The Future of Horror

by Jonathan Oliver

  When Louisa appeared later in the drawing room, she made no comment or apology. He went in to join her, as she went to the grand piano. She raised the lid, momentarily adjusted the height of the stool, then began playing. She played from memory, without sheet music. Within moments she was entranced by the music, rocking her head to and fro, her eyes tightly shut. O’Leary sat down a short distance behind her, unable to recognize the piece but astonished by her virtuoso skill. At the end she identified it as Liszt’s first Liebestraum nocturne.

  She moved to a music stand, put some music in place, clearly hand-drafted, then picked up a violin. After briefly checking that the instrument was in tune she opened with a dazzling solo, a series of darting clusters and arpeggios, each counterpointing the one it had followed. The piece ended with a shift to a slow, melodic lament, exquisitely beautiful and melancholic.

  O’Leary clapped his hands, but Louisa smiled him to silence.

  “I am not a show-off, Dennis,” she said. “But I want to tell you that I composed and arranged that piece myself. I am not trying merely to impress you, even though the composing and performing of music is one of my many attainments, my atchievements.” Again, the deliberate dental sound of the extra letter. “It is important to me that you understand the nature and extent of my atchievements.”

  He said, “Well, I am extremely impress –”

  “No – allow me to demonstrate more. I do have a purpose, to help you understand what might become possible between us.” She carefully laid aside her violin, closing it inside its case. “I am a woman of many attainments. I am an avid and successful learner. I executed most of the paintings you can see on these walls. I am an adventurous cook. I am a mathematician, a geologist, a strong swimmer. Would you care to witness my skill as a sharpshooter?”

  “I think not.” But she was intent upon this purpose. Nothing that passed between them, during the long evening they had spent together the night before, had given him any idea she would act or perform in such a way. Yesterday she seemed gentle, sensitive, enquiring about him, quietly interested in everything he said. Now she was assertive, dominant. “I should love to hear you play again,” he said. “Do you know any more instruments?”

  She reached behind her, then held out a flute in one hand, an oboe in the other.

  “Enough of music,” she said, laying the instruments aside again. “I am adept in six European languages and can make sense of half a dozen more. I fashioned many of the collectible pieces you see in this room: I am a skilled potter and porcelainist. I am also a cabinet-maker, and for example I built the side-table on which you are now resting your hand.”

  She moved towards him and raised her face towards his.

  “My dear Dennis, if I may speak to you candidly. I am not seeking to impress you. I am trying to clarify the position in which I have found myself, and now in which you find yourself.” Once again he heard the weird incantation of her formal way of speaking, at odds with the more relaxed words they had exchanged yesterday, not to speak of her body language, which he found provocative.

  “I am, as you know, a widow,” she went on. “In the common parlance of the world I knew with my husband, I would be called a house to let. I seek a partner to join me, because the house I have to let is haunted. Yes, haunted by the past, Dennis! I must find someone to be with me, to protect me from the past. Until then I remain in mourning. I am required to wear the widow’s weeds, this purple, this black, these shrouds of grey and silver.

  “Outside this building I display, as you noticed when you arrived, my atchievements. Inside, as a house to let, I work constantly to perfect the skills and acquire fresh ones. Until I find the right one to join me, I collect accomplishments.” Her face grew ever closer to his and her voice became softer, a bare whisper. “I am a wealthy woman and I seek attainments. I do not mind what I have to spend to make these atchievements. I also seek a partner in life, a shield against the past. Could that man be you?”

  Her parted lips were almost upon his. He could feel her breath on his cheek, the light touch of her fingers against his, the closeness of her delicious flesh wrapped in the satin gown. Her dark eyes were narrowed, her lips were moist.

  “Yes, I believe so,” he said quietly.

  “Then what you wish for will be yours! Anything at all, no matter how expensive, or how profound, reckless or shocking!” She swept back from him, staring intently at him. “Teach me how to atchieve the secrets of magic.”

  THE FIRST LESSON did not go well. Nor the second, after lunch, even though Louisa was, as she promised, a keen pupil. He felt her magnetic presence so keenly that at first O’Leary had to force himself to concentrate.

  He always began with a performance of the illusion, then followed it by revealing the secret. She laughed with delight at each effect, but as soon as he began to show her how the trick was done – the sleight of hand, the concealment, the pass, the false shuffle, the fake, the force, the substitution – she was unable to follow. He reassured her that most magicians take years to perfect their skill, and that many went on practising and rehearsing until the end of their careers, but she was frustrated by her failure to learn.

  They took a light salad for lunch, seated again at the long table in the conservatory. She sat close beside him, contriving several times to touch him or brush her hand against him. O’Leary was alive with awareness of her. They sat drinking wine together after the meal, all the initial awkwardness between them now gone. A thin mantle of snow lay on the glass panels in the roof, filtering the weak daylight. The wind was still gusting strongly, but it was warm in the house.

  “I realize how difficult it is for you to reveal secrets,” Louisa said. “You are too used to secrecy. You don’t mean to, but you are holding back. Only when you truly want to yield your knowledge will it pass across to me.”

  “I have been telling you everything,” O’Leary said. “It’s what I’m here to do.”

  “I believe you, but you are not yielding. We both seek atchievements.” She squeezed his hand, then lifted it towards her, resting it briefly on the square of firm bare flesh above her breasts. “Tomorrow it will be easier, I promise you that. When you are willing to yield to me everything I want, then I shall reward you. And I am not talking about money.”

  She lowered her gaze, and allowed his hand to lift away from her.

  They persevered with the magic techniques, but by mid-afternoon they were both tired and agreed to halt for the day. O’Leary locked the various pieces of apparatus into his case. Louisa left the room without saying anything. Some time later, when she still had not returned, O’Leary took a book from one of the piles, then spread himself comfortably on the settee in front of the fire.

  THEY MET AGAIN for dinner, but Louisa seemed listless. At the end of the meal, when they had moved to the settee and were hand-warming their balloons of brandy, Mrs Acland came in.

  “I am about to retire for the night, madame,” she said. “I have placed the package in Mr O’Leary’s room, as you asked. I trust that will be all?”

  “Yes, thank you. Goodnight, Grace.”

  “Good night, madame; good night, sir.”

  The doors closed. O’Leary, pleasantly relaxed after a meal and a day of concentration on his techniques, and by Louisa’s heady presence, held up his brandy towards the nearest gas mantle and peered through it, swirling the liquor slowly.

  “What package did she mean?” he said.

  “Let’s call it your atchievement. Tomorrow I shall have mine.”

  They sat in silence for a while, hearing the sound of Mrs Acland moving around on the floor above. O’Leary was remembering the £10,000 that had been mentioned long ago during their email period, the fee that had been promised once but never mentioned since. He still wanted it, but just at that moment, money no longer seemed a priority.

  At last the house was still. Louisa suddenly revived.

  She placed her glass on the table before them, then took O’Leary’s and placed
it next to hers. She leaned towards him, her lips parted. They kissed. She quickly guided his hand to her breasts, pressing her body against him, encouraging his fingers to explore the curve of her bodice, then to slip gently inside. O’Leary closed his eyes, his senses loaded with her fragrances, the quiet sibilant rustling of her gown, the warm softness of her flesh. She leaned further and further towards him, pressing him back, easing him down to the horizontal. With her weight upon him, she raised her face away from his.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “What? Yes! But why not now?”

  “Because I have not atchieved. Tomorrow, we will both be satisfied. I have promised.” Outside, the wind suddenly intensified, rattling the windows and sending a surge of air down the chimney flue. The smouldering logs flared briefly into flame, and a billow of smoke pushed into the room. “Let’s hasten tomorrow on!” she said.

  She straightened and stood up with a smooth movement. Smiling, she tidied the front of her gown, quickly closing the two buttons that his hand had forced apart.

  Still aflame, O’Leary said, “I don’t understand, Louisa.”

  “Soon you will.” She was already progressing around the room, turning down gas mantles, snuffing candles. A soft darkness began to spread through the room, from the far wall, to the corners, circling around the fireplace.

  The photograph, with François’s glaring face, was briefly picked out by the remaining light.

  With the fire once more glowing with embers behind the wire guard, she returned to him. He raised his arms to take hold of her, but she warded him off.

  “Good night, Dennis,” she said. “I asked Mrs Acland to stoke up the fire in your room.” She brushed his cheek with her fingertips. “At least that freezing wind has stopped. To hasten our meeting tomorrow, I ask you to sleep naked. Sleep on your back. Sleep deeply.”

  She twitched an eyebrow suggestively, then slipped away from him, across the shadowed drawing room, stepping around the crowded objets and antiques, then through the doors and into the hall. O’Leary collected his case of apparatus and hurried after her. There was no sign of her out there.

  THE BEDROOM FELT warm when O’Leary entered. It was as yet much earlier in the evening than the time he normally went to bed. He stood in agitation and frustration for a while, wondering what the hell she was playing at, but eventually he calmed down. He sat in front of the fire in an easy chair, poked the logs a few times to get them flaring again, then read more of the book he had picked out downstairs. He warmed his toes in front of the fire.

  Later he went for a shower and came back shivering into the main part of the bedroom. He stirred up the fire again and added another big log. Flames burst from the bark in a satisfactory way. Wearing only his dressing gown, O’Leary stood before the fireplace, feeling the heat on his back.

  When he looked in his valise he discovered a large padded envelope had been squeezed inside. He opened it eagerly and immediately saw several bundles of banknotes. Each wad was wrapped in a paper sleeve imprinted with a bank’s logo. With his dressing gown hanging open, O’Leary counted the first of the wads: it was a mixture of £20 and £50 notes, and totalled £1,000 in all. He found another nine, identically wrapped.

  There was more. Deeper inside the padded envelope was a small cardboard box, sealed with tape and a note wrapped around it with an elastic band. He put it to one side, because below it, even deeper inside, were many more wads of notes, in their paper sleeves.

  He unwrapped the slip of paper and opened the cardboard box. There was a small glass bottle inside, stopped with a cork. The paper had a handwritten message. He sat down beside the fire so that the light from the nearest gas mantle fell on the words. He read:

  My darling Dennis – We agreed a transaction, and here is what I promised you. As money does not interest me, and because you have suddenly become special to me, I have in fact trebled the amount we agreed.

  This bottle you have found contains a tincture I formulated myself. I should like you to drink about half of the mixture, and spread the remainder of it across the parts of your body you and I no doubt consider most sensual. There is nothing for you to worry about: the mixture is a light alcohol distillation, much diluted, with some special herbs and a few secrets I learned from my dear husband. You will adore what this tincture will do to you, and what it will do for me.

  As soon as you have read this, apply the mixture as I have described, then take to your bed in the way I asked. There you will wait for tomorrow to come, because tomorrow is when we shall both atchieve what we most desire.

  Louisa

  The tincture had a sharp taste, but there was so little of it in the bottle that a mouthful was easily consumed. It left hardly any aftertaste. Discovering the package and the note had made him feel somehow observed in that room, and therefore self-conscious. He drank only half the contents and did not follow the second part of Louisa’s instructions. He pushed back the cork and placed the bottle on the bedside table. He put his wristwatch beside it, with the face visible. It was now a few minutes before midnight.

  He was still not sleepy and wished there was a tv in the room. It was warm now and he lay on top of the bedclothes, his dressing gown open, his back propped against pillows. He turned off the gas light above his bed, and lay waiting for sleep. He heard the calendar wheel of his wristwatch click to the next date, as midnight passed.

  Suddenly, Louisa was there. He thought he must have drifted off, because he had not heard her open the door. But there was no mistaking her presence in the room.

  “It is midnight,” she said. “Tomorrow is today! Let us atchieve!”

  She was standing between him and the open fire, which had become the only source of light in the room. He could see the radiance of the fire through the material of what she was wearing – it was some kind of nightgown or shift, made of diaphanous white fabric. He could see the silhouetted shape of her legs, then as she hurried towards him, heading for the side of his bed, he glimpsed the rest of her. The gown barely covered her.

  She seized the bottle, shook it.

  “You have not used it all,” she said, and waved it at him in mock scolding.

  “I drank most of it,” O’Leary said, amazed and thrilled by her arrival. He was acutely aware of lying exposed before her, even in the half-light. He sensed her perfume, could make out her loosened hair falling about her face, watched her quick hands as she pulled the cork from the bottle. The gown was falling carelessly from her shoulder, revealing one of her breasts. He yearned to have her.

  “It must be on you too,” she said, and immediately turned over the bottle and sprinkled it across his naked legs, chest and groin.

  O’Leary took a sharp intake of breath, because the liquid stung as it landed on him. It was not unpleasant. He was already aroused.

  “Louisa ...”

  “No. Say nothing.”

  She clambered up on to the bed, straddled him, raised her gown to her waist and squatted across his body. He reached up to take her breasts in his hands, groping and caressing her beneath the gown, while she found him and eased him into her.

  What followed was unhurried.

  For most of the time O’Leary had his eyes closed, his senses sated by the physicality of the woman and the fragrances of their lovemaking. But towards the end, while his heart was racing and his breath was rasping in his throat, Louisa suddenly yelled.

  “Is he there?” she gasped. “Can you see him?”

  O’Leary opened his eyes. The logs had shifted in the grate, bright flames were darting. Across the room, back from the bed and close to the glowing fire, stood the figure of a man. He was young, tall, erect. He held an ebony cane. He was wearing grey trousers and a dark frock coat. His hair was short, tousled, black. He had long sideburns and a goatee beard. He was glaring angrily at O’Leary, and raised his cane.

  “Is François there?” she cried again. Her back was turned away from the apparition. O’Leary could say nothing, terrified by the sudden manifestat
ion, but knowing he was at the very moment of climax. “Can you see him?” she said again. “That is what haunts me!”

  Their lovemaking came rushing to an end. O’Leary felt the familiar increase of tension, the exciting suspense, the release, but it was more intense than ever he had known it, a voiding, an emptying, a draining, a flow from a deeper source. Where their bodies pressed together, where the tincture had fallen, he felt an almost electrical discharge of energy. Louisa was twisting herself against him, pressing and moving herself deliberately against those parts. O’Leary continued to ejaculate, beyond passion, beyond sexual union, a decanting of himself into her.

  From the other side of the room came a man’s voice, hollow, dismissive, loudly filling the small room: “Adieu, monsieur le prestidigitateur!”

  And Louise whispered, “Au revoir, mon brave.”

  O’Leary’s consciousness began to fade and the apparition of the dead husband drifted away. Louisa’s bodily weight slumped down hotly across him, moist with perspiration, soft and shaking with her climax. Her long hair tangled wetly about him, covering his face and chest. He could not breathe, he was in fearful dark, his senses dying.

  He heard her shout, “This house to let, on s’occupé encore une fois, François, mon chéri. I am occupied again.”

  Then there was silence, a muting blackness.

  THE ELDERLY VOLVO lurched across the ruts of the unmade lane, throwing up mud whenever its wheels spun as it momentarily sought traction. The thaw had set in during the night. Pools of water lay everywhere, and on each side of the lane the ditches were full. The driver, Rick, struggled with the steering wheel, nervous of accidentally sliding to one side or the other. White clouds moved slowly overhead in a sky of wan sunlight.