by Andrew Nance
She pushed him back and brushed his lips with an index finger, holding it so he could see his blood there. She put her finger in her mouth, consuming what he bled. He moaned, and she delighted in his response.
She took his hand and pulled him before a full-size mirror. “See us?”
Staring at their reflection, he nodded. Her arms encircled one of his. They were stunning together. She was perfect, and he’d never noticed before, but he was good-looking, downright handsome as he stood at her side.
“That can be us always. All you have to do is say you’ll be mine forever.”
His head still woozy from their kiss, Demarius nodded. “I—”
He noticed movement to his right, quickly glanced over, and saw the old man with a hand on the boy’s shoulder. They stared at Demarius with pleading eyes; the boy subtly shook his head. Demarius turned his gaze back to the mirror.
“Will—”
What had gone on before, what would happen later, didn’t matter. Having the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen was the only important thing. He gazed spellbound at her reflected beauty and the erotic promise in her smile.
“Stay with—”
He stared harder and breathed in her perfume.
“You—”
He felt drunk from the fragrance.
“For—”
Something cut through her sweet smell and assaulted his nose like a fart in church.
“For—”
The odor was terrible. Through sheer force of will, he looked from her mirror image to her. He tried to shout, to scream, but all he managed was a guttural sound. The lips that he’d kissed seconds before had turned into a festering mouth ravaged with sores. He tried pulling from her grasp, but Narcissa, now a tangle of putrid flesh and white bones, gripped his arm tighter.
“Kiss me!” she gurgled.
“NO!” he shrieked, and yanked himself free.
Laughing, she cooed appreciatively at her reflection and patted her hair with a skeletal hand, not seeming to notice when clumps fell to the floor. In the mirror was a remarkably beautiful young woman, but the real her, the one he’d kissed, turned to him and the skin on her nose split, revealing cartilage and wet nasal passages.
He screamed shrilly and snatched the candle from the table as he ran past to the hall. After only a few steps, he tripped and fell. The candle landed in front of him and went out. He choked back another scream. In the dark, too scared to move, he listened. There was no sound of pursuit, no noise at all, except for his rapid breathing. Reaching out hesitantly, he felt along the floor, retrieved his candle, and relit it with shaking hands. Except for himself, the hallway was deserted. He pushed himself up and felt something in his mouth. He held up a hand and spat it out. It looked like a grain of plump rice. Had he eaten rice at that Italian restaurant? He didn’t think so. Staring harder, he figured out what it was when it wiggled. He gagged and ran down the hallway so fast the candle went out.
Even so, he didn’t slow.
Millie ran it through her head again. When she had finished reading Lucinda’s self-writing story, Mr. Tremblin had changed. It was like Wade had written in his book—the writer and Daemon Hall became one. They all ran from Tremblin, of course. One second she held Wade’s hand; the next, she grasped air. She didn’t know where she was, but stumbled against a chair and sat. Millie called out. No one answered, and she lit the candle Wade had given her. She’d somehow made it back to Daemon’s study. There was a squeak-creak from above, and she tried to convince herself that it was only the sound of the old house settling. When it came again, she admitted it sounded more like a rope from which something heavy was suspended. She refused to look up, knowing she’d see Mr. Daemon swinging like a pendulum. She sat unmoving, rooted by fear—the high-octane variety.
Someone screamed. It was distant and sounded like it came from one of the floors below her. Her concern for her friends gave her the courage to move. She stood, picked up the Book of Daemon Hall, and without looking up, left the room.
She moved slowly to keep the candle lit, but that was okay because she didn’t know where to go. She decided to look in all the places they’d already been: the second-floor study, downstairs library, entrance hall, dining room, and kitchen.
She thought about Wade. Something was developing between them. He was handsome, white hair and all, as well as smart and funny. She had to admit another attraction was how damaged he was. He had anxiety attacks, had been shut away in a mental institution, and worst of all, had been permanently scarred by Daemon Hall. Why did that appeal to her? Then it hit her. It wasn’t what he’d been through—it was how he handled it. In spite of it all, he was, well, Wade. Most people would be a paranoid bundle of nerves. To survive all he had, and to be like he was, took more determination and bravery than she could imagine.
More desperate now to find Wade, all of them, Millie rushed down the hallway, passing the master bedroom suite. Cornelia’s door was open to a dark still room. The twins’ door was closed, and when she stepped by, she heard a click. She abruptly stopped—from the corner of her eye she saw the door swing half open.
Standing across the hall, she called, “Is someone there? Wade?”
She heard a rhythmic slapping that took her back to childhood, when she would kneel while facing her best friend, Chloë Jenkins, and recite,
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man.
Bake me a cake as fast as you can.
Pat it and roll it and mark it with a “B”
and put it in the oven for baby and me.
They’d quickly moved on to the more complicated rhythms of claps and slaps, which opened up a whole new vista of creative rhymes.
I’m a little hottie, of that there is no doubt.
All the boys at my school, would like to ask me out.
Another came to her.
One bright day in the middle of the night,
two dead boys got up to fight.
Back to back they faced each other,
drew their swords and shot each other.
A deaf policeman heard the noise
and ran to save the two dead boys.
And if you don’t believe it’s true,
ask the blind man—he saw it too.
Two dead boys? Her thoughts were interrupted by two young voices reciting with the hand-clap rhythm.
I am outside playing, running with my pup
Mommy is upon the porch, calling me to sup.
“Mother, may I stay out, play a little more?”
“Just a few more minutes, then come in through this door.”
Millie took a step closer, holding out her candle.
Later, Mommy strokes my cheek, says, “It’s time for bed,”
I yawn and nearly fall asleep when pillow meets my head.
Mother starts a story with, “Once a beanstalk grew,”
But I’m fast in slumber land before the story’s through.
Millie used her toe to push the door fully open. The room was filled with sharp-edged shadows. Her candle illuminated the Daemon twins, pale and listless, kneeling on a round carpet in the center of the room, joylessly beating out rhythms on their chests, thighs, and hands.
Something wakes me later, something that sounds near.
I tiptoe quietly down the hall so Mommy will not hear,
Slipping out the front door, into the midnight dew,
greeting the town’s children, out in a dark night blue.
Someone leads us dancing, to that tall black tree,
and we climb like monkeys, laughing merrily.
Halfway up that tall black tree we find a big, wide crack,
and we climb inside the tree into a darkness black.
Millie gasped. Earlier they’d discussed the mystery of the children who vanished hundreds of years ago from the little village that was built upon Oaskagu. Somehow she knew that was what the dead twins chanted about.
Deep inside the tree now, no longer having fun.
W
e cry and scream and can’t get out, there’s nowhere we can run.
I wish I hadn’t snuck out, I’m sorry that I came,
there’s something creeping closer now, it’s calling me by name.
Their final clap came with the last word. Millie stared, mesmerized.
“It’s calling me by name,” they repeated, and turned to her. “It’s calling YOU by name.” Each lifted a hand in perfect synchronicity to point at her. “Millie!”
She fled down the hallway, not daring to slow even when she dropped her candle.
Millie wondered how long she’d been inside Daemon Hall. It seemed forever. But how could you measure the passage of time when it kept speeding up? Since they had gone way back to 1933, did that mean they’d spent decades in Daemon Hall? Or should they judge by how time passed for them, which she figured could be measured in hours? That seemed more plausible, considering she hadn’t had a thing to eat since the restaurant and was just starting to feel hunger. Her friends would be hungry too, she thought, concerned for their well-being. She was particularly worried about Matt. He was the youngest and had been the most frightened. She walked faster, knowing that all she could do was search.
She ached, knowing she must have some impressive bruises. After her encounter with the twins, she’d been so frightened that she’d run blindly. During her flight she ran into a wall, bouncing back like she’d hit a vertical trampoline. At least it brought her to her senses. By that time she was lost. Still was. Nothing seemed familiar. She didn’t even know what floor she was on. Was it still the third? She couldn’t remember stairs, but then she didn’t recall much from her panicked dash. Through it all she’d miraculously managed to hang on to the Book of Daemon Hall. She kept mainly to the hallways. Her eyes adjusted enough that she could see for a couple of feet, but when she looked into doorways as she passed, the rooms were too dark to see inside. More than once Millie wondered if her heart had stopped when the twins screamed her name and she was now a ghost wandering Daemon Hall forever. Where were her friends? She called out Wade’s name, but the house absorbed her voice.
She turned a corner and saw a glimmering light, a candle held chest high. Her initial reaction had been to run and see who it was, but after her playdate with the twins, she’d be extracautious. She started for the candle. Keeping her eyes on the diminutive flame, she stubbed her toe on a short flight of four stairs—the hallway rose here. Slowly ascending, she realized the candle wasn’t chest high, but on the floor, and she could discern a figure lying next to it.
“Hello?” she called softly, noticing that her voice quavered. The figure didn’t answer, and she took a couple more steps. “It’s me, Millie.”
“Muhhhh,” was the reply.
“Are you okay?”
“Noooooo.”
Millie stopped a second. “Wade?” She rushed over, knelt beside him, and put down the Book of Daemon Hall. His candle had been set in a glob of wax but looked ready to topple. Millie picked it up, dripped more wax, and reseated it. “Wade? Can you hear me?”
He looked terrible. He lay on his side, hugging his knees. His body twitched; his eyes darted back and forth. A white froth leaked from his mouth.
“Wade? Can you hear me? I’m right here.”
“Muhhhh—Millie?”
Relief flowed through her. “I’m here.” She stroked his cheek. “You’re not alone.”
“Nuhhh ’lone. I was wuh-worried about you—scared for you.”
“Shhh, I’m okay. Is it an attack, Wade? Are you having a panic attack?”
He twitched on the floor. “Buh—bad one.”
Millie started to tell him to let the attack run its course, but it was obvious that his fits were painful and frightening. Other than a theory based on ancestral superstition, what reason did she have to ask that of him? But even now, full of doubt, it seemed right. She’d always been intuitive, and her instinct still said Wade should seek a vision. Knowing it would haunt her forever if something happened to him, she said, “Wade, don’t fight it.”
“Wha—”
“Remember what I said earlier? How the Nanticoke honored those who had attacks like you’re having.”
“Yuh—yes.”
“They had visions, epiphanies. I know you hate it by how hard you fight, but if somehow there was a chance it could help us, wouldn’t it be worth it?”
Wade struggled to look at her. “Nuh worth it.”
“I know some of the old Native American beliefs can seem strange. But what if there’s something to them, what if they were right about having visions? I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it might help.”
Wade shook his head violently. “Can’t!”
“Wade, you can. There’s a big connection between where we are, in Daemon Hall—on Oaskagu—and my people. Don’t fight it, don’t stop it. You might see a way out. I’ll be here, Wade. I’ll watch over you and keep you safe.”
For a moment his shaking stopped and his eyes turned up to her. He gave an almost imperceptible nod and shut his eyes. The trembling renewed. Spasms that originated deep inside him multiplied until he was vibrating on the floor.
Anxiety attacks are a paradoxical circle. Sufferers are scared of them, yet they’re sometimes triggered by the fear of having one. My therapist says for most people, they begin subtly and build from there. I’ve had those wimpy starters, but mostly I’m blindsided. They come out of nowhere and strike me like a city bus doing fifty-five.
I remembered Millie reading Lucinda’s perverse story, followed by Ian Tremblin not knowing the password, which of course meant he wasn’t really Ian Tremblin. He came after us; we ran. I held tight to Millie, but not tight enough. Daemon Hall was good at separating people and getting them alone. Though terrified for myself, I worried more about my friends, and agonized over Millie’s safety. I wandered, not quite blindly, thanks to my little candle, when all at once it felt like I got sucker punched. Wheezing for air, I was burning up, perspiring heavily, and then the chills started. I fell, shivering in a vise of pain and fear. My candle rolled against the wall, nearly dying. Even in the throes of a strong attack, I managed to pick up the candle and stick it in wax that had spilled.
I’d discovered that if I could keep everything outside of me from having any influence, then I could concentrate on fighting my way out of an attack from within. To do that, I shut down my senses until it was only me, safely tucked into my subconscious cocoon. I didn’t hear, see, feel, taste, or smell anything. Then something on the outside made it through to the inner me. I pushed my way to consciousness, which was like floating up through gradually thinning smoke, until I saw Millie kneeling over me.
She asked something crazy of me and stroked my face. I did what she wanted; I let the attack come on full force. I sank into the inner me again, but it was different this time; I was standing in the dark somewhere in my subconscious. It seemed real. Two objects glowed in a haze before coming into focus. One was a tree that had a dark radiance, and it grew so high I couldn’t see the top. Straight ahead, a good distance away, was Millie. A whitish glimmering surrounded her. She stared at me as she lifted a bow and arrow. She pulled back the bowstring and shot the arrow straight at me. Though fear or panic would have been appropriate emotions, all I felt was bewilderment as the arrow flew at my heart.
I opened my eyes and gazed up at Millie. My head in her lap, she massaged my temples while singing a wordless tune that sounded Native American.
“Hi,” I croaked.
“Wade? How do you feel?”
“Like I went through a wood chipper.”
“Is it over?”
“Yeah.”
Her fingers went to work on my temples. “Well? Did you—you know—”
“Have a vision?” I sat up and gave her a weak smile.
She looked at me with wide-eyed wonder. “Really?”
“Really.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw you shoot a bow and arrow.”
“I did w
hat?”
“Actually, you shot me with the bow and arrow.” I went on to tell her everything I’d envisioned.
She took my hand. “You know how crazy that was?”
“I know.”
“I’d never hurt you. I like you—I like you a lot.”
It was a good thing I was already sitting; otherwise, that admission would’ve knocked me to the ground. “It’s just something I saw in my head during a panic attack.”
“Yeah.”
“And I like you, too.”
We stared at each other, grinning like idiots.
“I’m sorry I asked you to do that.”
“Just a dream,” I repeated.
“I was so worried about you.” Millie’s voice broke. She threw her arms around my neck and hugged me.
“I was scared for you, too.”
We pulled apart.
“The others,” she said.
I nodded, getting to my feet. “Let’s find them.”
My stub of a candle provided our light. I took my wallet and flipped it open. I used wax to attach the candle to one side, then held up the other to act as a wind guard. Millie carried the Book of Daemon Hall.
“Where are we?” she asked. “I mean in time. When are we?”
“The way night and day keep racing by, I’d say decades have passed.”
We emerged from a hall onto the second-floor landing. I sat on the top step.
“Wade? We don’t have time to rest.”
“No, I have to tell the last story, ‘The Leaving.’” I patted the floor beside me. “After I make a confession to you.”
She sat and put the book on my lap. “Confession?”
I took a deep breath. “Whatever shows up in here”—I tapped the book—“won’t be anything I wrote.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I didn’t write a story.”
“What?”
I stared at the floor since I couldn’t look her in the eye. “I lied to you, to Ian Tremblin, to everybody. Mr. Tremblin gave me the title, yeah, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with anything. I should have told the truth earlier, but each time I lied, it got harder to ’fess up. I’m sorry, Millie.”
