The Night Inside

by The Night Inside (epub)

  “I don’t see a way in.”

  “Trust me.” She led the way through the overgrown bushes to the back of the house. When he caught up to her, she pulled him into the shadow of the porch, against her body. “This is where the girl died. The one that was stabbed in the cult killing last year.”

  “Jesus.” He looked up at the house looming over them, then back at her shadowed face. “You want to go in there?”

  “Why not? There’s nobody there now.” She had made sure of that when she was considering the house as a resting place during the day. He shivered, his gaze returning to the blind, boarded windows. Time to up the stakes, my girl, time to give him the little jolt he needs to go over the edge. She shifted, let her body lean on his just enough so that he could feel her breathing, feel the tremor in her body. She knew from the fearful fascination in his eyes that some measures of her hunger had leaked through, had escaped to glow like a flaming corona around the reassuringly ordinary colour of her eyes. But that was all right—one hunger, one tremor could easily be mistaken for another. She brushed a kiss against the corner of his mouth.

  “I don’t think we should . . .” he whispered uneasily, as she took hold of the drainpipe, put one foot on the window sill and swung herself lithely up to the roof of the porch. She knelt at the edge, looking down at him.

  “Of course we shouldn’t. That’s why we’re going to. You want to do it, don’t you?” It was not really a question. He wanted to. They all wanted to. The long-dead girl she had been had wanted to. Wanted the forbidden and feared it. Wanted—despite society, morality and judgment. Wanted to do whatever they desired, right here, right now, and most of all, wanted something stronger, something darker than themselves to come along and make them do it.

  He looked up at her for a moment, then with a whispered curse, or prayer, scrambled clumsily up beside her. “What if somebody sees us?”

  “No one will see us.”

  “What if they hear us?” She took his chin in her hand, leaned over to kiss him again.

  “Shut up and they won’t.” Her smile softened the words, but kept him quiet. The boards loosened under her strong fingers then came away. She slithered through the narrow space into one of the second-floor bedrooms. He followed with controlled nervousness, torn between his fear of discovery and his fear of tearing his expensive suit on the ragged sill.

  “Christ its dark in here. How are we going to see?”

  “Wait.” She could see perfectly, of course, but let him fidget in the darkness for a moment before she lit the candle from her purse. She held the flame up between them and smiled. “Come on.”

  The house had been empty for more than five years, occupied only by dust, mice and a steady succession of transients. Then the previous summer, the mutilated body of a missing girl had been discovered by a safety inspector. Rumours of satanic sacrifices screamed across the tabloid headlines for weeks, to be supplanted by the next scandal when no arrests were made. Ardeth didn’t know if any one had ever been arrested—it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this house was one place this carefully groomed, carefully protected yuppie would never confess to being in, no matter what post-coital suspicions he might have about the true nature of his seduction—or his seducer.

  Philip followed her up the stairs, at her heels, as if he feared to get too far from the flickering circle of light she held. She paused on the first landing, leaned over the railing to look down two storeys, holding up the candle. Red dots flared briefly below, then vanished in the patter of feet. “Rats,” she said and he shuddered briefly, drawing closer.

  “Carmilla . . . you were joking, weren’t you? About this being the house where they found that girl?”

  “No.” She took his hand and started up the last flight of stairs. “The girl was here on a school trip . . . from some high school up north. A Catholic school, I think,” Ardeth said, not looking back at him. “They were staying at the university residence. She went out to get a newspaper or something. The police think she was kept in the basement for a couple of days—there were chains down there. There are no windows in the basement and the walls are pretty thick, so no one would have heard her scream. Of course, they might have gagged her.” Behind her, Philip stumbled on the stairs and then paused while he got his balance, then she continued, embroidering the few known facts of the case with imaginary details. Fear could be an aphrodisiac for them, as long as in the end they thought they conquered it in the possession of her body.

  “On the night of August first, that’s Lammas Night, they brought her up here. They didn’t drug her, so maybe she fought them all the way up these long stairs. Then again, maybe she didn’t.” For a moment, the world slipped sideways in the flickering light and she saw a narrow staircase, damp, bleeding walls. “You don’t always, you know. You can be so scared you can’t move. And you think that if you just obey them, if you just ‘be good,’ that it’ll be OK. That they’ll let you go. They don’t . . . didn’t . . . though.”

  They reached the top floor at last. There was only one door on the landing. It was open. Ardeth felt Philip’s hand tighten in hers, but she did not look at him. “They took her in there.” She lifted the candle, sent the flickering light to stroke the edges of that interior darkness. She stepped forward, his hand dragging on her, holding her back, until she exerted her inhuman strength and pulled him with her into the darkness. “They cut pentagrams into her body. She bled a lot—but she lived a long time. You can, you know. You can lose a lot of blood and still survive, if you lose it a little at a time. That was very important to them. That she stay alive to the very end. When they cut her heart out.”

  She lifted the candle again. There was no altar, but the outlines of pentagrams ripped like black snakes along the walls. Ardeth closed her eyes, saw a lightbulb swinging in a slow arc in the darkness, saw the shadow of bars along the floor. “That’s very important to them. That you don’t die until they’re done with you. That you don’t die until they kill you. Because then you’ve spoiled the fun. Because then you might come back.” She didn’t realize she’d spoken her thoughts out loud until she heard her voice echoing in the empty room.

  “Carmilla . . .” His hand was gone. She turned around, tried to force some semblance of the practiced seductive smile back onto her lips and knew from his stumbling backward step that she had failed. In the candle’s unsteady glow, she saw the light of realization burn away the champagne haze and knew he saw her more clearly than she had ever intended. As he backed through the door, the candle went out.

  He was on the landing, reaching for the railing. His fear was like an aura of pale light. “Philip,” she said, intending to calm him, to win her way back into his trust or hold him still and wait long enough to let her hypnotic powers lull him into acquiescence. At the sound of her voice, he jumped and groped for the stairway, stumbling on a rotting board.

  His hands closed on the railing even as the wood at its base splintered and arched him out into the darkness of the stairwell. She heard his indrawn gasp, but he hit the floor before he could cry out. She waited at the top of the stairs for a moment, listening to the rush of blood in her ears, drowning out the distant echoes of screaming. Then she stepped to the edge of the landing and looked down. The body was crumpled on the dusty floor.

  Ardeth swore silently. It was not supposed to have ended this way. Finally, she started down the stairs. His blood wouldn’t be cold for a while yet.

  Chapter 22

  The girl was tall, with long, tawny hair hanging loose over her shoulders. She stepped out onto the street as the light turned yellow, then stopped with an awkward jerk. Sara, walking behind her, felt her heart contract in sudden pain. Ardeth did things like that, like getting caught between the urge to race the light and retreat to the safety of the curb. Even the woman’s hair looked like Ardeth’s.

  For one dizzying moment, Sara thought, “Maybe it is . . .” and then her heart expanded s
o suddenly her chest hurt. But no, the girl was too tall, the walk was wrong, the clothes were wrong.

  She let out her breath slowly and fought the rush of tears. Sometimes she wondered why it hurt so much. She and Ardeth had never really liked each other all that much. But her older sister’s absence was a great, cold vacuum in her heart.

  She had accepted a thousand other uncertainties without question. Where she would sleep, where she could get her next meal, whether the guitarist she’d rehearsed with would show up in time for the gig or whether she’d have to find someone else, all those things she’d taken in stride. She’d shrugged off the might-have-beens as easily as unremembered dreams. But Ardeth, Ardeth had always been unchanging. Always in school, always rational, always careful. It disturbed Sara more than she could admit that her sister’s disappearance had shattered every preconception she had held.

  Maybe she just ran away—to Paris, or Tahiti, or Tibet. To someplace as frivolous as she was sensible. Any day now, Sara told herself for the hundredth time in the last two months, I’ll get a postcard or a telephone call. And then Ardeth would finally be laughing and saying, “I finally did it, Sara. I finally learned to have fun. No more dependable, average, scholarly Ardeth.”

  The furious honking of a car horn brought Sara out of her reverie and she realized that she had walked an entire block without knowing it. She was now sauntering casually through an intersection as the light turned yellow. She paused to gesture obscenely to the driver, who gestured back, then she jogged across to the curb.

  Enough, she thought, pushing her sunglasses back from their perch at the end of her nose. Thinking about her doesn’t bring her home. You’ve done everything you can. The police, the papers, your friends, they all say the same thing. She’s gone missing. They said other things too, but Sara steadfastly refused to consider them.

  She heard shouting from behind her, a man’s voice yelling “Hey, you!” She paid no attention until someone grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, when she realized that the rough, attractive face didn’t belong to anyone she knew. The man stared at her intently for a moment, his hand still on her shoulder.

  “I remember you. You didn’t count on that, did you?” he said harshly.

  “What are you talking about?” she countered, reaching up to try to pry his hand off her. His fingers refused to loosen.

  “What happened to Rick?” The dark eyes beneath the thatch of spiky brown hair grew bright with outrage and Sara felt the first touch of fear trace up her spine. It’s broad daylight, she told herself. Surely he can’t hurt me on a busy street in broad daylight.

  “Rick who?” Her voice was sharp with her own anger and fear. The man seized her other shoulder suddenly.

  “Didn’t even ask his name, did you?” he sneered. “What did you do to him?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Yes, you do. Two weeks ago, Friday, the corner of John and Queen. Rick. The street musician you picked up. The one who ended up in a gutter when a car hit him. Now what did you give him?” He was shouting at her, fingers bruising her shoulders as he shook her.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And get your fucking hands off me before I start screaming for a cop.”

  “Not until you tell me what you gave him!”

  “All right, all right,” Sara lied quickly. “Let go of me and I’ll tell you.” She prayed he would loosen his grip enough for her to break away and run. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the passersby hastening around them, eyes lowered. Some help they’d be, she thought in disgust. Her only hope was to get into a shop, maybe even to The Gold Rush.

  The man stared at her face for a moment, then shifted one hand down to hold hers. She winced in pain at the grip of his short, strong fingers. “All right. I’m waiting.”

  “Please believe me. Whoever you think I am, you’re wrong. I’m sorry about your friend, but I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “You’re not that forgettable. Even if you did get your hair cut and dye it red instead of black. I remember you.” There was no doubt in his voice, but his eyes had lost their bright, fanatical gleam.

  “I’ll prove it to you,” Sara said desperately. “Come with me.”

  “Where?” His hand tightened again and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. His fingers unclenched suddenly, as if he had just realized that he was hurting her. But he didn’t let her go.

  “The Gold Rush.” He glanced towards the neon sign half a block up the street.

  “OK. Let’s go.”

  Danny was at the bar when they entered, leaning idly over the counter watching the game of pool in process farther down the room. He glanced up and ginned. “You’re here early, Sara.”

  “I need your help.” The bartender glanced curiously at the man by Sara’s side and shrugged.

  “Name it.”

  “Where was I two weeks ago, Friday night?”

  “Here, of course.”

  “For how long?”

  “Jesus, I don’t know. You got here around 9:00, I guess.”

  “When did this happen?” Sara asked the man, who was watching Danny suspiciously.

  “Eleven-thirty or so,” he replied and she felt his grip on her hand loosen a little.

  “Where was I at 11:30?” she asked Danny.

  “On stage, where you usually are Friday nights. What the hell is this? Do I get a prize or something?”

  “Just one more question. What colour was my hair two weeks ago?”

  “Red. Just like it is now,” Danny replied in bewilderment.

  “There.” She turned to the man next to her with a triumphant smile. “Now do you believe me?” He looked at her for a moment, then closed his eyes wearily.

  “I am such a fucking asshole sometimes,” he muttered, releasing her hand. He opened his eyes. “I am really sorry.”

  “Yeah, well.” Sara felt her anger fading. “It’s OK. Must have been tough. Your friend dying, I mean.”

  “I was just so sure. You look just like her, except for the hair. You even dress the same.”

  “Hey, on this street, some days everybody dresses like this,” she said, gesturing to her black mini-skirt and loosely draped top.

  “Yeah, but not everybody has earrings like that.” He gestured towards her then started to turn away, apologizing again. Sara reached up instinctively, suddenly unable to remember what earrings she was wearing that day. The metallic winged heads were cool beneath her fingers and she felt the pinprick of pressure from the loose catch on one of the red stones.

  Well, at least her double had good taste, she thought absently, then her eyes widened. She had bought these earrings from her friend Mira. They were one-of-a-kind. Or almost. Mira had made two pairs and Sara had bought them both. She had given one pair to Ardeth for her birthday.

  “My God,” she whispered and looked up to see the door closing as the man left the bar.

  She caught up to him halfway down the street. “Wait a minute,” she gasped, seizing his arm.

  “I said I’m sorry. At least let me escape from the scene of my crime,” he began and she waved him to silence.

  “Are you sure, are you positive the girl you saw was wearing earrings like these?”

  “Yeah. It’s not something I’ll ever forget.”

  “Then tell me everything that happened that night,” Sara demanded.

  “What’s this all about? Do you know that girl?”

  “There are only two pairs of earrings like this in the city. I have one pair. My sister has the other.”

  “Then you do know her. Where is she?” His voice had gone cold and angry again.

  “I don’t know. That’s the point. She’s missing. She’s been missing for two months. Now, if you’ve seen her, it mean’s she’s all right. She’s not .
. .” Sara felt her voice trail off, unable to say the word even to deny it.

  “Oh Jesus,” the man said softly.

  “I waited for two hours for Rick. Eventually I just went home. The next day, the hospital called. Rick had died from internal injuries,” Mickey finished, staring down into his coffee. They were sitting in a diner, uneasy introductions over.

  “What makes you think Ardeth had anything to do with the accident?” Sara asked in confusion, still trying to reconcile his description of the dark-haired, black-clad woman with the memory of her sister.

  “The cab driver said Rick just fell into the street, like he was drunk, or on something. When he was playing with me, half an hour earlier, he was straight.”

  “Did they find any evidence of drugs or alcohol in his blood?”

  “I don’t know. They wouldn’t say. There was something weird about that too. The police just wrote it off, didn’t charge the driver. I guess it wasn’t his fault. But when I went to the hospital, one of the doctors asked me if Rick had given blood lately, because he’d lost more blood than the accident could account for. Rick never gave blood. He hated needles too much.”

  “All right, I’ll admit it’s pretty weird. But I don’t see what you think Ardeth had to do with it. Did anyone see her at the scene of the accident?”

  “No. Look, I know it sounds crazy. But you didn’t see her that night.” He paused uneasily, glancing around the room as if he wanted to look at anything but her. “She was spooky.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. There was just something about her . . . that’s why I thought maybe she was on something. Something she gave Rick that made him walk in front of a cab.”

  “Ardeth never took a drug in her life. She hardly ever drank,” Sara said vehemently.

  “Yeah, and she didn’t have black hair and disappear either, right?”

  “Forget it then. Thanks for the information,” she snapped, starting to rise. He was right, that was what hurt. Ardeth had obviously changed more than she had guessed.