by A. W. Cross
“Alain, please put that out. We don’t want to overheat our guest.”
Alain half-bowed, turning on his heel to put out the blaze. If Hawthorne didn’t already think us strange, he surely would now. What sort of beings lit a fire with the outdoor temperature so high?
As Alain worked, Swann entered the room with a tray of fresh squeezed lemonade. The bright citrus scent was fresh. Swann knew what any human would want on a hot, summer night. The lemons had come from a tree out by the back door. Swann must have gathered, sliced, and squeezed like the wind. Although we had no use for the fruit, Swann still tended the tree, using the lemon oils to polish the furniture and placing the dried rinds in fresh bowls of potpourri.
“Thank you, Swann.” I leaned forward to hand a drink to Hawthorne. As I did so, I noticed his gaze on her. It wasn’t rude, his gaze didn’t wander anywhere it shouldn’t. He only did what any young man would do. I told myself this was only natural, why should he look at me when I appeared to be much older than he?
I stared down at my hands, the sooner we got Hawthorne on his course, the better.
“Hawthorne, you will expect a car service, yes?” asked Alain, his eyes glinting with an idea taking shape. I wished the young man would leave and end my misery.
Hawthorne nodded. “Should be here around the same time as my tow.” He leaned back, throwing one arm over the back of the settee.
“Wonderful. The night being such a dark one, I shall stand by your car with a flashlight, so they don’t pass us by. Come, my pet.” Alain moved forward, patting Swann on the small of her back in a clear gesture. Alain clarified that he spoke for Swann to redirect Hawthorne’s attention.
“There’s no need…” Hawthorne began.
Alain shook his head, moving past paying no regard to Hawthorne’s words. “I insist. Please, stay as you are. I shall see to everything.” He glanced back at me; a wicked smile spread across his face.
“I didn’t mean to be such a bother,” said Hawthorne, peering at me. His gaze met mine, held it for two beats, then looked away.
My breath snagged in my throat. “It’s no bother. We aren’t used to company. They’re happy for the distraction.”
We sat for a moment in awkward silence. I studied the floor, racking my brain for a topic of conversation to interest this man of the modern world. There probably wasn’t a single thing we would have in common.
“Oh, I’m so stupid,” I muttered to myself, remembering the library.
“What was that?” Hawthorne asked, bending his head to hear me speak.
“I wondered if perhaps you would like to see my library. It’s a special room, my favorite room in this entire enormous house.”
Hawthorne’s eyes lit up, crinkling at the corners with lines barely noticeable in his youth. “That’d be great. I love big libraries in old houses.” He set his lemonade back on the tray, rising to his feet.
I watched him stand, my gaze running from the back of his legs over his well-shaped behind. The years since I had last seen a man who attracted me were long, unforgiving. He turned toward me, almost catching me staring further south than I should be. Hawthorne reached down, holding out his hand for me like a gentleman. I realized this young man imagined himself helping an old woman to her feet. Still, I appreciated the gesture.
My small hand slipped into his, once again. An electric tingle slid down my arm and into my chest. I wanted to pull it down cupping his palm to my cheek. The flesh would be soft like a ripened peach. The pulp begged for a bite, bursting with the forbidden fruit of his sweet blood. My eyes threatened to glaze over. I did none of this, chiding myself for foolish thoughts. Instead, I let him steady me as I rose.
“After you,” I gestured toward the doorway.
As we crossed the hall, I took the lead. I walked this path, along with all others in this house, over a million times. My feet had worn the carpet well, and although Alain had complained its threads looked too old and worn, I refused to let him replace it. It was stubborn, but I held on to these objects, as familiar as my mind. Alain said I held on to the past. Perhaps I did, but it was mine to hold on to. What else did I have?
The French doors to the library sat closed, the white paint chipping near the doorknob from use. I pushed open the door and stood back to allow my guest to enter first. He stood still on the threshold, peering inside. Hawthorne continued to regard everything with caution.
“It is enormous.” Observing him from the side, I saw his eyes widen as his gaze swept the space before him. Although dark inside, the light in the hallway allowed him to take in the space's depth.
The room was the largest in the house. Inside, it was a cavern, a huge space carved for the purpose of housing books. The space spanned three stories, the full height of the home itself. Shelves lined each floor, every shelf crammed full of books. A stairway with gilded railings led to the second story, then the third. Balconies, wide enough to sit in one of the many overstuffed leather chairs, ran around each story, the center open to the air below and above.
I moved inside, releasing a lever next to the door. The giant, crystal chandelier lowered itself to eye level. When it dipped low enough for me to reach, I stopped its momentum by pushing the lever back up. With a box of matches lying in wait on the sideboard, I lit every one of the forty-five candles. The library lit up as the sun, almost too bright in its current position. I moved the chandelier back into place, every nook and cranny in the room, awash in the perfect amount of illumination.
“Why do you not have electricity?” Hawthorne asked, still regarding the room from the same spot near the door.
“I prefer to keep the house in its original condition.” Even if they wanted to enter, workers would never be allowed here. They would see the house for a magical lie. Unable to leave, this would put me in mortal danger. They could light a fatal blaze or tear the house down with me inside, exposing me to instant death provided by the rays of the sun. I may accept I would fade away into dust but being burned alive by the sun held no interest.
Hawthorne moved into the room. I delighted in his curiosity. I didn’t think what the bright light did for my wasted skin. Normally, I would have hid my face, shirked away into the shadows, even around Swann and Alain.
He turned toward me, before I had the chance to duck my head. His voice went softer. “You look different in this light. Is it rude of me to ask how old you are?”
My heart hammered in my chest. Did I appear better or worse? My mind flooded with possibilities. What should I tell him? He would run out of here screaming if I told him the whole story too soon. I went with a semi-version of the truth.
“Eighteen.” I held his steady gaze with my own.
4
There are vampires. They are real,
they are of our time, and they are here,
close by, stalking us as we sleep…
Bram Stoker, Dracula
Hawthorne
This place could not be weirder. The trepidation raising hairs along my arms increased tenfold. I blinked, furrowing my brow. “Eighteen? You’re messing with me.”
Annabelle sighed, swaying from side to side. “I wish I were. I have a condition; a wasting disease. Let’s not talk anymore about it. Would you like to look around? Please, help yourself.” She gestured to the room. To peruse these stacks would have given me a thrill under normal circumstances. This place was anything but normal.
“I’m sorry for asking.” My voice sounded sad, sympathy dripping from my words. I doubted Annabelle wanted my pity. My chest ached in sadness for this poor girl. Imagine being so young and looking like an eighty-year-old woman. She must have been so lonely. We stared at each other for another minute. Nothing else remained to be said.
I wanted to end the conversation, so I moved past her. This seemed to break the spell. I allowed myself to explore the space, moving from shelf to shelf. My fingers ran along the spines of the books, reading off the titles in a low voice. I loved a good library, and a more perfect dist
raction there wasn’t. The unease this house inspired prickled my skin. It stood to reason that no one sinister would have a library like this.
However, something nagged me in the tail of my mind. I should bolt out of here, never looking back. The desire to flee rose in my mind, raising my blood pressure to dangerous levels. Maybe I watched too many horror movies. Any good scary story began this way; young college kid breaks down on a lonely, country road, wanders down a deserted drive, and comes to a battered, old house haunted by ghosts. Instead of running, he stays to check it out, then discovers the haunted house teems with not only specters, but odd, living people. Run.
But southern parents raised me. To do so would embarrass them. Strange as it was here, a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. It was several degrees cooler inside, even with the fire that blazed in the front room. Another weird thing. Annabelle must need the extra heat because of her illness. And the lemonade, the lemonade had tasted like a dream of sugar and citrus. Swann and Alain seemed normal enough. Anyone as beautiful as Swann could not be an ax murderer.
I had never heard of a disease that turned a young woman into an old one. What a terrible thing. My heart went out to the girl. A surge of guilt shot through my bones. Annabelle had limited choices. A life of freedom, all the years ahead of me to do as I wished, would never be a possibility for her. Yes, college bound me for three more years, but it was my choice to be there. Annabelle’s body held her in a prison she would never escape.
“Do you ever leave? I’m sure you go into town from time to time.” I shouldn’t ask, but I was curious about her life. Annabelle remained standing in the same spot. As I twisted to look at her, her gaze darted away, and she fidgeted with her hands. If it was possible to be sorrier for her, then I was. She moved to the couch, no longer attempting to make eye contact with me. “I shouldn’t have asked. Please, don’t answer that.” I refocused my attention on the line of books.
Ten more minutes and I would bolt out of there.
5
The cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life
which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.
Henry David Thoreau, Walden
Annabelle
I sat on the cream-colored sofa, watching Hawthorne as he moved. His joints seemed liquid; he bent, crouched, stood on his tiptoes to scan every book he passed with the grace of a dancer. His form pleased me. I entertained thoughts that would have made the mortal Annabelle blush a deep, crimson red. What would be the harm in fantasizing just a little?
He was sorry for me, that much was clear. As sad as he found me, this man would never see me as more than a piteous creature. Never would he experience more emotion than that. Hawthorne moved in front of a family portrait, one of the few I left displayed in the open.
About fifty years after my mortality ended, Louis Daguerre developed his daguerreotype process making photography attainable for the masses. In my time, portraits, drawings, and sculptures were the only mediums we had in which to fix our images.
Swann shut away most of the other family paintings in the attic. She had wrapped each portrait with loving care, removing them from my sight. To look on those faces caused too many painful memories. This picture, painted after the birth of my little brother, was a joyful time for all. Rather than cause despair, the scene made me smile.
Mother sat with baby James in her arms, his head resting against the crook of her elbow. I sat alongside her, my hand placed over the baby’s cheek, as I leaned on Mother’s shoulder. Father stood behind, a proud and happy smile across his face. I turned seventeen three days before we sat for the portrait. My parents had wanted a large family and their child-bearing days seemed long over. A cloud lay over them until the birth of James.
“Are these ancestors of yours? This girl looks quite a lot like you.” Hawthorne peered into my painted face with rapt concentration.
Before I answered, a crackle of energy sparked near the large bay window, close to where Hawthorne stood regarding the portrait. He jumped, his attention snapping in the sound's direction. An odor, like that of burning metal, wafted in my direction.
“If you don’t have service, what was that? Smells like an outlet popped.” Hawthorne moved toward the window.
“Stop,” I yelled, a little too curt. I’d no idea what happened, but it couldn’t be good. The last thing I wanted was for Hawthorne to get hurt. “Sometimes, we have the odd lightning strike. Keep away from the window just in case. We have a strange little ecosystem out here.”
Hawthorne looked at me like you would a crazy person. He wasn’t far off the mark. All in a moment I became unhinged, panic swelling under the surface. “Stay here, please. I’ll ask Alain to check the house.”
I darted from the room with a renewed sense of energy, slamming the door behind me. Alain stood ready in the hall. He held a flashlight in one hand and a fireplace poker in the other.
“What was that?” I whispered, echoing Hawthorne’s question, breathless from the short run into the hallway.
Alain shook his head, worry creasing his brow. He inclined his head toward the door, handing me the flashlight which would only work past the barrier. I supposed its heft would make a decent weapon. I moved behind him, fear entwining my midsection like a vise. Alain opened the massive oak door, and we poked out our heads. Before I even looked to the right, dread rolled over me in undulating waves.
“The blood rose,” I breathed. Alain dropped the poker, the metal clanging as it hit the hard boards of the porch.
The blood rose stood as a visual reminder of my curse. The accursed bloom grew from a split in the wood outside the library window. We tried in vain to move it out of view many times, digging and hacking with the might of the immortal, but the dreaded flower wouldn’t budge. The witch fixed the bloom in its place, taunting me with every passing night.
My breath caught in my throat as I stood before it now. The rose had appeared, beginning its life as a pure white flower on the night she trapped me. As time wore on, the flower became redder, darker, and stronger, while I became weaker, as if the bloom itself sucked away my life force. Until tonight, one petal alone remained untainted. Like an hourglass dropping its final grains of sand, the petal signified that time was running out.
Alain gasped behind me. His cold hand wrapped around my elbow in a gesture he meant as a comfort. His grasp stifled me. Instead of changing at the pace the others had, the final petal had already turned half red. The flower, coloring itself so dark it appeared wet with fresh blood, sneered at me. Most roses had a deep, sweet scent that reminded one of bouquets sent from lovers. This flower emitted an odor of rot and mildew. This symbol of death acted accordingly.
“She’s about, she must be. The witch sped up the curse, that’s what caused the change.”
“This means we’re on the right track, non?” Alain, ever the optimist.
“The only track I’m on is the one to my grave.” I shrugged off Alain’s grasp. It was easier to face this alone. If only they had left me years ago, as I wished.
“You must keep trying to charm him. This is our last chance.” Alain whispered in my ear; my eyes still glued to petals that reeked of disease.
“Charm him? I’m about as alluring as this rose. Let me accept my fate. I’m tired, tired of hoping for an ending that can never be. I deserve my fate, as we all know.”
Alain spun me around, fury glowing in his eyes. Rarely, did I see this soft man so angry, gentle as he was. “You deserve love and happiness, Annabelle. What happened to you was not your fault. You were unable to control the thirst in those early hours. We have never once blamed you. Stop blaming yourself. And what happened with the boy… it could have been any of us.”
Had I not been a dried-out husk, blood tears would have sprung to my eyes. I swallowed down the hard knot forming in the rear of my throat. My head bent, leaning against the shoulder of my dear friend. Alain wrapped his arms around me, my hands still holding the flashlight.
“It isn’t over, my child. Go back in there and do your best. I’m going down to the road to buy you more time.” He patted the small of my back, releasing me to divert the driver of Hawthorne’s car. He didn’t have to reveal his plan; I knew Alain better than myself.
Hawthorne sat next to my spot on the sofa, a book in his hand. He looked up as I entered, a smile playing on the corners of his mouth. “No wisps of smoke appeared, so I figured there was no danger of the structure burning down. All is well?”
I returned his smile, his warm eyes lighting a fire deep within me. I breathed the inner flames away; I didn’t need to feel too much. It would only hurt more when he rejected me. I smothered the stirring, focusing instead on the weariness threatening to overwhelm my limbs. “All is well. I’m not sure what happened, but there’s no danger.” I sat opposite him in an armchair upholstered in yellow silk. “What are you reading?”
He held up The Scarlet Letter. “Couldn’t help myself.”
We laughed together. I hadn’t been in the company of anyone other than Alain and Swann in so long. If nothing else, it was nice to socialize. I hoped at the least, he would stay the remainder of the night, offering me some solace in my final hours.
“So, you’re studying Literature. What do you hope to do once you’re finished?” Chit-chat was never something I excelled at, but if I wanted him to stay, I would have to do my best to keep him engaged.
“I’d like to continue into grad school for an MFA in Creative Writing. A break in between would be nice, though. Backpacking through Europe is something I’ve always thought of doing.” Hawthorne tapped the closed book written by his namesake against his knee.
I did not understand what he meant by an MFA. Instead of showing my ignorance of the modern world, I nodded as if I knew what he spoke of. At least I knew about creative writing. Backpacking was also an unfamiliar term. It didn’t sound like fun, whatever it was.