House of Skin

by Jonathan Janz

  The woman was rising, the hatchet handle pointing insanely out of her forehead. Annabel groped toward her.

  The feel of the woman’s fingertips on her throat galvanized Julia.

  She fled.

  Down the hall to the stairs, which she took three at a time. Once in the ballroom she risked a glance over her shoulder, but the maniacal woman was nowhere in sight.

  Crying with relief, she crossed the foyer to the front door.

  It was locked.

  Muscles locking in atavistic terror, she pulled feebly at the door. It would not give.

  “Julia,” said a voice behind her.

  She whirled and saw the woman coming toward her. Annabel’s feet did not seem to move. Behind the dying woman Julia could see the slick trail of blood dripping off of her like rancid menstruation.

  Instinct propelled her toward the first door she could find. Opening it, she fell into darkness. A shoulder slamming wood, feet somersaulting wildly, Julia tumbled down the basement stairs until she crashed into the concrete wall where the stairs turned. Her head woozy from the knocks it had taken, she glanced up at the open door.

  Annabel stepped through it.

  Hysterical with fear, Julia tried to stand but found that her ankle would not cooperate. It threw her headlong down the second, shorter flight of stairs. As she struck the floor she felt her hip jostle something heavy. It listed over her and fell, landing beside her on the ground.

  Julia stared into her own face.

  Forgetting for a moment the woman trying to kill her, Julia reached out, touched the statue.

  It was smooth, made of wood.

  It was Julia.

  “He wants you,” Annabel said.

  Julia gasped, pushed away from the woman, who was now standing and watching her at the base of the stairs. She could not read Annabel’s expression in the scant light of the basement, but she could hear from the woman’s voice that all the humor had gone.

  With an effort she pushed to her feet, stared at Annabel.

  “Look around you, dear,” the bleeding woman said.

  She did. Wooden statues of Julia filled the basement. In some she was just a child. In others she was older, more mature.

  In all of them she was nude.

  “I took his nurse away,” Annabel said, “so now he wants fresh meat.”

  As Julia glanced at the wooden images, her vision started to gray. She opened her mouth to speak but Annabel had disappeared. Julia whirled and scanned the basement for the woman, but everywhere she turned she saw herself. It was like being in a hall of mirrors. The pallid light showing through the cobwebbed basement windows made it difficult to tell whether the figures were wood or flesh, lifeless or animate.

  “He can’t have you,” a voice at her ear whispered.

  Julia gasped and swiped at the voice but her hand slapped cold wood, her middle fingernail snapping off.

  “Go to hell!” Julia shouted.

  Laughter, a rustling from the shadows.

  “Just let me leave,” Julia tried to shout, but her voice dissolved into tears.

  A hand fell on her shoulder.

  Julia recoiled and crumpled to the floor. She knew she was beaten. She’d been wrong to come here so soon. Had she waited until she was older she might have been strong enough, but a girl her age was no match for the malevolence here. Through her tears she heard Annabel’s voice, wheedling.

  “Do you imagine him between your legs, dear? Your own father?”

  Julia ground her palms into her ears to rid herself of the voice.

  “Do you imagine him bouncing you on his lap, dear?”

  “I hate you,” Julia whimpered. “I hate you.”

  “I think you hate yourself, dearest, for wanting what you can’t have.” Annabel’s face drew closer. “Just like your mother.”

  Julia’s sob caught in her throat. Raising her head she saw Annabel’s stick legs, the varicose veins like black licorice in the near darkness. Gazing higher she saw the hatchet handle pointing out of the woman’s head.

  Julia grasped it, pulled.

  If Annabel was surprised she made no sign. Instead, she stood there motionless as Julia rose, brought the hatchet above her head.

  “Someday,” Annabel said as the blade cleaved her skull.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The sweat dripped into Julia’s eyes. It stung horribly. It had to be over a hundred degrees down here. It made no sense, she thought. Heat rose, didn’t it?

  Yet down here, more than two dozen feet below the ground floor of the library, the atmosphere was stifling, suffocating. The books smelled of congealing mushrooms, the dank walls bled moisture and moss. Julia felt like a medieval prisoner, left here to die on some wicked king’s whim. The grungy metal bookcases watched her like stolid sentinels.

  Feeling dizzy, she dismounted the ladder and mopped her brow with the front of her blue tank top. The movement only smeared the sweat around, made more of it drip through her eyelashes. She glanced about for something dry to absorb some of the sweat but saw only unwanted books, and she’d have to be more desperate than she was to use them.

  Anxious to get to Paul and ready to have this miserable work behind her, she surveyed the boxes she’d already filled and the shelves she’d yet to scavenge for sellable books.

  Only half done.

  Julia sighed.

  If Bea weren’t so good to her, she’d tell the old woman to shove her books. If tomorrow were anything like usual, they’d end up toting most of the boxes back down here anyway, for who really needed forty-year-old science textbooks and moldy collections of children’s poetry?

  And speaking of Bea, where had the woman gone? It wasn’t like her boss to shirk hard jobs. Now that she thought about it, the woman had acted strange all week, as though harboring some secret grudge. Twice Julia asked her what was wrong, and neither time did the woman really answer her, changing the subject instead to something banal.

  “Julia,” a voice whispered.

  She whirled, scouring the long room for her boss.

  “Yes?” Julia asked, smiling. Her friend was always considerate, warning her before her presence could startle. When no answer came, she said, “Bea?”

  She strode around the corner of the tall metal bookrack nearest her and peered down the aisle. Nothing but more racks, more books, and a disquieting collection of bunched shadows.

  Julie blew out trembling breath. Was she being put on? Bea was no practical joker, but wasn’t it possible the woman was feeling unusually playful?

  She decided to go with it. Hunkering low so she’d be harder to see, Julia made her way down the single aisle, past the shelves she’d already picked through.

  Movement ahead and to her right. Julia grinned, imagining the gray-haired woman standing just outside the sub-basement door, waiting to jump out at her.

  She’d give her friend a scare she wouldn’t forget.

  Careful to avoid the books she’d boxed, Julia kept her gaze trained on the place where she was sure Bea was hiding. There was a blind spot on the landing, an outcropping wall where someone could conceal herself until her unsuspecting prey was upon her. Bea was there, waiting.

  Julia took care to tread lightly, her sneakers making no sound on the damp concrete. She crouched, then sprang around the corner.

  No one was there.

  Disappointed, she peered up the stairs. The door to the main basement was barely discernible in the gloom. Now that she’d come this far, Julia wondered if now would be a good time to go upstairs for a water break. Bea would be down soon, but what about the meantime? Her throat was dry and papery, her skin sticky with sweat and grime.

  Julia bit her lip. She cast a glance over her shoulder and saw the boxes lined up along the aisle. She realized she’d made it farther than she’d initially thought. She scrunched her brow, counting. Of the eighteen metal bookracks she only had seven left to go. It seemed silly to quit now. With Bea down here the work would go much faster. Rather
than toting armfuls of books down the ladder she could lower them to Bea, who could arrange them in the cardboard banana boxes they used. With luck they could be done by half past midnight. That would put her at Watermere by one—or earlier if she allowed Bea to take her home.

  That’s just what she’d do, she decided. Giving her a ride was the least her boss could do after leaving her down here to do the dirty work for—she checked her watch—nearly three hours now.

  She walked back to where she’d left off. She climbed the ladder.

  This shelf might take awhile, she decided. Unlike the four shelves below, this one was promising. No outdated almanacs or science textbooks here. Reading the authors she felt the familiar love surging within. Thomas Hardy. James Joyce. Hemingway. How could she have missed these last year?

  Steadying herself by holding the rim of the shelf, she stepped onto the top of the step ladder so she could read the titles at eye level. Julia gasped with delight. Her very favorite writers, the romantic poets. Shelley, Byron, Keats, Wordsworth. Upon seeing a collection of Robert Browning’s poems that appeared to be in great condition, she stifled a cry of joy. It was unfathomable that writing this good should rot away down here in the darkness. Smiling, she pulled the Browning collection from the shelf.

  And saw the blue eyes staring at her from the other side.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  All that mattered now was Julia. She was coming later, though how much later he didn’t know.

  Paul took a path that would lead him to the brook, upstream from where he’d drowned the sheriff. Slowing, he angled toward the water. Little glints of quicksilver glimmering on its surface, the brook looked cool and pure in the moonlight. He knelt at the water’s edge. For a moment he perceived his reflection staring up at him. He leaned over and kissed it, his lips forming ripples in the still water. He let it swallow his face, his hair. He leaned out as far as he could without falling in. Then, he lay on his stomach and dunked his arms in the cool water. It calmed him a little. Standing, he started for home.

  As he moved through the hollow, he was captivated by the spectral glow enveloping him. He’d never seen so many stars. Glancing askance, Paul was not surprised to find he’d chosen the trail that passed the graveyard. He took a step toward the clearing and stopped.

  Staring through the trees he could see the high grass, the black stone shining.

  “God damn you, Annabel,” he said and turned away.

  Jogging, he made the trek home.

  Emerging from the forest, he strode into the yard, arms spread, the moon and stars baptizing him. He felt the light on his strong, chiseled chest, his rippling stomach. He felt it on his round shoulders. Paul stopped and looked around sadly. This would be his last night at Watermere. He’d always remember it, remember how he arrived one way and left as something quite different. He was no longer a wanderer, a man without a purpose. He had Julia now.

  Yes, he thought. Thinking of Julia took his mind off of what he’d done.

  He imagined her naked body beneath him, breasts shifted slightly outward, their sweat mingling together as she moaned.

  Paul unlaced his boots, peeled his sweaty socks off. He unzipped his jeans. Pushing them down, he rid himself of his boxer shorts as well. He closed his eyes and let the breeze sough over his bare skin. He already felt Julia against him, her smooth body, her long blond hair.

  He opened his eyes.

  It was Annabel he was imagining, he realized. When he made love to Julia, it was Annabel’s face he saw.

  Paul shivered. Yes, it would be good to get away. He and Julia could make love one more time, and then they’d leave without packing. They could ditch the Civic in a few hours and board a plane after that. There was plenty of money from the inheritance. Hopefully, he could wire for some of it in the morning, before anyone got wind of what happened to the sheriff.

  Paul entered the house thinking of Julia, of flying away with her. It didn’t matter where they ended up. He would drink to her, his true love.

  He reached the bar and selected a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. He relished the sound of the whiskey splashing over the ice cubes in his glass. Alcohol tasted so much better now that he didn’t need it. He finished his drink in three gulps.

  Paul poured again.

  Not wanting to deaden the sensations the night would bring, he decided his second drink would be his last and set the whiskey bottle under the bar. He moved across the ballroom and up the stairs. Knowing he’d stay in the library if he entered it, he passed by the doorway with an effort. He relaxed a little. Annabel’s hold on him was broken now. As long as he stayed away from the painting, he’d be safe.

  Paul went into the master suite. He pushed the covers aside and let them pool on the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed, sipping his whiskey, staring out the window at the starlit night.

  He felt the room begin to change. The sheer curtains stirred, the breeze cooling the bedroom. The air became charged with her energy. He felt his skin tingle with longing.

  Julia had come.

  He set his drink on the nightstand and lay in the middle of the bed, aching with his need for her.

  She stood in the doorway wearing a white gown that looked very much like the one she’d worn that first night, the night he’d lost her in the rain. He remembered those first glimpses of her. Her large breasts pushing up against the rain-soaked nightie. The black triangle of her pubic hair wet and visible through the sheer white material. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders. She’d been beautiful that night, but tonight she was even more radiant.

  He watched her lithe form in the far corner of the bedroom. He willed her forward, dying to enter her, to hear her whimper for more.

  She drifted across the room.

  He could see her sleek body in the moonglow. When her thigh brushed the edge of the bed, he leaned forward to lift her gown, but she pushed his hand lightly away and he could feel her smiling down at him. She wanted to control their lovemaking tonight, he could tell.

  He would let her.

  Lying back, he rested his head on a pillow and watched her move on hands and knees over his body. She kissed his toes, his ankles. Her hot tongue passed along his calves, over his knees. Every nerve alive, he fought to lie still, to let her have her way with him, but the way her mouth teased was maddening.

  She climbed up his body and straddled him.

  She guided him in, and it was like nothing he’d felt before. She was alive inside, her sexual muscles massaging him as she rode, her hips sweaty and rhythmic, and he began to moan. Her sweat dripped on him and he tasted her. She’d put in a lot of hours at the library and her scent was muskier than usual, almost sour, but her kneading hands and the hot slick sensation of her sex were driving him crazy.

  The moon shone full on them and he opened his eyes to watch her pelvis slapping against his, to see their bodies joining, when he sucked in breath, his body frozen beneath her.

  The maggots squirmed in his pubic hair, writhing against his scrotum, the little white worms tumbling out of her vagina each time her hips lifted.

  Gagging, Paul shoved her away. He scrambled out of bed, and as he did he saw the woman rise, the starlight full on her face.

  “Mine,” Annabel said.

  Mouth frozen in a wordless scream Paul backed away from the woman on the bed. She stepped down, her blazing blue eyes never leaving his.

  He backed out of the bedroom and Annabel followed, and though he turned to run, each time he looked over his shoulder she was only a few feet behind. He passed the library and his fleeting glimpse revealed the portrait, illuminated, laughing at him in the silent house. As he ran he realized it wasn’t Annabel’s voice he heard, but a deafening return of the rats. God, their fulsome bodies scraped and writhed behind the walls, and it was all he could do not to—

  Fingers brushed his neck.

  Paul cried out, lurched toward the stairs. He jumped forward in a blind panic, tripping, the damage to his knees not re
gistering. Paul tumbled down the last few stairs. He pushed to his feet. Something moved ahead and to his left, and while he veered away from it without difficulty, he caught a glimpse of a face, a pair of arms stretching out from the walls, and, Jesus, it looked like Myles Carver.

  Forget it! his jangling nerves demanded. For Christ’s sake, she’s coming!

  Without looking back he sprinted through the ballroom toward the French doors. He was sure they were locked but he couldn’t stop, could almost feel Annabel’s hot breath on the back of his neck. Lowering his shoulder, he slammed against the doors and staggered onto the veranda.

  He started toward the car before remembering he’d left the keys in his jeans, which were still on the lawn. Desperately, he raced through the yard to find them, certain they had somehow disappeared.

  He spotted them, lying where he’d left them.

  Sobbing with relief he snatched the jeans from the grass and without bothering to put them on, he hurried toward the Civic as his hands probed the pockets. It was impossible, he told himself, that she had returned, that he’d made love to a corpse, but he knew what he’d seen was no illusion, none of this a bad dream.

  His fingers closed on the keys. With a cry Paul yanked them out and bolted toward the car.

  A white shape glided down the front porch steps, barring his way.

  “Oh my God,” he whimpered. As he fled the white figure something flashed in his periphery, and he knew she was about to overtake him. He lengthened his strides, and focused on the opening in the woods ahead.

  Paul left Watermere and felt the smooth forest floor meet his bare feet. He ran as he never had before, the sanity that remained in him guiding him toward Julia’s house.

  Ahead, the figure appeared on the trail.

  Paul screamed and wheeled off the path. He jumped over a fallen branch and dashed madly into the forest. Blindly, he barreled through the trees and undergrowth, stones twisting his ankles, thorns opening his flesh. Knowing at any moment Annabel’s hand might close on his shoulder, he bulldozed his way through a twisted snarl of brambles. With one hand he covered his privates, with the other he flailed to clear the way. A sharp branch pierced his torso under the armpit and ruptured the skin through the nipple. Weeping with pain and terror, Paul surged forward through the last of the branches and fell forward onto the grass.