Garden of Darkness

by Anne Frasier

  “And now you’re afraid. I can smell your fear. I don’t think you’ve ever been afraid of me. Don’t be afraid of me.” She could see his brain shift. “Don’t tell me you suddenly believe that vampire nonsense.”

  “No. Of course not.” But he was different, and he was making her nervous.

  Something wrong.

  She moved backward, away from him. She felt behind her for the door. “I have to go.” Her cell phone was in her pocket. But would she get a signal? Probably not.

  “You just got here.”

  “Take a shower, Evan. Take a shower and go to bed. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “I’ll call you.” Placate him. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk.”

  “Stay with me, Florence.”

  Time froze for a few beats.

  “Did you just call me Florence?”

  His eyes clouded and he seemed to briefly look inward. “Rachel,” he corrected himself. “I meant Rachel.”

  “You said Florence. Who’s Florence?”

  He lashed out and grabbed her wrist. He pulled her against him so hard her breath skipped and their stomachs collided.

  His eyes changed. His pupils dilated. “What?”

  While keeping one hand on her wrist, he felt her stomach with the other. “Rachel?”

  He released her and placed both hands on her belly.

  The baby moved as it had earlier, a giant shift. She and Evan both inhaled sharply. She could see his focus narrow, his thoughts clarifying as he remembered and calculated. She could see his emotions come one on top of another, ranging from joy to despair.

  “It’s not yours,” she said quickly.

  Where had the denial come from? Certainly nothing she’d planned, but with his obvious instability it had just popped out.

  Protect herself. Protect the baby.

  “You never could lie worth a damn.” With his hands still cradling her belly, his lips twisted into an odd smile. “What about my disease? Have you thought of that?”

  “I’ve researched it—”

  She stopped, immediately realizing she’d just admitted the child was his. Tears stung her eyes. Why? Because the truth was finally out and she wasn’t carrying the secret alone? Or was it fear for her baby? Fear of Evan?

  One night. They’d made love—or had sex—just one time. Her memory of the event was fuzzy, and later she’d wondered if it had really happened. Just a crazy dream, she’d told herself. Just a crazy Tuonela-induced dream. Until her periods stopped and the pregnancy test came out positive.

  “Were you ever going to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “I tried. I left voice-mail messages.” When he didn’t respond, she thought it was all for the best. She would wait until she got to California. Distance would make it easier for both of them. She certainly hadn’t meant for him to find out this way.

  “Voice mail?” He snorted. “You didn’t try very hard.”

  “No, I didn’t. After all that happened, I wasn’t sure you’d want to know.”

  “That hurts me.”

  “Evan, I’m sorry. But you’ve changed. Sometimes I don’t think I know you at all.” And she used to know him almost as well as she knew herself. “At one time I would have told you right away, but even now I question the wisdom of sharing such news.”

  He couldn’t be trusted. “I think maybe I should never have told you. That nobody should know.”

  “I don’t blame you. Poor thing will grow up being called the vampire’s child.”

  “I’ve never been ashamed of you. You should know me better than that. But I have to protect the baby.”

  He nodded. “The baby.”

  She was beginning to relax when Evan’s eyes changed. The pupils enlarged and became flat and black. He broke into a sweat, and he suddenly gave off a fevered heat.

  He removed his hands and stepped back. “Go.” There was confusion and terror in his voice that seemed to mirror her own earlier emotions. “Get out of here. Now.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Go!”

  He was right; she’d never been afraid of him. Not even when the whole town believed he was capable of horrendous acts. But she was afraid of him now.

  She turned.

  She ran.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Standing in the middle of the parking lot in downtown Tuonela, I glanced up at the darkening sky, then back at Claire. I have a really readable face, so I had to consciously struggle to keep my expression neutral even though I was thinking, See what I told you?

  “Well?” Ian asked me. “Should I finish setting up?”

  “How quickly can you tear down if it starts to rain?”

  “Ten minutes?”

  Like most people who didn’t actually deal with the day-to-day of filming, Claire had no concept of how much time they would waste if it rained. Not to mention the risk to expensive equipment. Yes, the interview with the psychic would have been better outside near the river, but sometimes you had to choose a backup location, which happened to be the Port of Tuonela building.

  The psychic was driving in from Milwaukee.

  Claire had wanted somebody from out of town. She’d also wanted somebody who was famous, although none of us had heard of Madame Sosostris. But I don’t watch much television or read many newspapers.

  Ian nudged me. “Check it out.”

  I followed the direction of his nod to see a red extended-cab pickup turning the corner. It was pulling a homemade ornate house on wheels. A gypsy trailer that was gaudy and tacky and ridiculously beautiful, with bright colors and a curved roof. We couldn’t quit staring. Now I understood why Claire had wanted this particular person. Let’s add another nutcase to the project.

  I once had an instructor who used to rant about heavy-handed documentation. She called it creating a false reality.

  “I have an aunt who reads tarot, so it’s not like I’m trying to dispute its validity.” I eyed the monstrosity in front of us. “Of course, my aunt looks like a regular person. And she drives a Chevy Malibu.” If you want to make fun of these people, you could be a little more subtle, were the words I didn’t speak but wanted to.

  Minneapolis was known for its kitschy humor. It saturated everything from music to film. It was no accident that the Coen brothers were from Saint Louis Park, a first-ring suburb of Minneapolis.

  You had to fight it. I’d been fighting it for years. Some people, like Claire, embraced it.

  Claire rushed out to meet the driver, waving her arms and pointing to indicate where the vehicle should be positioned, with the river and lift bridge as backdrop. There was plenty of room, and it was just a matter of stopping.

  The driver got out.

  Madame Sosostris was what some people might call white trash. She’d probably been beautiful once, but cigarettes and alcohol had taken a toll. She looked the part of a fortune-teller: fried, curly red hair, a billowing skirt, and a wrinkled black T-shirt pulled down tight across a menopausal belly. Sandals plus lots of bracelets and bangles. God, she even had hoop earrings.

  Ian smiled and rocked on his heels. “Trippy.”

  Madame glanced up at the sky, then hurried around to the back door of her trailer and began unloading and hanging and decorating the outdoors like an AARP member at a Winnebago camp.

  An Oriental rug appeared. On top of the rug went a round table. Chimes were hung near a green door that looked like the entrance to a hobbit home.

  “Cool,” Stewart said.

  I positioned the camera, framing the table in the foreground, the bridge and water as backdrop.

  “Sorry I’m late,” the woman said breathlessly as she dashed back around. “Had a flat.”

  Ian leaned close and mumbled, “More like a raging hangover, I’m guessing.”

  Stewart let out a snort and put a fist to his mouth.

  The wind whipped up. The chimes clanged; the rug rippled and folded. Mada
me’s skirt swirled, and she clutched at the fabric à la Marilyn Monroe.

  Behind her the surface of the river turned black and choppy.

  “Maybe we should wait,” Claire offered with hesitation.

  “We should hurry.” I was suddenly intrigued by the juxtaposition of the weather and the cartoony trailer. Also the contrast in color. The wagon and woman were garish, the backdrop gray and colorless. This might work after all.

  At least nature wasn’t something Claire could manipulate.

  “The cards will blow away,” Madame said.

  What was her real name? Were we supposed to call her Madame Sosostris?

  “You’re doing a card reading?” I asked.

  “I do readings on towns. It’s kind of my thing. But I always do intuitive readings without the cards. I can try that first.”

  “Why don’t we capture some footage out here, then move inside if we have to,” I said.

  Townspeople were gathering.

  Probably drawn by the trailer, but also by the camera and microphone boom.

  I wished I had a dolly, but they were expensive and something Claire hadn’t wanted to spend money on. I’d hoped we could at least grab a grocery cart somewhere, but they could be a noisy and rough ride. I’d always planned to make my own dolly, but had never gotten around to it. Lack of motivation? Yes. Because I knew I’d be using it for shit like this. If that wasn’t a motivation killer, I don’t know what was.

  The camera was already rolling when Madame took her seat in a little parlor chair with ornately carved wood and a seat covered with deep red upholstery fabric. The kind that would leave a pattern on the backs of your legs if you sat on it too long.

  The crowd grew. Probably thirty people now.

  Madame closed her eyes and placed her hands in her lap. A few feet away the chimes raised all kinds of hell. I should have taken them down. They were going to overpower the audio.

  With eyes closed and hair whipping around her head, Madame started muttering something about the town being dark. At that very moment, the sky got even blacker and the people behind me let out a collective gasp. I tried not to laugh, and I sure as hell didn’t look at Stewart or Ian.

  “They want something,” Madame said.

  Claire took a seat across the table from her. “Who?”

  Madame frowned with closed eyes. “The strigoi.”

  “Strigoi?”

  Claire glanced at us. We shrugged in silent unison.

  “Strigoi are lost spirits looking for bodies to inhabit. These spirits can manifest themselves in various ways.”

  The wind died down; the chimes continued to chime, but not as madly. Now it was more of a steady beat. A clang, clang, clang. I could feel the rapt attention of the crowd behind us. And I’d be the first to admit the psychic was kind of freaking me out.

  “The bait is your heart’s desire,” the woman said. “They can imitate and tease you with your own longing. They tempt you with what you most crave. They find the tear in your soul, the source of your pain, and they torment you and tantalize you with it.”

  “They?” Claire asked.

  “I feel many. Some aren’t bad. Some are just mischievous and lost. It’s the evil ones you have to watch out for. They’ll draw you in. They’ll trick you.”

  No gasp this time. Total silence except for the clang, clang, clang.

  “I also feel the nearby presence of a revenant.”

  Revenant? A kind of vampire, if I remembered correctly. Well, duh.

  “What’s going on here?”

  I turned to see a guy in a suit fighting his way through the crowd. I knew his type. We had a lot of young, successful businessmen in the city.

  “Do you have a permit to film?”

  The spell was broken. People began moving and talking. Someone mumbled something about the mayor.

  “You can’t just come into town and start filming,” he said. “You have to fill out the proper paperwork. You have to have permission.”

  “I have release forms,” Claire said.

  “Do you have a permit?”

  “No.”

  “Then move along.”

  Claire didn’t let him intimidate her. Go, Claire. “I was under the impression that I needed a permit only if we were blocking traffic or disrupting something,” she said.

  The mayor looked at the crowd, then back to Claire. “You are disrupting something. I want you to leave. Now.”

  “Who do we see about a permit?”

  “You’ll have to check with the Wisconsin Film Board.”

  He just wanted us out of there.

  Claire held her ground. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Look here. I worked too damn hard to bring tourism to this town. I’m not letting you come in and make us look like a bunch of idiots.”

  I could certainly see the validity in what he was saying. But that didn’t keep me from enjoying the Jerry Springer aspect of the scene.

  “Oh, I think you’re doing a pretty good job of that by yourself.” Claire might have said more, and weren’t we all eager to see what transpired next? But the sky chose that particular moment to cut loose and dump on us.

  Everybody scrambled. By the time Madame was back in her truck and we were in the van, rain was falling so hard we couldn’t see two feet in front of us.

  “We’ll have to wait it out,” Stewart said, not even bothering to turn the key and start the engine.

  “That asshole.” Claire swung around in the seat to look at me. Her hair hung in wet clumps on either side of her face. “Is that true? Do we need a permit?”

  “Every town’s different, although I think they would have a hard time enforcing anything unless they can prove you’re making this for commercial reasons.”

  “He pissed off the wrong person.” She held out her hand. “Give me that goddamn tape.”

  Everybody wanted my tapes.

  I opened the camera and passed the cassette.

  “Since he’s so damn concerned about protecting the reputation of his weird-ass little town, I’m going to make sure a copy of this gets to the right people.”

  Ian leaned forward, both hands gripping the back of Stewart’s seat. “WXOW in La Crosse?”

  “Yes,” Claire said.

  We all whooped and laughed in delight. Seemed we’d finally united over something.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I couldn’t believe we were drinking again, but if somebody else is buying it’s hard for me to say no.

  “Is it possible to be twenty-three and an alcoholic?” I asked Stewart, who was sitting on the bar stool next to mine. My fingers were greasy from the burrito basket I’d just consumed: one giant burrito, along with french fries served with hot sauce. Like visiting two countries in one.

  Without removing his elbow from the bar top, Stewart lifted a brown beer bottle to his mouth. “Doesn’t it take years?”

  Ian wiped his hands on a napkin and shook his head. “No, man. I knew a kid in high school who got the DTs if he didn’t drink.”

  “High school?” Stewart asked. “That’s seriously fucked up.”

  “I’ve never known an alcoholic,” Claire said from her seat next to Ian’s. “Or a drug addict. Maybe I should make a film about that.”

  Hah. I’d suspected she was one of those sheltered rich kids who’d never been exposed to the seedy side of life. Which explained why she always wanted to go to bars like the one we were now in. Dark little dives that smelled of stale beer and years of cigarette smoke.

  I’d run into a lot of those kids in college. They came to the city from wealthy suburbs, wanting to experience the darkness they’d seen only in movies or read in books.

  I looked around our little group and a realization hit me. We were the misfits. Claire was hanging around with us for the very reason the college kids searched out the seedy bars. We were her freaks. She got to spend all day and all night with us. But once this gig was over, she could go home.

  I should have r
esented her, but I didn’t. It actually made her more interesting in my eyes, because I’m curious about people too.

  “I took one of those tests,” I said. “The ones that ask questions like, ‘Have you ever decided to quit drinking for a week or so, but only lasted a couple of days?’ “

  “And?” Stewart said.

  “I think I answered yes to ten out of twelve questions.”

  “That calls for another drink.”

  We’d been there long enough for the faint odor of sewer gas to become unnoticeable. And long enough for suspicion to fade. We’d played darts and pool with the patrons.

  It hadn’t all been goofing off. We’d started with interviews.

  Claire had wanted to interview some locals. The men warmed to her right off. Blond hair, big boobs, and red lipstick seemed to do that. They were more suspicious of the guys and me. But after a couple of hours and several drinks, we were all equals in fun and inebriation.

  Booze, the great equalizer.

  The bartender, a guy named Jake who reminded me of one of my overweight uncles, grabbed the remote and increased the volume of the television bolted high on the wall. That must have been the signal to shut up, because the noise level in the room was suddenly cut in half. Quite astonishing for a bunch of drunks. Jake ran the show. He was a congenial guy, but he didn’t take any crap from anybody. You were a guest in his house and you played by his rules.

  Earlier he’d told a couple of tourists to take a leak outside behind the tree if they weren’t going to buy anything.

  They left.

  We bought another round of drinks to make sure our seats were safe and that we’d be able to use the restroom the next time the urge hit us.

  Conversation dropped and heads politely turned toward the television. Somebody unplugged the jukebox, cutting off Tom Petty in midsong.

  The news.

  From station WXOW in La Crosse.

  Now that the room was quiet I could hear the buzzing in my head. But beyond that my ears zeroed in on the upcoming story announcement. Something about Tuonela. I looked at the screen in time to see the teaser clip.

  The psychic. Madame Sosostris. The tape Claire sent them had gotten picked up.