“A woman. Young. Beautiful. As I was, as I have been so, so many times, as I will be again.”
“Yeah…look, I need a drink….”
There was a bottle of whiskey in the bottom drawer of the desk. If he could get that, pour it on the—
“Damn!” said Jordan, finally processing what he’d just heard. “You’re a woman!”
“So observant,” said Ozymandias.
Jordan stared at her.
“Get me what I need! If you will not do as I ask…”
She raised her hand, made a claw with her fingers, and began to whisper. At the first word, a violent pain struck Jordan in the chest. He gasped and staggered forward, clutching at the edge of the desk to keep himself upright.
“No…no…I’ll do it,” he gasped. “An extra, like Sorenson, no problem! I’ll call one in!”
Ozymandias lowered her hand. Now he was closer, he could somehow see her more clearly, as if she couldn’t be bothered doing whatever had clouded his vision before. She was no longer a middle-aged, unobtrusive man but an ancient, a crone aged and fierce, like one of the witches from Macbeth. A good version, not the one Pharos did in ’26.
“I got to call, get someone sent…,” whispered Jordan, pointing at the telephone on the desk. “And about that drink…”
“No drink,” said Ozymandias. She gestured for him to pick up the telephone. It was a new one, not the old candlestick he’d had for years, this had the single handpiece.
Jordan laid his .45 on the desk and picked up the telephone, his mind still furiously trying to figure out what the hell he could do. He could indeed have an extra sent over, but she…she would get eaten, all those little mouths chewing…
He could shoot himself, he realized suddenly. Ozymandias would get away, but she wouldn’t get another victim. Not from the studio.
There was a voice on the line.
“Mr. Harper?”
Not the studio operator, as he’d expected. It was Mrs. Hope.
“Yes,” he said dully, looking at the .45. “Look, I—”
“Silver will do it,” said Mrs. Hope.
“Uh…I need an extra sent over,” mumbled Jordan. He fumbled at his waistcoat pocket, feeling for the five-franc piece. “A young woman.”
There was no one on the other end of the line. Mrs. Hope had hung up.
“Hurry up,” ordered Ozymandias. She reached inside her robe and drew out a small ivory or bone paint box, flipping it open. The horrible, sweet scent rose from the paint inside, making Jordan gag.
She took out a brush and lifted it to her mouth, her ghastly mouth, and sucked the bristles to a point.
“The best looker on the lot,” said Jordan, still talking into the phone.
“Hurry!”
Jordan dropped the telephone, swept up the .45 in his right hand, and lunged forward with his left, shoving the five-franc piece against Ozymandias’s eye with thumb and forefinger, the pistol up close but not touching.
Her hand came up, fingers clawing, but he fired swiftly. One shot, blasting almost half an ounce of fine silver at 835 feet per second into the sorcerer’s head.
* * *
Mrs. Hope came in a minute later, and bound up the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He’d shot off the top joints of both, but he figured it was worth it.
“There’s whiskey in the bottom drawer,” he said. “We got to burn the body. And those paints. Here. Not touching either.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hope. She didn’t say anything about the imminent loss of studio property. She just got the whiskey bottle out and splashed the spirit liberally over the strangely shrunken body of Ozymandias.
“There’s more whiskey in the sitting room—” Jordan started to say.
“I know. I’ll get it,” replied Mrs. Hope.
Jordan walked slowly to the door, cradling his hand. He watched her go and come back, bearing two opened bottles of his precious Old Overholt rye. She poured one on the body, making Ozymandias’s crumpled whites sodden with alcohol, and with the other bottle filled the paint box to the brim and let the whiskey flow over, to spread across the papers on the desk.
“I got a couple of questions I wouldn’t mind asking you, Mrs. Hope,” said Jordan, handing her his Zippo as they both stepped back from the office door.
“Only two?” she replied gravely, flipping the wheel. The flame came at once.
Jordan nodded. He reached into his pocket and drew out two cigars, pulling the cellophane off with his teeth, handing one to Mrs. Hope.
“Two for now,” he said, puffing on the cigar she lit for him. “Maybe another one later.”
Mrs. Hope got her cigar actually flaming, fortunately with no aficionados there to watch.
“I can’t promise any answers,” she said. “On three?”
Jordan nodded.
“One…two…three.”
The cigars flew across the room. There was the flash of blue flame, and the sudden heat. Mrs. Hope shut the office door behind them, and when they got outside, Jordan shut the main door to the bungalow and locked it.
They walked along the path side by side, close, but not touching.
“We must get you to Dr. Schenck, and make sure our fire department contains, but does not swiftly put out, our lovely fire,” said Mrs. Hope.
“Yes,” said Jordan slowly. He stopped and turned to look at Mrs. Hope.
She stopped, too, and looked at him.
“Well, Mr. Harper?”
“How did you know, Mrs. Hope? About the silver?”
“I make it my business to know everything needful in this studio,” said Mrs. Hope lightly.
Jordan raised an eyebrow, inviting more. Mrs. Hope hesitated before continuing, her voice very low and confidential, kept close between the two of them.
“Like you, I have had other work, other lives, before I came here. And I also fought in a war. Not your war—one no history book will ever recount and few living folk could speak of.”
Jordan nodded slowly.
“There are more things in heaven and earth—”
“Precisely,” said Mrs. Hope. “And your second question?”
Jordan hesitated. He had been going to ask about the razor but reconsidered. There were far more important things, after all.
“Is there actually a Mr. Hope, Mrs. Hope?”
“Not yet,” replied the most efficient secretary.
ALTERED BEAST, ALTERED ME
John Langan
From Patch.com | Arts & Entertainment
Carmilla’s to Close
Local museum unable to meet challenge of falling ticket sales and rising costs.
By Carson Roget, Patch Staff | October 1, 2018 12:03 pm ET
After more than a quarter century terrifying children and adults, Carmilla’s Children of the Night, one of Stoughton’s oldest continuing attractions, will be closing for good the week after Halloween. According to owner-operator Steven Barlow, a continuing drop in attendance over the last several years, combined with escalating rent and other costs, has made maintaining the museum impossible. “To tell the truth,” he said via phone this morning, “I’ve been putting more into the place than I’ve been getting out of it for the last five years. I’m at the point I’m broke. Actually, I’m broker than broke. Everyone I know, I owe money to.”
An updated take on the classic wax museum, Carmilla’s focused on full-size replicas of famous vampires from page and screen. In just four hundred square feet, visitors to the museum came face-to-face with versions of Count Dracula starting with one based on Bram Stoker’s description in the original novel and proceeding through the various film incarnations of the vampire. Patrons also encountered other characters, from Count Orlok, the villain in F. W. Murnau’s famous silent film Nosferatu, to Bella Swan and Edward Culle
n of the Twilight series. In addition, Barlow stocked the museum with vampire-related memorabilia, including an original inscribed edition of Dracula, a copy of the script for the first Spanish-language Dracula film signed by its director, and several movie props.
All of it was not enough, though, to generate sufficient revenue to meet the museum’s mounting bills. “No one’s really interested in vampires anymore,” Barlow said. Over the summer, he approached Count Orlok’s Nightmare Gallery in Salem about the possibility of merging the two businesses, but their talks did not lead anywhere, and in the end, he decided to shutter Carmilla’s. “It’s time to put a stake in it,” he said with a laugh. Asked about his plans for the museum’s contents, Barlow answered that he’s planning to auction some of the more desirable pieces in the months ahead. “I have to do something about those debts,” he said.
from: Gaetan Cornichon
to: Michael Harket
date: October 31, 2018 10:34 PM
subject: Dracula Ring!
mth—
I took a look at the listings for the Carmilla’s auction and the guy put the Dracula Ring up for sale. He didn’t want as much as I expected, so I placed a bid. I was sure some film geek would swoop in to buy the thing at the last second, but no one did and the ring is now the property of moi (or will be once I pay for it, heh).
—gpc
from: Michael Harket
to: Gaetan Cornichon
date: November 1, 2018 10:26 AM
subject: Re: Dracula Ring?
gpc—
You mean this?
Dracula’s Ring
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
This article does not cite any sources. Please help improve this article by adding citations to reliable sources. Unsourced material may be challenged and removed. ( June 2010)
Dracula’s Ring refers to a costume prop first worn by the actor John Carradine when he played the role of Count Dracula in the 1944 film The House of Frankenstein. An invention of famed screenwriter Curt Siodmak, who came up with the movie’s story, the ring was intended to signal the Count’s aristocratic origins. (According to his memoir, Wolf Man’s Maker, one of Siodmak’s early versions of the story included a subplot centered on the ring, but it was cut from the script by screenwriter Edward T. Lowe Jr.) Subsequently, the ring became a part of the vampire’s regalia, and was worn by actors including Bela Lugosi, Christopher Lee, and Frank Langella. Supposedly, three copies of the ring were fashioned for House of Frankenstein and supplemented with others made for later films. Forrest Ackerman claimed to own one of the original three rings, although its authenticity was never verified. The copies that remain are in the hands of private collectors.
If so, then nicely done, Mr. Big-Time Horror Author! (And on Halloween, no less!)
—mth
from: Gaetan Cornichon
to: Michael Harket
date: November 1, 2018 4:30 PM
subject: Re: Dracula Ring!
That’s the one! (Sorry—I thought you were there when we went to Carmilla’s last summer. Weren’t you?)
from: Michael Harket
to: Gaetan Cornichon
date: November 1, 2018 4:43 PM
subject: Re: Dracula Ring?
I was—you must’ve looked at it when I was talking to the guy from Romania (remember, Mr. “This Is an Abomination”?).
Anyway—maybe now you’ll finally write the vampire story we’ve kicked around…
from: Gaetan Cornichon
to: Michael Harket
date: November 2, 2018 6:07 PM
subject: Vampire Story
Nah—I told you, the vampire thing is all yours.
from: Michael Harket
to: Gaetan Cornichon
date: November 4, 2018 10:12 AM
subject: Re: Vampire Story
I don’t know. A (maybe) vampire dad on the run with his (maybe) vampire son while they’re pursued by figures who could be either FBI agents or a group of modern-day Van Helsings? Come on—that ambiguous shit is right up your alley. Plus, I like the idea we start off thinking the two of them are in some weird version of The Road—moving only at night, along back roads, as if they’re the last survivors of some kind of apocalypse—and then we realize they’re the sole remaining (maybe) vampires left in a world of people hunting for them. And I love the late-night conversations where the dad is trying to explain their experiences as if the two of them are in fact undead, but the son isn’t completely convinced. Seems like it would be a good way for you to take the family thing you do in another direction, too. Not to mention, chase narratives are always fun.
I know you’re busy with the move, but once you’re settled in, you should jump on this.
from: Gaetan Cornichon
to: Michael Harket
date: November 5, 2018 7:19 PM
subject: Re: Vampire Story
The way I figure it, I’d wind up drawing on Porter’s and my relationship, and he’s already traumatized at having been a (thinly disguised) character in Split Rock. I don’t think he’d appreciate another appearance in one of his father’s novels this soon after the last…
And yeah, the move is all-consuming. At the moment, we’re painting. Leslie wants to do the walls in eggshell with black trim. She says the kids are old enough for us to have a house with white(ish) walls. I told her fine, but I’m painting my office red (still black trim, though). Oh, and there’s a wall I want to paint completely black. It’s on one side of the staircase up to the bedrooms. Technically, there are two flights of stairs. The first rises left six steps to a landing, then the second climbs right seven stairs to one end of a long balcony across almost the entire second story. The bedrooms and bathrooms are on the other side of the balcony. Obviously. This whole part of the house is open, with a chandelier hanging in the middle of the space. I think it would look really cool if we were to paint the wall on the left black. Leslie isn’t sure, but I’m working on her. Porter doesn’t care one way or the other, but Rosemary’s all in on it.
from: Gaetan Cornichon
to: Michael Harket
date: November 12, 2018 9:09 PM
subject: Housewarming Gift
Thanks for the presents! The fruit basket was waiting for the kids after school, and they fell on it like the wild beasts they are, devouring all the grapes, most of the pears, and a few of the apples before I got back from teaching. Fortunately, they didn’t eat the book you sent. Curt Siodmak’s memoirs, eh?
I don’t think you’ve seen my new author photo, so I’m attaching it. It’s kind of cheesy, but the ring was too cool a prop not to use.
Oh—and the black wall is a go!
from: Michael Harket
to: Gaetan Cornichon
date: November 13, 2018 9:45 AM
subject: Re: Housewarming Gift
Glad the fruit basket was a success. I thought the Siodmak might be of interest, given what it’s supposed to say about the origins of the Dracula Ring. (I should probably get a copy myself.)
I tried to open the photo, but it seems to have been too much for my antiquated computer to handle. (At eight years of age, it’s antediluvian.) I’m sure I’ll see the pic when you post it online.
And hurrah for the black wall!
from: Gaetan Cornichon
to: Michael Harket
date: November 13, 2018 7:49 PM
subject: Re: Housewarming Gift
Funny—my agent couldn’t open the attachment, either. Could be a problem on my end.
Things are pretty busy here. We’re rushing to complete as much on the house as we can before this big storm hits. Fortunately, all the painting’s done, including the wal
l. Still leaves a lot of little things…
from: Michael Harket
to: Gaetan Cornichon
date: November 14, 2018 10:01 AM
subject: Storm
Yes, winter storm Elizabeth: she’s supposed to dump eight to twelve inches of snow on us. I gather you guys are looking at more substantial amounts.
from: Gaetan Cornichon
to: Michael Harket
date: November 14, 2018 8:04 PM
subject: Elizabeth
We are—according to the latest weather reports, we could be on the receiving end of up to two feet of snow, plus fifty-mile-an-hour winds, and temperatures below minus twenty. Good times. Might be time for me to crack open the Siodmak book you sent.
from: Michael Harket
to: Gaetan Cornichon
date: November 15, 2018 7:01 AM
subject: Odd Dream
Apropos of nothing: I had the strangest dream about your Dracula Ring the other night. Maybe this’ll help pass a few minutes during the snowpocalypse.
It was one of those dreams you enter without realizing you’ve fallen asleep. I was in bed, lying (I thought) awake, Patty unconscious on her side of the bed, two of the dogs snoring between us. (It’s a good thing we have a queen-size.) The mattress shifted at my feet and when I looked to see if another dog was trying to join us, there you were, sitting on the end of my bed fully dressed, staring at the dormer window. Despite the room being dark, I could make out you wearing your Jaws 2 T-shirt, the one with the exaggerated shark crunching the helicopter, and a pair of black jeans. The Dracula Ring was on the middle finger of your right hand. There was a woman standing on the other side of you. At least, I think it was a woman; it could have been a mannequin. She was dressed in these gauzy clothes, like Dracula’s brides in the Coppola film, and as I watched, she removed a length of silk from around her shoulders and draped it over the back of your neck (which might have settled the human/mannequin question, except her movements were stiff, mechanical). Once the cloth settled on your skin, you brought your left hand to your mouth and bit into your index finger with such force I heard the bones crack. Blood, black in the night, rushed over your lips and chin, dribbled onto one end of the piece of silk. With a jerk of your head, you tore the index finger from your hand and spat it onto the floor, then attacked your middle finger with the same ferocity. There was blood all over your hand, all over your face; the silk was soaked with it. I could feel the astonishment, the horror written on my face. The woman-mannequin lifted her blank face to regard me. Her jaw creaking, she said, “He doesn’t need them. They’re just props.” When your teeth closed on your ring finger, I woke.
Final Cuts Page 35
