by Rita Vetere
Dora walked over to the window and looked out. It was a good twenty-foot drop to the ground. She'd probably break a leg trying to get out that way. No, it would be easier, and quicker, if she used the tiny back stairway leading to the small foyer in the rear of the house, behind the kitchen. If she could make it down the back stairs without the intruders hearing her, she could exit the house without being seen and get help from her next door neighbor.
She got moving before she lost her courage and slipped quietly out of her room. Holding the cane in front of her, Dora walked to a small door at the end of the hallway. The seldom used door to the back stairs creaked as she opened it and Dora froze, waiting to see if her presence had been detected. Hearing nothing, she started down the narrow staircase.
The voices floated up to her again. She listened carefully, but wasn't able to make out what they were saying, or from what part of the main floor they emanated. Fear sloshed over her, as it struck her that the noises sounded unnatural—moans, whispers, cries. She paused to get herself under control. She had to carry on. There was Jasmine to think about.
By the time she arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she knew something was very wrong. The voices seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. Looking quickly all around her, and seeing no one, she bolted for the back door.
Before her hand touched the doorknob to unlock it, something pulled her backward, lifting her off the ground and slamming her up against the wall. Nothing appeared to be holding her there, yet she found herself unable to move. The voices rose like thunder around her. Now she could make out what they were saying. It was Jasmine's name they called, over and over, accompanied by words that sounded like “the chosen one” and “the first".
And in that moment, she understood. It was all true. Her mind reeled. So many years she'd spent denying it. All true, she thought, despairing. Oh God! She had to fight them, for Jasmine's sake.
Dora struggled in vain against the invisible forces holding her. Plastered to the wall, her arms pinned to her side, her feet floating above the floor, she twisted and turned in an effort to release herself. The more she strained to extricate herself, the more firmly the unseen hands gripped her. As she continued to struggle, Dora felt her chest suddenly clench like a fist. An excruciating pain shot up her arm. Oh, God, please. Not now ... not now! Her legs, dangling in the air above the ground, went limp. She would have tumbled to the floor, but for whatever was holding her in place. Her vision blurred.
As if from a great distance, she heard the front door burst open, then Jasmine calling out to her. At once, the forces that bound her released their hold, and Dora dropped to the ground with a thud. She heard Jasmine's footsteps ascending the main stairway, receding in proportion to her voice as she continued calling out, then growing loud again as her niece raced back downstairs.
Dora managed a weak cry. Seconds later, Jasmine was at her side, crouched down beside her.
"Aunt Dora! Don't move,” she cried, “I'm calling for help."
She heard Jasmine speaking frantically into the phone, which appeared to be working perfectly fine now.
"I need an ambulance right away! Please hurry, I think my aunt is having a heart attack."
* * * *
Jasmine rushed back to Aunt Dora after hanging up the phone. She switched on the overhead light in the back foyer and knelt at her side. Seeing that Aunt Dora was attempting to speak, she said, “Don't talk. Stay still, Aunt Dora. The ambulance is on its way.” As she tried to make her aunt comfortable, it dawned on Jasmine she might lose the one person who had been like a mother to her.
"Jasmine ... you're—"
"Don't try to talk. I'm here. I won't leave you.” She gripped her aunt's hand and held it tightly.
"...danger."
Seconds later, Aunt Dora's hand went slack in her own. Her body slumped, and her eyes took on a vacant look.
"Aunt Dora!” Jasmine tilted Dora's head back and began CPR. She wasn't even aware she was crying until she saw her tears falling like raindrops onto her aunt's face. Moments passed, and Jasmine doubled her efforts to draw breath from her aunt. Finally, the shrill sound of a siren pierced the night, cut short when the ambulance pulled up outside.
Too late, she thought with dismay as she looked at Aunt Dora's motionless form. They're too late. And I couldn't save her.
Dora's unseeing eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, silently confirming the fact.
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Chapter 9
At the funeral home the following day, the proprietor did his best to be helpful, but Jasmine found herself overwhelmed by the number of decisions needing to be made in order to arrange for Aunt Dora's funeral. Still in shock over her aunt's untimely demise, she felt pressured for answers. Burial or cremation? Mahogany or Oak casket? Where would the funeral take place? Which outfit would her aunt have wished to be buried in? Was there a cemetery plot or niche? And, of course, the matter of cost and payment needed to be addressed. Every detail served to hit home the fact that Aunt Dora was gone and never coming back. Jasmine was on her own now.
It was after five in the afternoon by the time she got back to the house. Stepping into the empty place sent her into a spiral of depression. Aunt Dora had been so good to her, and she had mostly taken that love for granted. Now her aunt was gone, and Jasmine would never have the chance to tell her what she'd finally learned, too late. The irony of losing Aunt Dora, just when Jasmine had begun to connect with her, filled her with deep regret.
And to think I was so happy with Christopher, while she was ... Guilt and confusion flooded over her. Her erotic memories of Christopher seemed all tangled up with Aunt Dora's death. Other questions preoccupied her, too, like why Aunt Dora had been at the back door. Her aunt's last words haunted her as well. She had been trying to warn her about something. Aunt Dora must have felt herself to be in danger, otherwise why would she have been carrying the cane she'd found on the floor beside her? And yet, there had been no sign of intruders, and Jasmine's search of the house had turned up nothing missing or out of place.
The dismal thoughts caused her to feel wretchedly alone, and she considered calling Carla, or Christopher, but felt too drained and numb to think, let alone carry on a conversation. She had eaten nothing since yesterday, the birthday dinner Aunt Dora had prepared for her, but the mere thought of food made her stomach churn. She headed for the small liquor cabinet in the sitting room and splashed some Vodka into a tumbler instead. After gulping down half the liquid in the glass, she carried the rest upstairs with her, wanting nothing more than to sleep, and forget.
On an empty stomach, the liquor hit her hard. She had barely finished undressing before she began to feel shaky on her feet. Exhausted, she crawled into bed, still wearing the pendant which she'd not bothered to remove from the previous night, and fell fast asleep.
When she awoke, there was no light at all. Nothing. Disoriented, she sat up in bed—and then remembered. Aunt Dora was dead. Jasmine was alone in the house. How many times, she wondered, would this happen before she got used to it—waking up thinking everything was all right, and then remembering she was alone. She tried hard not to cry, but did anyway.
Do not weep, child who bears the name of the flower. You are not alone.
Jasmine's heart leapt to her throat. She jumped out of bed and stood perfectly still in the dark room, listening. Blood pounded at her temples, where a dull ache had begun to form. She could have sworn a woman had just spoken to her.
She waited. The tears dried on her face, her sadness replaced for the moment by fear. After a while, hearing nothing further, she moved to the night table to switch on the lamp.
At that exact moment, the voice spoke again. You are in danger.
Those four small words sent terror racing through her. The same words her aunt had spoken to her before she died. The voice, she realized with a start, was not external. It was coming from inside her, yet separate and apart from her. She could almost feel it gently pr
obing her mind. Even through her fear, she noted the woman's voice sounded foreign, an accent she could not place.
She reached again for the light and the voice moaned, a low, tortured sound. Immediately, a cacophony of wailing filled her head as a chorus of feminine voices began to weep, a sound that pushed her over the edge of fear into the realm of terror.
"No!” Jasmine covered her ears with her hands to block the sound.
Instantly, the voices fell silent.
"Who are you?” she called out into the darkness. She waited, but the voice did not speak again. She remained crouched in the dark room with her back to the wall for a long time, breathing heavily, waiting...
* * * *
When Jasmine next opened her eyes, the sun coming in from her bedroom window almost dispelled the memory of her nightmare. Then she noticed the angle of light was wrong and, with a start, realized she was staring at the floorboard. How long had she been lying on the bedroom floor? Getting to her knees, she checked the bedroom clock and was amazed to find it was after four in the afternoon. She'd been out for at least ten or twelve hours.
Thinking about the woman's voice she'd heard last night caused her heart to start pumping wildly. It hadn't felt like a dream. Not at all. What's happening to me? She felt more frightened and alone than ever.
In spite of the fact that she wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed, she got moving. She needed to get some food in her stomach and clean herself up. Then she would call Carla—and Christopher, too. She couldn't bear to be alone another minute. Hopefully one or both of them would accompany her to the funeral home, where she was due in a couple of hours for Aunt Dora's viewing.
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Chapter 10
On the afternoon of the following day, the house overflowed with visitors, those who had attended the morning funeral service and the interment that followed. The number of people who had arrived and the kindness they displayed to Jasmine reminded her how well-loved her aunt had been.
Christopher had been full of concern for her upon hearing what had happened and arrived shortly after getting the call yesterday, as had Carla. Seeing how difficult the situation was proving for her, Christopher stepped in to help, arranging for a post-funeral lunch to be catered. Many of the neighbors who stopped by arrived with casseroles or dessert as well, and in no time, the dining room became a hub of activity as people filled their plates and sat down to eat. Just seeing all the food made Jasmine queasy. She spotted Christopher talking with one of the neighbors across the room and sought out Carla, who she found sitting by herself on the living room couch.
"Hey,” said Carla, after Jasmine sat down next to her. “How're you doing, Jazz?"
"Okay, I guess. This just all feels so strange."
"I know. I felt the same way after my parents’ funeral.” Carla gave her hand a tiny squeeze. “I'm here for you, whatever you need. You know that."
Jasmine sighed, remembering the anguish Carla had gone through for months after her parents’ death. “I miss Aunt Dora."
"It will get better,” Carla said, “but it takes time. I still miss them. That part doesn't go away."
Jasmine's gaze drifted across the room and settled on Christopher, who was still talking to Mrs. Cantore from next door.
"He's incredibly good-looking,” Carla said, “and he seems really nice."
When Jasmine didn't answer, Carla added, “And judging by the look on your face right now, I'd say you might even be in love."
Jasmine snapped back to attention at Carla's words, and gave her friend a wan smile. “Between you and me? I think I might be."
"I'm glad for you, then” Carla said, hugging her. “Maybe it will help you to deal with all of this—finally finding someone you care about, I mean."
"Maybe. But I'm still glad you're here. You're the only real friend I've ever had."
As she continued talking to Carla, Jasmine happened to glance at the doorway. A tall, middle-aged man entered the house and stopped just inside the door, looking around nervously. It took Jasmine a few seconds to recognize him, because he was wearing a suit, but the salt-and-pepper hair and spectacles jolted her memory. Her heart lurched as she recognized him. It was Tom, the stranger who had helped her on the night of her birthday when she'd encountered the man in black. She stopped talking to Carla and got up, making a bee-line for him. Who is he? And what's he doing here?
As she made her way toward him, a couple of the neighbors stopped her to talk, and by the time she worked her way to the front door, the man was nowhere to be found. She stepped outside onto the porch and spotted him getting into a car parked halfway up the street.
"Wait!” she called, but he was already inside. She watched, her curiosity growing by the second, as the car pulled away from the curb.
She didn't notice Christopher had followed her outside until he said, “Who's that guy?"
"Oh. Uh, I'm not sure. I just thought I recognized him from somewhere.” This didn't seem like the right time to tell him what had happened on the night of her birthday.
Christopher looked at her closely, but only said, “Should we go back in? Some of your visitors are getting ready to leave, I think."
"Sure.” She smiled up at him. “Thanks for everything you've done. I couldn't have gotten through this without you."
He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Everything's going to be all right,” he said, taking her hand.
She searched his face and found the reassurance she needed in his faded gray eyes. For the first time since Aunt Dora's death, Jasmine began to believe that maybe it could be true.
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Chapter 11
For all of the following week, she and Christopher were inseparable. Each evening, he arrived at her door, groceries in hand. He made dinner for her, and the meals he put together came close to rivaling Aunt Dora's, which was saying something. Jasmine was secretly pleased to learn his masculinity was tempered with such a gentle and nurturing side.
As he made himself at home in her kitchen, the patter of his gentle conversation washed away the layers of sadness that had built up around her over the past few days. He talked about the law firm he'd signed on with after having been admitted to the bar last year. She soon became familiar with the many personalities in his workplace by the colorful nicknames he assigned them. His anecdotes were amusing, and he always managed to coax a laugh from her.
After dinner, they would sit together, talking or not, but always in close proximity to each other. On the nights when he stayed over, the tenderness with which he made love to her conveyed the extent of his feelings in a way words couldn't. Other nights, he would return to his apartment, but not before lying down next to her in bed until her eyes closed in sleep. In the morning, there would be a note or some other sweet reminder on her pillow for her to wake up to. He never failed to read her mood correctly, loving her in exactly the way she needed to be loved.
To her relief, the voice which had frightened her so badly the night after Aunt Dora passed away did not return. When several nights went by without further incident, she began to believe maybe she'd imagined the whole thing and decided not to bother mentioning it to Christopher.
* * * *
Just over a week had passed when she woke up one morning to Christopher's voice, rousing her. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked up to find him standing next to the bed, dressed for work. “What time is it?” she mumbled.
"Early. Not quite seven,” he said, sitting down next to her on the bed. “Jasmine, something's come up. I've got to leave for New York later this morning with Farnsworth. He's got an irate client that needs some hand-holding, and he's asked me to go with him since I know the file."
"Oh. When will you be back?” she asked, trying not to sound as needy as she felt.
"Three days, max, promise.” He looked at her with concern. “I need to know you'll be all right until then."
Jasmine smiled at him. He'd
been so good to her. The last thing she wanted to do was cause him to worry on her account. “Of course I'll be fine. Not that I won't miss you, but I'm really okay. Thanks to you. I don't know what I would have done without you,” she said hugging him.
He looked relieved and gave her a slow good-bye kiss. “Hopefully, you'll never have to find out,” he said.
Ten minutes after he left, she found herself missing him already. Three days, she reminded herself. Then he'll be back.
She turned on the shower, then removed her mother's pendant and placed it on the dresser. She loved the exotic-looking piece and had worn it every day since her Aunt had given it to her. She stepped into the steamy shower and let the hot water roll over her, thinking about how good Christopher was for her and how close they'd become over the past week. She felt certain Aunt Dora would have approved of him. She sighed at the bittersweet thought, and wondered if she'd ever be able to disassociate the memory of her happiness at having found Christopher from that of her Aunt's death.
While shampooing her long mane, she replayed the previous night's lovemaking and daydreamed about Christopher. No one had ever been able to pleasure her the way he did, and the thought brought a satisfied smile to her lips. The way he had kissed her good-bye this morning boded well, too, and she found herself wondering what their future would hold.
Suddenly, a shadowy image of the man in black popped into her head, blocking out the pleasant images. Her happy thoughts about Christopher evaporated and, despite the steamy heat of the shower, she shivered. Trembling, she finished rinsing her hair and left the shower, doing her best to dispel the anxiety that had suddenly come over her.
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Chapter 12
A ribbon of mist danced along the moonbeam that fell across Jasmine's sleeping form. Ahriman's spirit glided around the room and hovered over the bed, studying her as she slept. He had seduced many mortal women in the course of his existence, and had sought out the most exquisite among them, but even he was captivated by the stunning little goddess who slumbered beneath his gaze. Here was perfection. He admired the way the moon's light turned her tresses into luminous shades of gold and how it made her moist, full mouth sparkle. Some long-forgotten emotion seemed to awaken in him as he regarded Jasmine in repose. Softly, he came to rest next to her on the bed.