All four actors stormed out on him, and on that day, exactly like today, Ravenswood had been left pacing up and down backstage and tearing at his hair as the minutes ticked down until the curtain rose.
Ravenswood had needed every single mark. The lecturers hadn’t understood his assignment that compared Chekhov's Uncle Vanya to Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. His analysis was had obviously been too intellectually challenging for this backwater university. He had protested but the lecturers had claimed he didn't answer the questions. Yet again, the academics had stifled his ingenuity with their bureaucratic nonsense. Eventually he brushed it off, convinced that he would ace the final performance. But now, without actors or a play, he faced an F. His whole career, his whole future was at risk. His Plan B had been to play all the roles himself. After all he knew every line and at least there was one person he could rely on.
He had been making up his face when the cast turned up fifteen minutes before curtain rise. He almost collapsed with relief when they arrived –- but then he realised they were rolling drunk.
They went on, giggling and slurring. They swayed across the stage, bumped into sets and missed their cues. One of the cast belted out a dirty rugby song when he couldn't remember his lines.
Endgame became a comedy. and Ravenswood stood in the wings, open-mouthed and watched them crush his future under their drunken feet.
Three years later at Beacon Hill High School, it was happening all over again and he was just as powerless to stop it.
He rubbed his hands up and down his forearms. Under his clothes, his healed scars itched. Hiram, the red-combed rooster was back, putting him to shame. Ravenswood had never learned. Here he was trying to prove he was better than everyone else and failing publicly again. The impending flop of his Macbeth was a reminder of what he already knew in his heart. He was nothing.
Useless.
Get up now, he told himself, leave. He could start afresh, far away from Beacon Hill, the home of the Nathair, the place where they stripped convicts of their skin to appease their God. Mrs Petrakis was wrong. Fiona was wrong. It’s no allegory. He’d seen them in his dreams: trussed-up bodies swinging from the ceiling, red-raw flesh glistening in the firelight, the helpless screams of grown men.
Ravenswood jumped to his feet. The seat shut behind him with a clang and he clutched his forehead. The images wouldn’t leave his mind.
The disciples were butchers, their meat still conscious as they peeled the skin from the muscle while the onlookers chanted the name of God, over and over again, without compassion. Their cheeks were flushed and their eyes were glassy as they invited Satan into their hearts under the guise of God, just as Josie warned. But even she was not immune. She had been just as infected and blind to his insidiousness. The Nathair, the original Kindred, became Satan's vessel and together they contaminated the ground of Beacon Hill.
He slumped back down into the theatre seat.
A splash of holy water and a few hymns was never going to be enough. Evil was clever, it hid dormant in the soil until the time was right to return.
‘Mr Ravenswood?’ Jacinta tapped his shoulder gently.
‘Leave them alone, Josie,’ he blathered.
‘I think he’s lost it,’ said another voice said. It sounded so far away, as if echoing down a long tunnel.
Ravenswood shook his head and blinked. He looked up to see the concerned faces of his cast crowded around him.
‘Have the girls come back?’ he asked weakly.
‘No,’ said Jacinta. ‘Remember. Holly went to look for them. Remember?’
He slumped and muttered. ‘Useless.’
Was it his fault? Had he brought the evil with him? Deep down he knew he was bad. He was tarnished, and life and God never let him forget. So far, he'd been good. He'd stopped himself but the pull was so strong, sometimes it ached like an empty belly. If only he could start all over, make himself pure again.
God created these hurdles for him, opportunities to put the past behind him, yet time after time he repaid Him with selfishness and failure. He wanted to make Alan Wolf recognise his true talent. He needed to redeem the F he received for Directing 201, the biggest blackest mark on his already tarnished soul.
His ego had ushered in the darkness, brought the shadows and a famous cursed play to an already rotten place. Just as Josie had warned.
He shuddered. He should have listened to Holly. They were all in danger and he was responsible.
He moaned aloud and wished the ground would swallow him up, return him to nothingness. It was the only fate he deserved.
***
VIOLET
Miss Quinlin curiously disappeared into the semi-darkness. The fluorescent tubes fizzled overhead, flickering like a fitful Morse code.
Violet approached the next corner with damp palms. There were so many closed doors and empty spaces, so many places to hide.
A power tool whirred into action. The sound coming from somewhere further down the corridor. Violet swallowed hard. Images from horror videos flooded into her mind.
She followed the sound to the social studies wing, her heartbeat fluttering in time with the erratic lights. She paused outside the double glass doors and peered through the glass to a short corridor which branched off into four classrooms.
In the dim light, she spotted the silhouette of three bald heads in the classroom on the left. The maintenance men. Violet gulped again. Three men had been left to wander freely around an empty school and two teenage girls were missing.
As soon as the maintenance men had arrived at Beacon Hill High School, the stories had spread: they were criminals, paedophiles, mental patients. Violet had never listened. Sure, they were weird, but they had seemed harmless enough. And anyway, the school wouldn't let ex-offenders near children. They did background checks, didn't they?
Violet eased the door open and slipped into the social studies wing. Apparently, the men were from some kind of religious order: something about thorns. Violet didn't know much about religion and her mum only believed in hard work, clean houses and low-fat yoghurt. If they were religious, what would they want with Lila and Angelika anyway? Weren't monks supposed to be celibate? Violet shivered as she ticked off the recent strange events inside her head. The power on the blink, the falling set, the fire alarm. These men had the means and probably some perverted motive. She winced and wished she had a proper plan. And a weapon.
She snuck closer towards them.
The three men had their backs to the door as they stroked beige paint up and down the classroom wall in unison like a dance. Horizontal rain splattered against the window.
She loitered in the doorway and searched the room. There were no signs of Lila or Angelika: only paint brushes, trays and tins, drop sheets on the carpet, and an electric drill with a paint mixer attachment.
Violet checked her watch. How long had Lila been missing? There had been plenty of time for the men to hide her away and return to work. Or maybe there were others roaming the corridors.
She sucked in a breath. There were three of them and one of her. She steeled herself and stepped into the room.
‘Hello,’ she said in a surprisingly nonchalant voice. ‘I'm looking for two of my friends. Have you seen them?’
The three men slowly turned their heads in unison and stared at her with blank faces. Lightning crackled outside and light reflected off their bald heads. One of the men, his eyes bulbous and staring, shrugged.
‘A girl with burgundy hair and another tall blonde one?’ Violet said as she stepped closer, careful to stay out of reach.
The man with the bulging eyes shook his head. His face, even his eyebrows, were completely free of all hair. The other two, one short, one chubby, stood with their arms flat by their sides and stared without blinking.
‘You're really not allowed to speak?’ Violet frowned. The man nodded and Violet pursed her lips. Sometimes schoolyard stories were true.
She studied their faces, unable to tear her eyes away. The th
ree men gazed back at her. Their blank expressions gradually softened and her own frown melted away as a wordless understanding passed between them. A warm feeling trickled up through her body, her nerves replaced by a placid calm. All her doubts about them dropped away and the room hummed with a sense of gentleness. Later on, she'd swear the three men glowed.
Violet didn't know how long she stood there but her eyelids grew so heavy, she longed to lay her head down on the carpet, just for a few moments. It had been such a long day.
Thunder rumbled outside and she blinked. The noise pushed the clouds from her head. She remembered why she was here.
‘If you see either of them, give them a message,’ she said, her voice feeling strange in her mouth. ‘We're looking for them. Tell them to come back to the theatrette.’
The boggle-eyed man nodded.
‘But you can't tell them, can you?’ She chuckled. ‘Maybe you could point or something. I'll keep looking.’
Violet’s body seemed more graceful as she headed out of the room. The men were strange but not sinister. It had to be someone else. She turned and waved to them and tripped on the drop sheet, which bunched up to reveal the carpet underneath and the corner of a black hardcover notebook. Just like Lila's journal.
She righted herself and snatched up the book. Her hands trembled as she opened the front cover to see 'Lila McFarlane' scribbled on the inside in her tiny spidery handwriting.
Her stomach plunged.
‘What are you doing with this?’ she said, brandishing the notebook. Lila always kept her journal close. This was the first time Violet had even touched it.
The men, of course, said nothing.
‘Why is this here?’
A wave of nausea hit her and her body wilted. They'd tricked her with hypnosis or something. Darkness was all around.
‘What have you done with them, you perverts?’
The leader shook his head. The other two stood blankly like robots once again.
‘Where have you put them?’ Violet said, still waving the book at them. The short man and the fat man put down their paint brushes, slowly and deliberately. She tightened her grip on the book. ‘What have you done with Lila?’
The leader turned back to the wall with his paintbrush in hand and continued with his work. Violet scoured the room for a better weapon than the sharp cornered book. A paint-splattered chisel lay on the drop sheet underneath a window, but it was too far away.
Violet tensed. ‘Tell me where they are,’ she said, gritting her teeth while her legs trembled.
The other two men stared back expressionless and silent.
The man who had been painting turned around and pointed. He'd written a message in beige paint on the wall. He nodded feverishly as Violet read the words aloud.
‘Not us,’ she said. ‘Well, who then?’
The painting man picked up his brush again but stopped with a strangled squeal. Violet's eyes widened when she realised why.
His message was fading away before her eyes. The wall sucked up the words until there was nothing left. The other men dropped to their knees and bowed their heads, frantically crossing their chests.
With a shaky hand, the man turned and painted again. This time, the word on the wall was 'evil.'
Violet swallowed as the temperature in the room plummeted.
‘Who?’ she said with chattering teeth. ‘Tell me what you know.’
Slaps of red paint appeared from nowhere in angry splashes across the wall, covering his message. Violet's eyes and mouth widened, her panicked breaths were visible in the frozen air.
The painting monk lifted his brush again, even from this distance Violet could see the tremble in his hands. The kneeling men silently murmured, their lips moving in sync. As they prayed, more jagged stripes of blood-red paint materialised on the walls.
‘Tell me!’
The painting man's shoulders hiked as he took a deep breath and touched the tip of his brush to the wall.
At the back of the room, an electric motor buzzed into action. Violet spun around. The drill sat upright on the drop sheet, the red stirring attachment whirring like a ceiling fan. But there was no one there.
The monk painted a single beige stroke but it was instantly devoured by the red wall. He bent over and dipped his brush into the paint tin, ready to try again.
An object whistled through the air past Violet. The metallic blur was too quick to make out, but it flew like a spear across the room.
The chisel.
The sharp-edged tool chisel stabbed the painting man. The blade lodging deep into the nape of his neck.
The man gasped and swayed but he didn't scream. His head lolled as he dropped the brush and gripped the chisel, the handle stuck out of his neck like one of Frankenstein's bolts. His knees buckled as blood seeped through his fingers.
Violet gaped open-mouthed as the other maintenance monks jumped up from their prayers. The short one held the injured man firmly while his fat companion took hold of the chisel handle and tugged hard. The painting man’s body spasmed as the chisel came free. His face twisted and his lips snarled but he didn't make a sound.
He collapsed onto the carpet. Fresh blood oozed from the wound and dribbled down his neck, a dark stain growing at the collar of his coveralls.
The chubby man threw the blood-smeared chisel across the room. It thumped against the wall and landed on the carpet near the buzzing drill. Violet stared at the chisel. It was an ordinary tool, aside from the blood. It lay motionless and there was no sign of the evil.
But her attention shifted to the drill, which was still buzzing like an irritating blow fly. Violet inched towards it, fascinated but frightened. The evil was there. She sucked in a lungful of courage, clenched her jaw and stamped on the whirring attachment with her chunky-soled boots. She stomped and kicked until the red plastic shattered into a hundred small pieces on the drop sheet.
She smiled.
Briefly.
Violet's stomach churned as the motor continued to hum. She was an idiot. As if the evil could be so easily defeated.
She backed away and turned to the men.
The small monk and the plump monk sunk to their knees, continuing to pray while their friend lay on the floor on his side.
‘You can't leave him. We have to do something.’
But they paid no attention to her.
‘Someone tell me what the hell is going on!’ Violet stamped her foot.
The PA system hissed into life and a blast of piercing static blared out of the speakers. Violet flinched.
‘Help me,’ said a weak voice, barely audible through the pops and splutters.
‘Lila?’ Violet whispered as she slumped towards the wall, her thighs like jelly. She strained to hear. ‘Is that you?’
‘Please. Hurry.’
‘Lila? I'm coming for you!’ Violet swallowed her fear. ‘Where are you?’
The speaker crackled and then the classroom was silent again. There were no more slashes of red paint on the wall, the drill stopped buzzing and Violet was alone with the three maintenance monks.
‘Get up. We have to rescue her.’
Violet stood over them but they continued their prayers, their eyes firmly closed. She stamped her foot.
‘How can you just sit there.’
But their eyes were shut like vaults.
‘I need to know what I'm up against!’ Violet yelled and kicked at a can of paint. ‘What should I do?’
The painting man opened his eyes and scrawled on the wall in his own blood: red on red. 'Pray' was barely decipherable.
‘What good will that do?’ Violet flung her hands in the air.
The three men ignored her and returned to their prayers. Violet slumped. ‘Thanks for nothing.’
She trudged down the corridor and through the double doors on shaky legs. She didn't have a plan or a clear idea of what, or who, she was up against.
But she had to find Lila.
Chapter 15
; RAVENSWOOD
Ravenswood slammed the lighting box door and flopped down on the padded office chair inside. He leaned his elbows on the lighting desk and buried his thumping head in his hands.
The door opened and closed again.
‘Finished?’ he muttered through his hands.
There was no reply.
‘You done, Toby?’
Ravenswood glanced up but there was no one there. The lighting box was still dark as it should be, the only light came from the glowing knobs and dials on the console. He looked out the wide viewing window and saw Toby was on stage, climbing down the ladder in plain sight. Ravenswood's breath snagged in his throat.
In the far corner of the small room, something lingered by the door. It was a darkness, a jet-black shadow blacker than the black surrounding it. For some unknown reason, the ill-defined presence felt female.
‘Angelika?’ Ravenswood said. ‘Is that you?’ His heart beat like a warning bell under his shirt.
The scent of clean bedsheets and roses drifted over him, and his mouth went dry. He would never forget this perfume as his nose pressed against her shirt and she grappled him into a headlock and dragged him across the yard.
‘No,’ he stuttered. ‘It can't be.’
A harsh bark of laughter came from the corner. ‘Useless boy,’ the shadow hissed.
Ravenswood scrambled to his feet. ‘You're not real.’
He flinched and shielded his eyes as the stage below blasted with an intense white light.
‘Who is not real?’ the voice cackled.
‘Mr Ravenswood! Can you turn it down?’ Toby yelled. ‘You're blinding us down here.’
Ravenswood grabbed the fader and dimmed the lighting.
He inhaled and faced the corner. ‘I won't let you ruin it,’ he said as he tried to swallow the tremble in his voice.
The murky presence in the corner melted into a dark pool and inched towards him like black lava along the floor and walls.
The Flower and the Serpent Page 22