, round open space.
The empty room at the top of the tower was hardly notable; but Awilda didn’t care. She was more enthralled with the walls; they were lined with floor to ceiling windows allowing her a three-hundred and sixty degree view of the world around her. She could see treetops and every inch of the castle’s flat roof. She could see the rose garden and crew members rushing in and out the front door with decorations in hand. A large smile spread across her face as she closed her eyes and heard nothing but the sounds of chirping birds and the wind blowing through the leaves. This was the most peaceful place she could imagine.
The room was completely void of warmth and appeared to serve no present day purpose; but as Awilda looked out at her view she imagined the space inhabited by soldiers overlooking and guarding the castle. From here they could see just about anything, she observed. At the far end of the castle, opposite where the rose garden sat, was another large tower. She could see the windows running along its top perimeter as well and imagined it was a duplicate room to this one. She placed her slender hand on the pane in front of her, figuring they were fairly recent additions to the castle. The need for guards in watchtowers had more than likely dissipated hundreds of years ago. She imagined the Vanderburens had these installed to create another livable space with a spectacular view. Judging by the stone floors and bland ceilings, however, she figured the present day Vanderburen didn’t care to venture up here. The updated features and finishes barely reached the bottom of the stairwell, let alone to the top of this tower.
Awilda looked out to the second tower standing at the back corner of the castle. Vines were growing up along the stone façade and the space within looked just as empty as this one. She noticed a stone staircase descending from a wooden door, cascading downward to the flat rooftop of the castle. She imagined guards patrolling the rooftop, positioning themselves perfectly behind the large sculpted gargoyles to thwart any oncoming threats. Her head whipped around to see a similar wooden door in this room disrupting only slightly the magnificent view. She unlatched it and opened it to reveal a similar stone staircase. She stepped out onto the platform, suddenly very uneasy. There was no banister to hold onto; only a small guardrail that barely reached her shin. She couldn’t imagine it preventing a fall; more like causing someone to trip. She closed the door behind her and allowed her eyes to drift down the steps onto the rooftop below. It looked exactly like the second tower’s decent, with one exception; her stairwell also descended in the other direction. She was at a crossroads. She knew where the steps to her right led, but what about the ones to her left? Her options were easy to weigh; she turned to her left and carefully took each stair one by one; staying as close to the stone tower as she could.
The stairs began to wind around the outside of the tower. As Awilda made the wide curve she could see up ahead they would begin to descend into the castle. She exhaled for what seemed like the first time since taking these old, moss covered stairs and made her way into the darkened space. Once inside she realized she was merely in a sheltered corridor that looked more like a dungeon than a hallway. The chilled air felt enhanced by the cold stone that arched over her head and ran under her feet. As she continued she found herself once again plunged into darkness and had to run her hand along the wall to find her way. The stairs were still descending, causing her to slow her pace even further. She could barely see her hand in front of her face, let alone the distance between each step.
Finally, she could see a dim light ahead of her, calling for her to move further and faster. She reached the end of her descent and walked through the arched threshold of a large room filled with dim light as if the sun was trying to break through the windows; but as Awilda looked around she realized there weren’t any windows to be seen.
It was a massive space filled with boxes and crates and covered in dust. It looked like an old storage room that hadn’t been touched in years. Next to her sat an old, wooden piano with a flashlight sitting atop. She picked it up and was surprised to see the bulb still worked. She shined the light on the storage room in front of her and slowly scanned the inanimate objects. She could see a forgotten end table supporting a vintage lamp. Next to it sat a pile of old, green luggage trunks that supported a red metal bicycle that was missing its kickstand. In the back corner she could see a full length mirror with ornate gold detailing on its crown and an antique lace wedding dress hanging off the corner. The clutter had all been shoved to the perimeter, creating a wide walkway down the center; probably in an effort to keep things accessible, she thought.
As Awilda began moving down the center of the room and observing all the forgotten treasures her eyes caught the sight of another alcove. She shined the ligh
t through the arched opening. This one didn’t have a set of stairs, in fact, it looked to lead nowhere. She weaved through a number of boxes, careful to not accidentally step on anything valuable that may be lying on the dirty marble floor. Once she reached the alcove she peered around the corner and shined her flashlight to see a simple room. It was of modest size and had no windows or ulterior exits; none that she could see, anyway. She was having trouble imagining what this place could have possibly been before the modern day Vanderburen; a bedroom, servant’s quarters? Judging by the marble flooring she didn’t think it would have been a dungeon or prison of any kind; and what was this small room off to the side; a closet? Awilda ventured further into the alcove and scanned it with her flashlight. After a moment it landed on the corner of something familiar. She headed to the back corner of the room toward a large wardrobe and peered behind it, angling her flashlight to see a large canvas. It was too difficult to crane her neck to get the full image of the painting so instead she put her efforts into moving the wardrobe. She drove her shoulder into it as hard as she could only to have it move slightly. She continued to push and heave the heavy piece of furniture until finally she had pivoted it enough to reveal the full canvas that sat propped up against the wall.
Awilda shined her flashlight on the large painting in front of her, recognizing it instantly as La Gargoule by Arav Dave. The painting depicted a giant dragon facing off with a man in a cloak; the man dwarfed by Gargoule’s size. She could remember her grandmother showing her this painting on more than one occasion and telling her the dramatic tale.
The man in the painting was Saint Romanus and he was defending his true love Sophie from the fiery consumption of La Gargoule. In a cave just off the Seine River Romanus defeated the dragon and dragged him to a small village where his body was burned at the stake. His head, however, was severed and placed on top of the church as a warning to any evil spirits that may dare to enter the village.
“It’s the classic story of good versus evil; the good will always win.” Her grandmother smiled down at the young girl huddled next to her on the sofa.
“I thought Arav Dave only painted pictures of gargoyles.” Awilda said.
Gayle chuckled lightly, “His name is Arav Dave, dear; A-Rahv Duh-Vay; and that is what he was mostly known for. Do you not see the gargoyle in this painting?”
Awilda shook her head.
“Do you see his cloak?” Her grandmother asked as she pointed to the small dragon slayer’s attire. “Does it look a little different to you?”
Awilda narrowed her eyes and scanned the painted lines before nodding her head.
“That’s because it’s not a cloak at all.” Gayle smiled, “It’s a pair of wings hanging from his shoulders; see? And look there,” She pointed to his shoes, “those are most definitely not boots; they’re feet. And that is not a sword hanging from his belt; it’s a tail. Arav Dave was very clever in hiding a gargoyle amidst this little man.”
“Why did he hide it?” Awilda asked.
Her grandmother shrugged, “I suppose it was to bridge the disconnect between man and gargoyle. You see, gargoyles are not barbaric, savaged creatures; they’re smart and kind and watch over us like earthly angels. That was the message in so many of Arav’s works.”
Awilda crinkled her nose as her flashlight shined on the large painting in front of her. Finally she reached out and grabbed the top of the canvas, pulling it forward and shining her light on the painting propped behind it. She didn’t recognize the image of a richly woman sitting on an antique sofa, gazing out a window; so she pulled it back to see a third canvas, and was startled by the image that now shined in the light.
It was a large painting of Arav’s The Guardian Angel. She thought of the one she saw being removed from the ballroom; those men brought it down here? Impossible; this place looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in years and she had to move a ridiculously heavy wardrobe just to reach the painting. She looked closer at the canvas and noticed the brush strokes; the tiny, raised lines where the paint had dried thicker. The one from the ballroom must have been a replica, she thought. It made sense. This painting was centuries old, it would be irresponsible to display it in a space that was exposed to so much natural light. The sun would undoubtedly cause it to fade and wither over time. She thought back to a book she once left in the back of her grandmother’s car. She forgot all about it throughout the summer until finally one day she found it completely faded and yellowed. The pages had begun to warp and she could barely make out the title on the cover.
Awilda scowled at The Guardian Angel. Although it was beautiful, it flooded her brain with unwanted memories; her grandmother using it as ‘concrete’ evidence that what lived in her nightmares was not to be taken seriously. She could see her grandmother sitting next to her on the sofa in the living room, pointing to the picture and insisting that this is what she saw every time she closed her eyes; a guardian angel.
“No grandma,” Awilda would rebut, “my monsters are skinny and bald; this one has hair.”
“Monsters are coming to you in your dreams, yes, but your mind simply does not know how to process them. You are scared of them and rightfully so, because you do not know what they are; so your brain tells you they are scary. But much like a frightened dog may at first seem ferocious; we must not let our fears dictate what is truly in front of us. Your monsters are strong and most importantly, they are good.”
Awilda tried for years to convince her brain that the creatures plaguing her mind were not at all as she pictured them; but she continued to fail. Her grandmother eventually stopped trying to help and instead fell quiet and distant. She just gave up on me. Awilda thought as she eyed the large painting in front of her. She followed the curved lines of the gargoyle’s horned head, to his large wings and down to the length of his tail. It was a stark contrast to the rudimentary lines of the village he watched over. The rooftops were triangles that sat atop boxes; merely a sea of shapes making the town indistinguishable; impossible to pinpoint on a map.
Awilda ran her eyes across the rooftops before narrowing on one in the far off distance. She focused her flashlight and leaned in closer. Standing alone in the back of the village was a triangle roof that didn’t appear to be attached to anything. She was surprised she had never noticed it before, considering how many times she was forced to stare at this exact image. The triangle was sand colored and rose slightly higher than all the other rooftops. Did Arav forget to give it a house?
Tired of staring at the Arav original, as beautiful close up as it was, Awilda leaned the other two canvases back into place and made her way back through the small room and into what had become an enormous storage closet.
The gray clouds shifted in the sky, allowing the sun to shine through and onto the rooftop. A beam of light sliced through the dimly lit space and landed on the pile of old luggage trunks. Awilda carefully made her way back through the stacks of boxes and into the center of the room. She followed the beam of light up to the ceiling that hung two stories above her. She squinted to see the hole in the rooftop that allowed the sun to seep through but instead she saw… a window? She suddenly felt dwarfed as her eyes took in the massive stained glass ceiling that ran wall to wall. The colors were dark and muted, the sun struggling to break through. She pictured the way it must have looked from above; covered in moss, pollen and debris; totally forgotten.
After a moment of allowing her eyes to adjust to the grandeur of the window above she began to recognize shapes and realized it was broken up into scenes. She could see angels gathered in the far corner; their robes white with golden spears in their hands. They stood with their chests puffed out like warriors. She followed their eyes to the next scene in the window; directly above her. God stood with His arms stretched to either side as He looked downward to a praying figure. It took Awilda only a second to recognize the wings and tail; the gargoyle was praying to the Lord. Her eyes moved to the next scene to see a cluster of gargoyles in the corner opposite t
he angels. She winced slightly as she looked into their evil faces, one by one. They started out staring at the praying gargoyle with disdain, but then she noticed one with its head turned to the side; then another and another. Awilda reached the end of gargoyles to see one of them on bended knee with his palms flat against one another and his head bowed. He too was praying.
Awilda looked back at the depiction of the Lord in the center of the stained glass as He looked upon the gargoyle in front of Him. Her eyes then jumped to the final scene. Awilda’s body tensed instantly; feeling icy and rigid as she recoiled from the image that stared back at her from a darkened corner. The devil was half submersed in a fiery pit as he clawed at the ground above; he had red skin, white fangs and black horns with snakes draped around his neck. He pointed to the praying gargoyle in the center with fury, but his gaze looked downward. Awilda stood frozen in the center of the room; staring into the yellow eyes of the devil. She wanted to look away; she wanted to leave, but she couldn’t will her muscles to move. He stared at her; his features suddenly taking on dimension; separating themselves from the flat pane of the window.
A sudden thud echoed throughout the room. Awilda tore her attention from the stained glass devil and focused on the entrance she had only moments ago walked through. The sound echoed again, a heavy clicking like the sound of a hoof hitting the stone stairwell. It continued at a slow, methodic pace; moving closer and closer to the arched threshold before her. Awilda wanted to run, but her legs felt like cement and she had no idea where she could go. She stood frozen in the center of the room. With a trembling hand she slowly raised the flashlight and shined it on the entrance. Dread and hopelessness engulfed her like a rolling wave as the hooves continued their descent. The flashlight cast a shadow against the corridor’s stone wall; broad and tall with long, dagger sharp horns protruding from its head. Just before coming into view the figure stopped. Awilda violently gasped and held her breath; entranced by what stood unseen.