Forbidden

by Lori Adams

  “Cognitus interruptus, guys. Order something.”

  Nana James has been waiting patiently, so I order a basket of chicken fingers. Bailey elbows her way over and bellows obnoxiously, “Some dead livestock and heart-attack fries!” She grins at Rachel, who is wrinkling her nose. “Rach is turning into a veganazi.”

  “No I’m not,” Rachel says, and then orders a salad.

  “Personally, I refuse to participate in the slaughter of innocent fruits and veggies. Not like Duffy. He just loves his homegrown flora. Don’tcha?” Bailey swipes a french fry from his basket and they Lady-and-the-Tramp it, while everyone groans and looks away.

  “So, we’re on for tonight, right?” Jordan asks. “The party at Dante’s house?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Rachel says. “Bail and I already have our costumes! You should see us, Soph. We tried them on yesterday and we look hysterical!”

  Bailey bites off the fry and disconnects with Duffy. “Rach wanted to be a nurse so she bought one of those boring ol’ white outfits. But I went Project Runway all over her ass. Cut the skirt really short—Pussycat Doll short—and made her wear trashy fishnet stockings. We smashed a bloody cleaver into the nurse’s hat and we’re gonna drip blood all over it. Walking Dead meets Nurse Betty, ya know?”

  “Yeah, well.” Rachel squirms a bit, and I know she’s uncomfortable about her costume. She’s good-natured about this stuff and probably wearing it only to make Bailey happy. “The skirt’s not that short. Not like Bailey’s costume. You should see it, Soph. She’s Lady Gaga!”

  “Which means what?” Duffy says. “She’s wearing a meat dress, shoes she can’t walk in, and oversized sunglasses?”

  “It means I’m wearing spankies, a black bustier, and some sweet Pretty Woman prostiboots.”

  “Damn, girl.” Duffy snuggles closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

  “So what are you wearing?” Pacer asks, and Duffy shrugs.

  “Ah, hell, I’m thinking about wearing my birthday suit now,” he says, trying to weasel his way up Bailey’s blouse.

  “With that manscape you’re growin’?” She scoffs and pushes his hand down. “Quit procrasturbating and pick something already. You’re almost outta time. Party starts at midnight.”

  Our food arrives and I lean on my elbow, contemplating my chicken. Nobody is making a move toward their food, and I look up. Everyone is staring at me. “What?”

  “You’re going, right?” Pacer asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Bang goes that idea,” Bailey grumbles.

  “She has to go,” Jordan says to everyone, and then looks me dead in the eyes. “There’s no party unless she goes.”

  “I doubt that,” I say.

  “It’s true. I was hanging out with Dante last night and he said he’s not opening the door unless you’re there. Said you owed him one. Whatever that means.” He scoffs and rolls his eyes like he doesn’t get it. That makes two of us.

  I’m curious to know when Jordan and Dante became so tight, but then again, I don’t care to stick around and discuss their newfound bromance.

  I’ve lost my appetite so I slide out of the booth. “Sorry, guys. I’m not going tonight. But I’m sure if you show up, Dante will let you in.”

  *

  I am often amused by my own stupidity. I don’t have a legit reason to bail on everyone, and yet here I am doing my third set of crunches in front of the TV on Halloween night. It’s late and I’m still trying to burn off excess energy. I am the Biggest Loser.

  Dad has distributed our candy and is now playing Let’s see what else is on with the remote. I wish he’d go to bed. He looks exhausted.

  The doorbell rings, and Sundance erupts like Ferdinand the Bull stung by the bee. I swing open the door, and Bailey and Rachel stroll in.

  “Holy crap,” I say as they turn circles, giving me a three-sixty of their costumes. “You weren’t kidding! I wouldn’t recognize you guys.”

  “That’s the idea, cupcake. Now let’s vamoose.” Bailey starts up the stairs in her Spanx, thigh-high boots, red wig, and white sunglasses with wings.

  “Go where?”

  Rachel, who is covered in a bloody nurse costume and still manages to look adorable, says, “We need you to come to the party, just for a while.”

  “Duffy texted me,” Bailey says, turning on the landing. “Everybody is there but Dante won’t open up without you.” She gives me a meaningful look.

  “This is ridiculous,” I whine.

  “We know!” they say in unison.

  Rachel asks if I have some reason not to go, and I pop off, “No costume,” but then she holds up a long lavender dress and a flower wreath draped over her arm.

  “I wore it to last year’s Renaissance Faire. It should fit you.”

  *

  It’s simple yet elegant, and five minutes later I turn and scrutinize it in the mirror. Stretchable purple material with long, tight sleeves and a bodice that cuts straight across the chest, revealing the slight swell of my breasts and my shoulders. It’s tapered into a drop waist with a long, flowing skirt that is sure to disagree with my feet.

  “It’s fine, but I’m not staying long, right? I’ll just get you guys in, and then I’m leaving.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Rachel breathes out. “Wonder how come it didn’t look that good on me?”

  “Uh, maybe because Sophia has boobies,” Bailey says and then chucks a pair of satin slippers at me. “I still say it would look better with a hatchet in her back.” She pops her gum and searches around for something sharp to bloody up.

  I sweep back a thin section of hair and work it into a delicate Juliet braid, which looks like a string of tiny hearts resting on the hair cascading down my back. Rachel places a whimsical wreath on my head. It has tiny white rosebuds, and two white ribbons flowing down. I scrunch my face; it’s too much. I don’t want Dante to think I went to a lot of trouble. Rachel begs me to keep it on so I do, for her.

  Bailey hoists herself up to wobble on six-inch heels, and says, “Well, girls, we’re off like a prom dress,” and we traipse down the stairs.

  I feel bad about leaving Dad, so I stop in the doorway and tell him to please get some sleep. His eyes shift from a car commercial to me and register surprise at my transformation.

  “Don’t say a word,” I warn as he walks over. “I feel ridiculous enough.”

  “You look beautiful,” he says earnestly. “Just like … your mother.”

  I catch the compliment in the gut and don’t know how to feel. Dad looks lost in a memory, tears filling his eyes.

  I should stay here. What am I doing?

  “She’ll be home late,” Bailey says, leading me away before I can change my mind.

  I look over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of Dad. His face is sad and still with eyes like a watery grave.

  *

  The image of Dad is tearing at my heart. I’m shaking by the time I reach the jeep. I told the girls I wanted to drive myself to secure an early escape, so they get into Bailey’s car, and I sit behind the wheel with a death grip on the gearshift. Breathe, Sophia, just breathe. One last glance at the house, and then I pull out of the drive.

  We head out of town for several miles and then turn left on an unmarked dirt road. The forest is thick and aggressive, choking the narrow, winding road. Already dead like winter, scrub branches claw at the jeep as I bend around corners. Dry leaves flee across the road on a suicide mission beneath my tires, and clouds ghost across the moon for a perfect Halloween night.

  Two blazing torches rise in the distance and give the only sign of life. They mark the entrance to a long gravel drive that ends in front of a dark, monstrous mansion. The forest has been cut back to allow for the house and expanse of lawn but still hovers dark and ominous around the edges. The grounds are a few stark trees and dead yellow grass. A fistful of black crows hunches in the trees like a bad omen, and the gray branches wave like tentacles clawing at a witch’s moon.

  The mansio
n is three stories of high-pitched roof and dark gables—the Psycho house on steroids. Windows are elongated and numerous, but they’re blacked out and lifeless. Three stone steps to a wide slab of cement constitute the porch, and a bloodred door marks the entrance.

  I park next to Bailey and climb out. A knot of people is gathered out front; Dante is true to his word. The party won’t start without me, and this ignites my temper.

  The group turns as we approach, and Captain Jack Sparrow walks toward Bailey, eyeing her up and down. “Now that’s a figure of speech I’d like in my mouth.”

  Bailey flips her hair and saunters over, spicing it up. “Now that’s a typical Duff, forever with the premature articulation.”

  The other girls make snide comments about her slutty outfit, but Duffy says, “Hey, I’d hit that.”

  “In your dreams, Cap’n Crunch,” Bailey scoffs. She looks up at the house and I know she is anticipating seeing Vaughn.

  Looks like everyone is here, somewhere beneath their costumes of pirate, cowboy, English cop, one-third of the Three Musketeers, Freddy Krueger, Zorro, Bride of Frankenstein, Janis Joplin, Dorothy from Kansas, bloody nurse, Lady Gaga, and angry Renaissance girl.

  Strobe lights flash behind the windows, and a deep swell of music rattles the panes. Sarah Cooley—Dorothy—says, “I think since Sophia made us wait out in the cold, she should go knock on the door.” We exchange snarky looks.

  Bailey says, “Cut the shit, Cooley. Somebody go knock on the damn door. I’m freezing my ass off.”

  Jordan the Leerer, behind the Zorro mask, steps onto the porch and announces, “I’ll take care of this,” like he’s bringing down a buffalo or something. He bangs on the door, and we wait.

  Holden the Cowboy says, “I don’t think they can hear us.” The music swells inside, and Janis Joplin by-way-of Harper Rose says, “Wicked tune. Anybody know it?”

  “Saints of Los Angeles,” I answer on reflex. Steve always made us listen to glam metal. Mötley Crüe is his favorite. I cross my arms and look at my mix of friends and think, How ironic.

  The large red door opens on its own and releases a blast of screeching guitars, angry drums, and screaming vocals. We file through the door and into electronic flashing and violent lyrics.

  The music is overpowering and vibrating my breastbone. The room is stifling despite its enormity. It is cavernous, eerie, and layered with green smoke—not fog—that seeps from the floorboards. There is a black wrought-iron chandelier with dead candles leaking more smoke, like it’s their only talent. Hanging from the rafters are several bloody corpses in tattered clothes. Black Corinthian columns line the room and support the open second floor. Dark figures ghost from one end of the balcony to the other, wailing and moaning in agony.

  The fireplace at the end of the room is a gaping mouth with a blazing wall of yellow flames. Next to it, on a raised dais, is the rock band grinding out music.

  We shuffle forward as a tight group, the strobe light making our movements appear twitchy. We stop in the middle of the huge mansion, and an odd but familiar scent of burnt cinnamon invades my nose and settles on my tongue. The smoke is thick but lacks its usual effect. No one is coughing.

  The band jams with amazing talent and we listen in awe. The five members are dressed in black with white faces. The exception is the lead guitarist and vocalist. His black pants and long-sleeved shirt are lined with the sun-bleached bones of a skeleton. It’s Santiago with blackened eyes and peroxide-tipped hair. His fingers are spiders viciously crawling over strings and frets. He is screaming a violent welcome, and we stare and wait until the music dies out. No one applauds, and the silence is nearly as deafening as the music was.

  Santiago sets his guitar aside and steps from the stage. He stands above us in a solid posture with feet apart. He raises his arms and conjures up ominous organ music from the bones of the house. Very Phantom of the Opera–esque. The music swells like a wave, and then screams and wails of terror override it. Bailey and Rachel clutch my arms, and Bailey whispers, “Holy hell!” because she is jumpy with excitement. Her eyes track along the balcony and then she elbows me, and I look up.

  Several human-like gargoyles have come to perch on the balustrade like vultures on a fence. They have red eyes with sleek black bodies and black wings. Giant talons where fingers and toes should be curl around the wood. Their eyes dart and their heads cock like a bird.

  A ribbon of panic flutters through me, my intuition screaming for me to run. But I ignore it. After all, they can’t be real, right? Just really, really good special effects. Right?

  Rachel is making weird explosive sounds every time she sees something creepy. I give her the eye, and she whispers, “I’m dropping the F-bomb!” We interlock arms in a desperate show of solidarity. More blood-curdling screams, and we flinch in unison.

  The smoke wafts around our knees like London fog, and the spicy scent seems to have intensified. It makes my head feel heavy and woozy. I have to fight to stay focused.

  The organ music fades and there is another moment of quiet before the front door slams, locking us in. We collectively jump and turn toward it. Dante, Wolfgang, and Vaughn appear on the massive staircase that snakes up the north side of the room. Dante is wearing a black peasant shirt, black riding pants, and tall black boots. The only things missing are the horse and whip. For some reason, the look seems natural and familiar to me, like I’ve seen him wearing this before.

  Wolfgang and Vaughn are skeletons, like Santiago, with bones that glow in the murky light. All three descend slowly, and Dante spreads his arms.

  “Welcome to our haunted house, where all your demons come true!” They laugh deeply and secretively, though none of us do.

  Dante tucks his hands behind him and strolls around, assessing our costumes with appreciation. “Oooo, very motley, this crew.” He laughs congenially and then stops before me and becomes sober.

  “Buonasera, cara mia.” He kisses the back of my hand.

  Despite how freaked I am about the effects and his familiar look, I get right to the point. “I don’t like being manipulated, Dante.”

  He smiles and says, “Nobody ever does.” We stare until I remember how handsome he is, how his faint green eyes and salacious grin make me numb inside. When I blink and look away, Dante throws back his head and laughs. I’m horrified to be blushing. “Just look at you,” he continues once he’s settled down. He takes in the lavender dress and wreath. “I cannot describe how beautiful you look. And we selected the same period in time. It was a great century, no?” He is wistful and dreamy and looking deep into my eyes. I feel swept up by a sense of déjà vu. There is a memory on the tip of my brain but I can’t … quite … reach it.

  Lizzanne, in her ravishing Bride of Frankenstein costume, slides her pale thin hand into the crux of Dante’s arm and croons, “This is a dance party, right?” She is the sexiest ghoul that ever lived.

  Dante pats her hand and gives me a dark grin, letting me know I was a fool for dumping him. He turns to his guests and announces, “My home is yours. There is alcohol to your right, music to your left, and death all around.” He nods to Vaughn, who thrusts open two side doors. “Before the dancing begins, we’ll have some games, a few ‘intrigues’ from the old country. Please follow me.”

  The others shuffle into the next room while I hang back. The house is dark and shadowy, and I’ve lost sight of the front door so I maneuver precariously through the smoke in search of my escape hatch. I am stopped by a mountain.

  Wolfgang is looking more nefarious than usual, like maybe he ate a plague for lunch. With beefy skeleton arms crossed over his chest, he stares down at me.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  I step back to look up at him. “Listen, Mount Macho, I’m leaving. I don’t have to stay the entire night.”

  “You’re not leaving.” He smiles without any humor. “In fact, I bet you don’t ever leave here.”

  I demand to know what he means but he won’t say, a
nd then Rachel is beside me, begging me to stay longer. I don’t want to stay, but I don’t want to leave my friends here with that glint in Wolfgang’s eyes.

  Overhead, the gargoyles screech, so Rachel and I look up. Our jaws drop; the creatures have gotten loose and are clawing the air. They launch themselves from their perches, wings snapping open as they dive down. Their jaws elongate and their fangs drip some ectoplasmic drool. Talons reach out like hooks and Rachel and I scream, grab each other, and take off running. We burst into the side room where the others have gathered, and slam the doors behind us. There is a crumpled bang on the other side, and I imagine the gargoyles collapsed in a heap.

  Vaughn is applauding and laughing hysterically.

  “Your idea?” I growl at him. “Very lifelike.”

  He bows like it was a compliment. “You have no idea.”

  “Good, then. We are all safely inside.” Dante shoots Vaughn a disapproving look, and then returns his attention to the crowd. “Now, about these intrigues. The object of the game is to … well, to save your souls, of course,” he says with a light chuckle, and then explains that no souls were harmed in the making of the haunted house. Everybody gives a complimentary laugh. We are clueless.

  Dante’s face is alight with mischief, and I think he’s never looked more striking. He is in his element and seems almost giddy to have us here. This alone worries me more than any special effects.

  “Now, you may go in groups or pairs or individually, depending upon your level of bravery. Each of you is allowed three souls.” Dante snaps his fingers and a dark monklike figure appears from the shadows. A black hood hides most of his face, but a white chin with crude stitching hints at a Frankenstein motif. He is holding a black cauldron. Dante reaches in and pulls out a small metal cross. “Your soul,” he says, holding up the cross. “You must navigate a labyrinth of five events or intrigues and return here with as many souls as possible. If you do not care for a particular intrigue, you may forfeit a soul to the soul catcher.” He nods toward pasty face. “Then you shall pass through to the next intrigue. If you are helped by someone in your group, you must forfeit a soul to them. Understand?” The group nods, and then Rachel timidly raises her hand.