She spun on her heels, noting Bruno's car parked near the walk.
As growls and hisses sounded once more, she darted up front steps, and with shaking hands she unlocked the door, slamming it behind her, quickly bolting it. She raced up the stairs, passed by Bruno's room, heard a TV humming from inside. Another wave of dizziness struck her, and a howl sounded from outdoors.
Can they get inside, tear through the partitions—the roof?
Shivering, she moved to a curio, leaned against it, bracing herself for a moment, and then continued to walk toward her room.
Once inside her bedroom, Diana pulled down the shades, and turned up the TV. The sound silenced roars, thunder and rain. She collapsed on the bed, head spinning, heart thudding. “What the fuck was all that?”
A bottle of pills on her nightstand caught her attention. She sighed, “Took too many pills, and I drank too much wine. Real smart, Diana.” She bit her lip. “I'll never go back there again. My father will probably commit me to Bellevue."
Now her eye throbbed with piercing agony, and dark shapes circled her; black-clad women, with fanged teeth—robbed beings with demon eyes. They reached for her with bony fingers, extending blood-tipped claws. “You’re not real,” she whispered, and then she closed her eyes, feeling feathery fingers on her face, unintelligible ghost whispers swirled inside her head, and gradually she drifted to another place.
Tyler’s voice came to her, sounding like music in a dream, blending with the storm, and thunderous cries of the dead. “Diana…time’s running out.”
19.
Dreams colored with images from Tyler’s paintings visited: Hotel LaNeau and an angry sea where creatures reached upward with spiraling antennae. An orange and white cat sat in a tree by the hotel, flicking its tail, twitching silvery whiskers. It purred softly when a procession of vehicles surrounded the hotel. People streamed from cars and vans, carrying bloody sacks, heaving massive chests. They fell to their knees, their voices rising and falling as snow covered them, clasping their hands…as though they worshipped the LaNeau. A huge wildcat manifested atop the LaNeau, its roar deep and ghastly.
“Our God,” screamed the crowd of supplicants.
Diana's eyes shot open when the floor creaked, and someone whispered, “They came from the sea and the forests…and they are the Gods and Goddesses of olden times…”
Tyler walked toward her, smiling. He stopped, shifted his weight to his left foot, and then put his hands on his waist. He stood over her, swaying back and forth. His tattooed arms were slick with sweat. Beads of perspiration shone on his forehead. He gritted his teeth, and then leaned close to her. Spit dribbled down his chin, and blood trickled from his eyes.
In previous dreams of Tyler she'd felt no threat, but this time fright filled her; as though he'd brought something evil and murderous with him. Her gaze flicked to the door, she considered running for it, screaming at the top of her lungs.
Tyler smiled sadly. "Don't be afraid. I didn't come back to scare you."
She fought fear, told herself drugs and drink had caused the illusions earlier, now they'd invaded her sleep. Yet she was compelled to ask, “You're back. How?"
He shifted his weight again, thought for a moment. "I never left. The creatures removed the bullet. I'll show you." He lifted his shirt. Bone and dried blood glistened.
"My God, Tyler. What creatures are you talking about?"
"We conjured them. Don’t you remember? But it comes with a price." He smiled slyly.
"What price?"
"Ever wonder what happens to the women who disappear? And how many bodies have the police found?" He wiped sweat from his flesh with a fingertip. He flinched as though in pain.
"What women? What did you do, Tyler?"
"They’re from everywhere—all over the world. I killed some, but not all." He laughed smugly. "Nicky has a talent for convincing others to kill, to torture. Remember what happened in Boston?”
“You’re fucking with my head—with my dreams,” she said bitterly.
“I’m telling you the truth.” Tyler put a finger to his cheek, tipped his head. "Not all stay dead for long. Some are turned into the beings you saw. They’ve stayed here on the bay, working mundane jobs, living ordinary lives—but they shapeshift into beautiful creatures, and their deeds are ghastly once they’ve transformed. The old ones travel the country year-round, setting up macabre carnivals, luring people inside tents—taking lives—and souls. And they come back here every winter to worship that place on the hill…” He waved his hand. “Things get fucked up once in a while, and you can't save them all. The ruined bodies are offered to the survivors. Saw it happen a couple of times, used to watch them eat. It was horrible."
"I don't understand." Confusion plagued her.
He held up his hand, "When things went right it was just awesome, and when we actually accomplished what we wanted—my God—such a rush."
"What did you accomplish?" She asked him.
He pointed to the window.
Diana looked to glass and snow falling; a face, half-human, half-feline stared back at her. It placed a hand on one of the panes. Bloody claws made scratching noises.
"I've seen them—dreamed them. They can't really be the result of something you guys did together,” she sobbed.
"Something we all did together. Look, your father has been at it a lot longer than any of us. Your mother was adept at potions, but your father…he fucks with things darker—scarier than you could imagine. That grimoire…it’s been in the Bernardo family for generations.”
“What are you saying. That my father is evil? No, this is just a dream.”
“He made so many people famous—so many deals. What the hell? You think it’s been luck—sheer talent?”
“Nicky is a good man with flaws…a decent human being.”
“Human might not be the right word, my love. And I think it's time to go." Tyler backed away toward the window. The creature punched glass, breaking the windowpane. Shards exploded, falling to the floor, onto bed sheets. Then the monster extended both arms, grabbed Tyler by the shoulders, tearing into flesh, pulling his body through broken glass. Blood mingled with rain, splattered onto the floor. The thing screeched, and it rose upward into the sky, clutching Tyler tight. And he screamed when inky clouds swallowed them up.
“Diana.” Her eyes flew open once more. Nicky stood above her. “Are you all right?"
She was still woozy, but her head pain had dissipated, and the waking dream had left her terrified. “What the hell are you doing here?"
“I was worried…the way you ran away. Everybody there was concerned.”
“I saw freaky shit. I thought you turned into a wildcat. My head, Dad, something bad is going down.”
“You should get back to the clinic tomorrow. I’ll have you flown out.”
She raised her hand, as though dismissing him. “I need to clean out Tyler’s things. Please give me that.”
He nodded slightly, said softly, “I’ll tell Bruno to stay close. I don’t want you alone should you have one of your spells.”
She rubbed a hand over her forehead. “And you’ve got a fucking nerve, coming here like this—into my bedroom— without knocking.”
"I knocked. You didn't answer. Bruno said you came in, went to your room. You're on strong meds. I was afraid for you. That's all."
"I can take care of myself. I needed a father a long time ago. Not now." Anger rose inside her.
"Come on. Let's get some coffee in you." He extended his hand to her.
She took his hand, realizing she loved him, despite his faults and past indifference. She allowed him to guide her from bed, feeling the warmth of his flesh, but despising him for his air of superiority, for the way he seemed to meddle in her life. Maybe Tyler would be alive if he'd stayed away, maybe her husband wouldn't have strayed from her. She'd sever her relationship with Nicky when the house sold, and Tyler's belongings were tended to. But now she'd tolerate him and his arrogance. She'd en
dure Talbot's Bay and its darkness, too.
20.
Diana saw her father out, relieved that caffeine had kicked into her system, and telling herself that it would be best to distance herself from Nicky once Tyler’s business had been settled. Now she’d take the time to pack important items, and get rid of everything else. She’d begin after another hot cup of coffee, and after taking a while to turn over past and recent events in her mind. She went to the living room, back to the couch, closing her eyes, allowing her thoughts to drift, remembering Tyler days before his death.
His face had been whitish and drawn. He’d nervously pace their apartment, chain-smoking, babbling to himself and writing uncontrollably on notepads.
When the phone rang, he spoke into it cryptically, softly. “I’ve got to go out for a while. Downtown. I'll get Bruno to drive me, take a bodyguard along, too,” he said when the call ended. “Hey, I’ve been thinking. Let’s take a drive to the bay in a few days. I want to clean out the attic at the old house, lots of shit I meant to take out of there, you know, journals, sketches, and photographs. Things just slip away sometimes.” He kissed her, and then shrugged, looking like a little boy. “What do you say?”
“Sure, sounds good.”
He tilted his head to the side, smiling sadly. “Anything can happen.” He slid on a knit hat, buttoned his coat and slipped out the door.
She’d gone to the clinic a few days after that, and then Tyler was gone forever.
“Tyler, what did you leave here?” Diana stood, and then she climbed two flights of stairs. She unlocked the attic door, pushed it open, greeted by darkness, and the faint smell of mothballs. She found a light switch by the door, flipped it, then gasped. “What a fucking mess.”
Boxes of vintage clothing were piled everywhere. Old feathered hats, rhinestone jewelry and painted music boxes lined shelves. Several odd masks lay in a corner, reminding Diana of illustrations she’d seen in books on magical practices. Painted cards had been scattered on a stained bureau. Old photograph albums lay on table tops, and on shelves, and loose snapshots lay on the floor; photos of Tyler as a child, holding a toy guitar, dressed in a cowboy suit. He smiled, innocent, unaware of the future in store for him, unaware of his untimely death.
Diana blew dust off one of the scrapbooks, then turned cobwebbed pages slowly, gazing at people dressed in dated clothing. They seemed so carefree, yet something unsettling lay beneath the surface of smiles and flashy clothes.
Tyler’s journals had been stacked in numerous cardboard boxes, mixed with books that told legends of Talbot’s Bay, and song lyrics scribbled on paper bound with ribbon. She arranged some of the paraphernalia in an empty box, bringing it down to the living room, hoping to find a clue to Tyler’s death.
She put a few books on the coffee table, then sorted through other treasures she’d found, making neat mounds on the floor by the fireplace.
“There’s so much more,” she said softly. She made her way back up to the attic, and surveyed the musty space.
She sorted through chests and surveyed shelves and tables, and of all the oddities there, a small wooden box drew Diana forward with what felt like magnetic energy.
A hauntingly beautiful face had been painted on its lid. It seemed to peer at her; white, with dark eyes rimmed with red. In small letters, scrawled in gold paint, her husband's signature glowed, catching light from a nearby window, moving like ocean waves, retreating, moving forward, and then gently swaying back and forth.
She touched the letters on the box, closed her eyes, saw Tyler signing his work. An image, blurry and transparent, suddenly appeared. The enigmatic woman in the wheelchair, floating toward her husband, dagger-like nails dripping with blood. Tyler knelt when she reached his side, and then she opened the folds of her cloak. It billowed, wrapped around Tyler, and then it consumed him. Diana ordered disturbing visions away.
“I need more coffee…some food—in a while though,” she whispered, and then tried to pry the cover open, but it wouldn’t budge. She felt heat, and energy seeping from within the object. Closing her eyes, she felt the familiar throbbing, and then somebody whispered, "Welcome."
The lid suddenly sprung open. Smoky tendrils drifted from within.
She looked inside the container. Women danced before an archway. Images of wildcats and other animals were etched on the stone portico. Coffins creaked open, skeletons leapt out, sailing toward a wicked moon. A face appeared in the luminary, bearing pointed teeth. The women changed as they moved closer to the box's opening—lovely, feline-like and terrifying. Fiery eyes flashed, and fangs protruded from bloody lips. Lions, tigers and panthers jumped in unison toward her, growling and hissing as they sped past, then vanished into smoke. That vision dissipated, and then another manifested, revealing a woman standing in front of an ornate mirror. Terror etched across the girl’s face when the mirror exploded, and bloody slivers fell to her feet. Then the LaNeau appeared, and people circled it, raising their arms in reverence, as though they served a holy idol.
Whispers taunted her once more. "Welcome home, Diana."
“Not real,” she screamed, then with trembling hands she slammed the cover; and the painted face leered at her, blood trickled like tears from soulful orbs.
Diana squeezed her eyes shut, then reopened them. The painted face was motionless, and no voices called to her. She clutched the box tight, pressing it to her body, and then she sighed.
Next Diana gazed into a tarnished oval mirror from which old hats and scarves hung. A buzzing sound erupted and beastly calls sounded from outside. At first, a woman wept inside the mirror's dull glass, her arms were bloody stumps, her lips torn and ruined, and then light shifted, and Diana saw her own image there. Blood dripped from her palms, and she wore a patch over her right eye. A being, half-woman, half-feline, stood in the background, holding a curved knife in one hand, its tip dripped with blood.
The woman smiled. Her voice was harsh and wicked. “An eye for a life. Better take the deal, Diana.”
Diana grasped the box tighter, crying, “Enough!” and then she bolted across the floor, leaving that darkened place.
****
After several cups of coffee, Diana went to her bedroom, then placed the odd box close to the one that Nicky had left for her. She put her hands on her hips, and then stepped back. Both pieces were radiant beneath the overhead light.
Tyler made a lot of them when on the road a few years back. He’d slowly piece drift wood together, then sand, varnish and paint the objects until perfect.
“What’s the point of the boxes besides meeting the woman who taught you to make them?” She once asked him.
“I put my songs to the Devil inside.” He answered solemnly.
"New lyrics?" She asked, somewhat puzzled at his comment.
He nodded, "Always something new to sing about, my love."
She humored him, chalked his comments up to eccentricities. If he were an ordinary man his words would have been strange, but not the brilliant Tyler Bane.
She asked, "Where is the devil now, Tyler? Are you with him writing words—capturing blood in ceramic pans? Are you coming back to me again?"
Soft scratches echoed from the window, and then subtle laughter. She pressed her hands to her temple and began to cry, telling herself that she was doomed, and that she’d be dead before long, or committed to a gloomy institution.
And the temperature dropped, bringing fat snowflakes that blanketed the walks and street, and in the distance the LaNeau was a devil’s idol against the darkened sky.
21.
Diana spread items over the living room floor, sifting through a stack of old journals. From all indications, when young, Tyer had been infatuated with someone new every other day. He’d carefully record the feelings and sexual pleasures he experienced. Sometimes he embellished details, creating blood-drenched scenes he’d later use for song lyrics.
July 9th, 1986
“Mary says she hates my moon in Leo. Too showy for her, too
fiery. I dreamed of her, and her hands were bloodstained. The gypsies arrived in their caravan and Mary and I worshipped the shrine. Then they took her away. Sweet Mary.”
Diana reread the odd entry, recalling that Tyler wrote a song about a woman named Mary—a rare and underrated addition to his Dance with the Devil album, a collection that went gold within three weeks.
Tyler began to change after that. He became secretive, got closer to Nicky; he started making more odd boxes, writing songs colored with death and horror. In between, he binged, getting high, resurrecting water pipes and obtaining plastic bags filled with white powder, and she joined him at times, believing it would bind them together, but after those sprees came the Methadone programs; therapy; and on occasion, Buprenorphine; and then, for a time, the needles and powder were put away.
“Tyler, my sweet Tyler,” she whispered, as she thumbed through more journal pages, some torn, and others wrinkled and water-marked—with chronological order abandoned, and years blended together to form a macabre symphony.
December 1989
“The answer is atop the LaNeau.”
“What do you mean, Tyler,” she asked, then diverted her gaze to the bow window, where she saw the LaNeau clearly, and there were figures climbing the snow-caked hills, as wind blew flurries and ocean waves beat wildly on the shore, and then she saw the Mercedes idling in the driveway.
“Bruno? What are you doing?” Was he warming the engine, or had he gone out to stock up on food, fearing that they’d be shut in? No matter she’d have him drive her to the hotel. He’d driven in bad weather numerous times—in ice storms, and once during a blinding nor’easter in the backwoods of New Hampshire. This would be a piece of cake for him.
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