Authors: Natalie Essary
David and Kim’s cover of “White Rabbit” echoed through the wall, pulsing faintly, as Rorke disappeared down the long hallway. I shivered through my leather and went in search of hot water, trying not to walk in time. Couldn’t seem to help myself. It was getting louder. Not the music, just the beat. Ash’s angled face tricked through my mind, tinged with red. I was marveling to myself that I just might be lost in the creepiest place on earth when the aforementioned door appeared.
I never should have opened it.
The last thing I remember before my head cracked the tile was getting blasted by the steam of somebody else’s shower. The moist air smelled like firewood. Then everything went black. When I came to I found that snit of a door girl standing over me, scowling. She had a pencil tucked behind her ear and an icepack in her hand.
“Don’t move.”
“What the devil, dormouse?” I mumbled.
“You tell me?” she barked, making her eyes even bigger.
There was an unsavory substance drying down the front of my shirt that did not resemble my last meal at Denny’s, and every bit of my body was in some sort of pain.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“What did you swallow, pal? And how’d you get back here?”
If my father taught me nothing else, I learned being called “pal” is rarely a good thing. She fussed after me with her cold pointy fingers like an elementary school nurse who wasn’t easily impressed. In fact, she was so ticked off her lips were gone.
“I’m not on anything,” I said, but my tongue sounded like it was covered with hair.
“Right,” she drawled and lifted my shoulder to tuck a rolled-up towel under my head. Then the lecture kicked on.
“You could have choked, you know? If you don’t give a shit about yourself, that’s fine, but do you have any idea what negative publicity does to a place like this? We’re the biggest nightclub in town. Plenty of people would be happy to see that change. I could be out of a job. And a home. And I am not the only one who works here. Selfish little prick. You’re not River Phoenix,” she trailed off, still trying to make me comfortable on the cold tile.
“The bartender let me back here. I’ll find her, and she’ll explain—”
“Oh, hell no!” she said, pushing me back down. “Your dumb ass is not going anywhere near that bar. You’re a liability. You’re not leaving until I’m sure you won’t OD. Plus it’s pouring outside, and the roads are closed. You’d never get a taxi.” She stared at me with tremendous intensity, daring me to dispute her.
“Fine,” I sighed. “But at least let me get up off the floor.”
“Fine,” she said.
She continued to reprimand me with her eyes while she removed her witch cloak and pulled my arm around her bare shoulder. Her skin was about as chilly as her disposition. And she was freakishly strong for such a stick of a chick. Under all that velveteen, she was wearing one of Victoria’s secrets as a dress. Her striped tights, efficiently torn, led my eye directly to her pilgrim boots. And the swirling floor.
“My name is Nick.” I wasn’t really trying to make conversation. I was merely trying to remain conscious.
“I’m Evilyn. And let’s just get it all out now, Upchuck. I see you’re a prime catch and all, with your sexy east coast accent and your skinny boy pants, but I’m not into guys who have more problems than me, so just take your tats and go sniffing up another tree. I belong to the bar.”
“I was just being nice.”
“I like nice even less.”
So we hobbled down the endless hallway in silence.
When number thirteen materialized, Evilyn fished a skeleton key from the crystal pouch around her neck and unlocked the door.
“No one will mind?” I asked.
“Who would mind?”
“Rorke said it was her office.”
“Because it’s where she hides her stash,” she said flatly. “Besides, she’s pissed and gone to bed by now. It’s after four.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Indeed, she did not.
“Go lie down,” she said. “I’ll be back to check on you when I finish the books. And take that shirt off. It was visually offensive without the vomit.”
The door slammed before I could argue.
I leaned against a blown up print of Julie Strain, shirtless, brushing her teeth in a mirror. The click of a deadbolt echoed through the empty room. It sounded rather final, and it was followed by the haunting hum of silence.
Bitch had locked me in.
I sighed. Then I saw a pack of Lucky Strikes sitting on an ashtray by the futon, and had a change of heart. I plucked one from the box, fumbled through my pocket for a light and gazed up at the beast towering over me.
Someone had gutted a grandfather clock and converted it into a bookcase. All the tricks and trinkets that were once on the inside of the clock had been dismantled and glued down one pane of the side glass, like the pieces of time had all tumbled out. The clock had a high bonnet with a split pediment painted up like the wings of a rising phoenix. The moon dial was mounted at its feet. Fire licked up the corners, along the wooden casing, and the toe molding looked like it had been scorched. The bottom front glass was removed for easy access to the books, but the top front glass had a smoked key lock door. I couldn’t see what was in there without climbing up the shelves. It looked like more books.
I took a couple of long drags and wondered how something so incredible slipped my notice when I was in “the office” before. I assumed because there was a girl in the room. One Helluva girl. But then I decided I didn’t care about the bookshelf and sank back into the arm of the futon.
The lamp next to me flickered with a little hiss.
I glared at it.
If it went out, all I had was a Zippo.
The lamp was clearly pieced together from a couple of antique shop jackpots, the kind of lamp that would complement sexually suggestive dishtowels. The base was black wrought-iron vinery, twisted around a slender body of ruby glass. The shade, deep red satin with black tulle overlay. The overall effect on the room was something akin to my fantasies of an opium den.
A few moments passed with the light still on, and I started to relax again, fancy myself lucky even. Then the bulb rattled. It screeched and turned slightly, metal on metal. I looked under the shade, and that’s where I found the frantic flowers scratched into the lining. They looked like the work of a razorblade, but I was too tired to freak out.
Instead I thought,
What the hell are those flowers called?
As I concentrated on them, the throbbing in my head stilled, like I’d eaten a pill. I lit another cigarette and unlaced my boots, took my socks off, and grabbed the black fleece throw from the back of the futon. It was so soft, like somebody skinned a teddy bear…
Of course I nodded off with a smoke in my hand, an act nightmares are made of. Sometimes I’m just not that bright.
I dreamed I was in an altered version of Rorke’s office. Someone, a female, was shrieking like a banshee. Every time I turned around to see what the hell the fuss was about, the scream reverberated. In other words, no matter which way I faced, the sound was coming from behind me. The butter walls were charred and dripping onto the floor in greasy puddles. It made the room feel incomplete, like a stage set. An acrid fog hung in the air.
Then it started to rain.
I rolled ass-first off the futon and landed with a thud. Smoke curled from the blanket twisted through my legs, and water sprayed from the ceiling. Evidently, the cigarette dropped out of my hand and ate a fire trail straight through to my leather pants. I got up fast and killed the blanket with my bare foot. Then I scaled the bookshelf to have a whack at the blasting fire alarm. Unfortunately, I was half-awake, half-lit and mildly concussed. So when the tower of books rocked forward, and I staggered backward, a dense collection of Poe’s greatest works fell a significant distance, landing squarely on my stomping foot. I’ve still got the tell-tale toe to prove it. Then the glass door with the key lock flew open and spewed a leather-bound demon across number thirteen. It was a notebook, filled with tissue thin sheets of red paper that fluttered to the wet, wooden floor like broken wings.
So far I was totally trashing the place.
I was sure to get the girl after this.
I took a deep breath, grabbed a chair from the kitchenette and used it to knock down the smoke alarm. Then I went after the sprinkler. When the chaos stopped, my damn ears were still ringing. I picked up the Lucky Strike box, dried it off on my shirt and fished around for a cigarette that hadn’t been compromised.
All the sudden I had a lot to do before Evilyn returned.
If Evilyn returned.
But I didn’t feel like cleaning. I felt like reading the pages that were all over the floor. When I bent to pick up the closest one, a familiar scent cut straight to my memory and threw me back in time. I’m well aware the room should’ve smelled like burnt crotch but it didn’t. It smelled like cloves. It smelled like my most aggressive skeletons rattling after me, the ones who hide the furthest back in the closet. My heart dropped into my gut. I sank to the floor, surrounded by tissue pools of blood-colored secrets.
I hadn’t smelled a clove in a long, long time.
Dark and spidery scrawl floated across the page in my hand, flashing like fish scales. I ignored it, put the paper down, and cleared a path to the kitchenette on my hands and knees. I stood up to get a glass and Rorke’s gypsy bottle from the fridge. Then I wondered who the hell I was kidding and put the glass back. I took a long tug straight from the bottle, and it did the trick. Suddenly, cleaning the room didn’t seem like such a big deal.
I sat back down on the floor at the edge of the fray where the book had landed. I picked it up and opened it. There was another flower scratched into the leather, on the flap of a small pocket with a snap shaped like a skull. I popped it open. Inside there was a lock of silvery hair and a broken piece of platinum jewelry. My hands felt warm, and my breath got caught. I slid my finger along the binding and found a tear in the seam. And that’s where the pictures were hidden.
The first was a black-and-white profile of a seductively strung-out girl, leaning over the railing of a roof bar at night. She was watching the twisting traffic below, a cigarette with an inch of ash forgotten between her chipped nails. Her eyes had slipped out of focus. She had the look of someone who thought nobody was watching, and the moon hung heavy on her shoulder. I felt like I’d seen her somewhere before.
The same girl was in the second photo. It was black and white, too, but this one had her standing next to some guy in front of Rorke’s bar. They were ragged-out in Steampunk gear. She wore a pinstriped walking suit that barely covered her little ass, with fishnets, a garter belt and granny boots. She even had the fingerless lace gloves. In one hand, a pair of Victorian opera glasses. In the other, a drink. The guy had his arm around her, and her shoulders were as tight as her smile.
He had on a silk floral vest with a gambler hat, a string tie and sleeve garters. I started laughing out loud. He was leaning chivalrously against a walking stick that was topped with a very large jewel, and grinning like a game show host. I wanted to punch him in the mouth. I even considered tearing the photo in half. It was a tingling impulse more than a thought, really. But the girl, well, she was incredible.
The final picture, shot in color, made me gasp and say something along the lines of “Holy shit.” Again, same girl. But not really. She was sitting on the edge of a catwalk beneath a spray of purple lights, and she had wings. They were gauzy, woven with ribbons and broken glass. I couldn’t imagine what held them in place, because her water-colored dress was so sheer I could see trails of dark lace through it. Over-the-knee blue-black boots. Wild hair twisted with black flowers. She had fire in her midnight eyes, burning straight through the lens of the camera. Her lips were twitched into a mischievous smile as the DJ, head bent, said something in her ear.
A whisper shivered through the room.
I’d love to blame my behavior on the bolted door and pretend I didn’t have anything better to do than obsess over photos of gorgeous strangers, but I’d be a goddamn liar. I couldn’t move. I sat there staring at the pictures, comparing each to the other with the scrutiny of an artist. Then I reached for a fistful of tissue paper pages and another tug on the bottle.
I only had to read as far as the first line to figure out they were letters. Hundreds of whisper-thin letters. But not a single one had a salutation on it. Or any dates. Some of them got damaged, and the bits of wet paper stuck to my feet looked like open wounds. The spidery writing shimmered again, and I kept reading.
The voice of the writer was alternately aching and soothing and crazy with love. I immediately pictured a woman, sometimes teasing, sometimes angry, but always…alive. So alive I wanted to shred the letters and swallow them. I read dozens. I read so many I was hearing the voice in my head, and I wasn’t even sure I was reading anymore.
I drifted off again.
Well, that’s what I tell myself, anyway.
This time the burst of wailing rattled the walls. Unfortunately, it seemed to be coming from
inside
the big clock. It sounded just like the fire alarm I’d knocked off the ceiling, if the fire alarm were a woman. I stood up to check it out, because sometimes I’m just not that bright. As I got closer to the sound, it upgraded to a scream, the kind that makes your skin ripple.
And I realized my head wasn’t doing the pounding.
Something inside that clock wanted out.
Before I could whimper like a little girl, the door to number thirteen banged open, and I staggered back against the futon, hitting my head for a second time.
I looked up, and the DJ was standing in the open doorway.
She didn’t move. She didn’t even blink. Her eyes were deep, red-rimmed shadows behind chunks of wild hair. She had a beer and a cigarette in one hand, and a chain of keys in the other. She was wearing a beater that said
Get a real fucking bike
and red leather pants that looked like she applied them with a brush.
In other words, she was freakishly more intense close up.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Her voice was low and smooth, like she’d taken a shot of the River Styx.
“The door girl locked me in here, and I fell asleep.”
“You were screaming,” she said. “Like a woman.”
“That wasn’t me. That was the smoke alarm.”
Her eyes narrowed.
She stalked across the room like a caged tiger and retrieved the fire alarm from where I’d sent it flying. Then she flipped it over and cocked her head at me. Sure enough, no battery.
“You were screaming,” she repeated flatly.
She plucked a brass key from the chain at her side and drug a chair over to unlock the glass door on the bookcase. I kept my mouth shut about seeing the thing pop open. And about the pounding. She grabbed the red leather notebook, now perfectly intact, and tucked it under her arm.
“Need a place to stay?” She moved toward the open doorway. She put her fingers on the light switch, indicating I should follow her, that this wasn’t the place she had in mind.
“I think I should leave.”
“You sure? It’s storming,” she said.
“That’s all right, I’ll just—”
“It’s not safe. Nick.”
She flicked the switch and seemed to grow several inches taller. I swallowed. Then I grabbed my boots and got the hell out of there. She locked the door behind me with a key that could have cackled, and for the third time that night, I started off down an endless hallway, trailing a riddle that looked like a woman.
“You said Evilyn let you in number thirteen?”
“Well, first Rorke, and then—”
“Rorke?”
She stopped walking and whirled on me. She was so close I could smell the liquor on her breath, and I saw that her eyes were actually light gray. Painfully bloodshot and a little freaky, but distinctly gray.
“Uh, yeah. The bartender,” I said. “Pretty. Reckless. ’Bout this tall.”
“You’re the guy?” Her gaze raked slowly over every nerve from my bare feet to the matted hair hanging in my face. She stared me right in the eye and tilted her head like a curious bird.
She looked like she was thinking about laughing.
I opened my mouth to object, but she turned on her heel and continued down the hall, shaking her head a little. Then she disappeared behind one of the velvet drapes that looked just like all the other velvet drapes.
I counted. She was three drapes ahead of me. When I got to the third, I caught the faint familiar hum of a walk-in cooler. I shoved my boots on my feet, groped behind the curtain for the door and flung it open.
I gotta say, the smell of meat was a surprise.
Especially since I didn’t see any meat.
I forgot to care when I spotted the beer. The room could have been strung with assholes and antlers. All I had eyes for were the rows upon rows of steel shelving lining that magical box full of beer. The labels were flashy. The cases shined. At least half the print wasn’t in English. Drool gathered at the corner of my mouth. I was parched. But I shuffled on.
Then I spotted a gas station turkey sandwich, the kind that stands on its side in the little triangle of plastic. I thought about swiping it, but it seemed rather deliberate, sitting there without any other food. I was afraid it might be missed. Or attached to a tripwire and a pack of devil dogs.
The DJ disappeared behind a baker’s rack that was stacked with nothing but cherries and olives. She didn’t strike me as a hide-and-seek kinda gal, so I wasn’t surprised to find another door. A small brass plate said
Luxes Only
, and it was guarded by a tiny Betty Page with horns and a tail. I pushed the door open and watched the DJ retreating purposefully down yet another long hallway.
I’ve never been so stoked to see carpet in my life. The gray sculptured kind that looks like a black-and-white photo of earth from space. I thought about kicking off my shoes. I considered lying down in it and rolling around, but I was too busy chasing after this damn girl.
The walls were inviting. Along each side was just one long blue-black prism. I felt like we were underwater. If water were oil. I couldn’t make sense of the pattern, because it seemed to be moving. And there were no visible seams of any kind along the smooth surface, no doors that I could see. However, the DJ stopped walking and produced another key.
“This part of the building used to be a brothel. A nice one. Back in the sixties.” She did not smile. “It’s not common knowledge that we own half the block, and we’d like to keep it that way.” She pushed her key into a face and turned it.
I nodded, because I finally figured out what the hell I was looking at. There were women painted into the walls. Many dark, willowy women with locks in their eyes and slim handles set into their wrists. The one lingering closest to me looked vaguely familiar, but I could barely tell her body from the fish she curled around. She had shadows for clothing and seaweed for hair. I was pretty sure I could guess the artist.
I was also pretty sure the door winked at me.
“You’ll find everything you need,” the DJ said without entering the room. I could tell there was somewhere else she wanted to be, so I said nothing other than thank you as I stepped inside.
“My name is Ash,” she added, switching on the light.
Our eyes locked, she nodded slightly, and then she closed the door. I heard the lock tumble, followed by the fading sound of her footsteps.
At this point, I sighed and dropped my bag on the ground. Maybe I kicked off my boots. Without food, water or a clock for who knows how long, I should have been writhing on the ground, clawing at my eyes. But I felt pretty good.
The air in the room was edible. And everything was gray. Counting Crows gray, not black and _____. Not crowded with dagger-eyed pin up girls. Not foggy, not charred, not screaming or spattered with blood. Nothing but quiet shades of gray, like tumbled stones. No accent of an Ego.
There was a converted sofa along one peppery wall, topped with a blanket and pillow. Next to that, an end table, lamp and phone. I checked the gray drawer for a gray Bible, but instead I found a soft, dove-colored notebook and a pen. There were also some note cards and envelopes.
I could write my own ransom note,
I thought and wandered into the kitchen, humming The Cure.
A bottle of something drinkable was waiting on the counter next to a key and an envelope with my name on it. I tore it open, and I heard her voice in my head.
Welcome home, Salem…
Help yourself to everything.
If you get lonely, read
The Raven
.
—Rorke
I glanced around, choosing to ignore the heat in my stomach. A neat stack of books towered between the couch and the wall. Next to it, an oversized cushion, which I promptly fell upon before I started poking around. Sure enough. At the base was a tome of Poe identical to the one that nearly maimed me back in “the office.” I removed the other books, one by one. Several L.J. Smiths with the original cover design,
Clan Novel: Setite
, two Lenore comics and a Wiccan guide for the solitary practitioner. Once I had Poe in my hands, I realized he was lighter than he ought to be, leather-bound and gold-embossed. I lifted the cover, and it creaked like a hinge.
What I had in my hands was a stash box, folks.
Complete with cut-out center, but still partially readable if you didn’t mind that the pages were all glued together. The tasty center hid a pile of pin bones, rolled in fairy papers and smelling of licorice. Next to the stack was an unused book of matches from somewhere called Moon’s. There was a phone number on the inside, no name.
I set the faux Poe next to me on the cushion and stretched my arms to the ceiling, fully intending to spark one of those babies and kick back with a cute little dead girl. Unfortunately, I got a good whiff of myself and decided the shower was a better idea. Especially if I had a lunch date, and I intended to have a lunch date.
I took a long tug of water from the faucet, washed my hands and poured a glass of Rorke’s gift. There was a tiny radio by the sink, so I switched it on. Out tumbled “Kyoto Song,” the Cure that was already slinking around in my head. Yes, I thought it was odd. But only because most radio stations only seem to have a copy of “Friday, I’m in Love.”
I picked up my sherry and wandered into the linen closet. On top of the gunmetal-gray stackable I found an assortment of cloud-colored towels. There was also lavender-scented laundry soap, a DVD player, and a life-size cutout of Captain Picard. He had a caption taped to his head that said
Obfuscate, Bitch
. I moved him out into the living room after I stopped laughing.
Then the arguing started.
At first, I thought I was hearing television through the wall. Some drama where low deeds are discussed in low voices. The kind of show that’s on at night in a place with no time. But I couldn’t make out any words, only the muffled rise and fall of the two voices. I held my breath for a commercial break, but all I got was a pause, a click, and a beat of silence. Then the voices vanished, and all I could hear was the radio in the kitchen playing “Black Metallic.”
I shrugged, grabbed an extra towel and winked at Picard. If the crazies were coming to get my lily-white ass, I wanted a damn shower first.
Thankfully there were no ladies in the bathroom, swimming up the walls or otherwise. There were, however, little soaps shaped like boobs. And a toothbrush holder even I’m too modest to discuss.
The water pressure was phenomenal, and the whole room filled up with steam that smelled like a campfire. I intended to stand under there until it ran cold, but it never did. I eventually got out, dried off and dug some clean skivs from my bag. I don’t remember anything after that. I had Goldilocks’ ass beat. I was beyond just right. I fell asleep with the light dimmed, stretched out on the couch in my underwear, listening to Catherine Wheel on the little radio in the kitchen.
When I woke up, Rorke’s note was stuck to my face. And the bottle she left me was empty, even though I don’t remember finishing it. I don’t remember making a sandwich, either, but I found a knife in the sink and crumbs on the counter.
I glanced around the kitchenette to see what else I might have gotten into, and a French press caught my eye, winking through the smoky cabinet door. I made myself some Tanzanian Peaberry and nursed it while I straightened up the room. With every moment that passed, I felt calmer.
But then I walked out the door.
I was turning my key in the painted-lady’s lock when I felt a flutter at my side. Suddenly there was more than one woman at my door.
Her black kimono wasn’t tied. Underneath it, I could see her shirt from the night before and some cutoffs that seemed to be hanging on by one load-bearing thread. She stood there, examining me, brandishing a tattered stack of request lists and drinking something thick from a mug shaped like a cauldron. Her sexy gray eyes were just as frazzled as her hair. And as usual, she didn’t smile.
“Good morning, Nick.”
“Good morning, Ash.”
I waited for her to whisper,
Going somewhere?
Or perhaps crack me over the head with her cauldron, but she continued to watch me, completely relaxed in the silence. She took another sip from her cup. She did not ask how I slept.
“Want me to show you the back bar or the backdoor?”
Are you in or out?
I gave her the best grin that residual fear would allow.
She nodded and turned. Again, I heard the flutter of wings, and I followed her. God help me, I just couldn’t go back to Chowder Town. Not yet, at least.