by A. L. Mengel
After a few moments, Antoine took his hands away, his cheeks moist with tears. He looked at Darius, lying on the bed as if he were asleep, a look of peace on his face.
The dark ones didn’t come, my friend. They didn’t come.
Antoine walked to the door, looking back at Darius. He reached for the doorknob, opening the door and moving out to the hallway. He kept the door open as he looked up towards the foyer.
It was by that same fountain that Darius had stood, challenging him with the dagger, so many years ago. “Kill me! Kill me now!” Darius had said. “Drive it into my heart! Don’t wait! Shed your skin! It’s time! Shed your skin! Find your own way in this world! You must!”
Antoine closed the door without a word.
I AM DEAD.
There was a time, when I lay in a room, in a chateau in France, when I had been clinging to life. I had taken each breath as I could, and the breaths that I did, were labored. I scarcely could take in the air.
I could remember the sweet summer air. The breeze flowing into the room through the curtains. How the air would smell so fresh, like linen hanging on a clothesline. And the air, how it tasted. So floral. So wonderful. Refreshing. And then, there was a certain silence to the room. I could even hear the buzzards outside the window.
And I could smell the storm coming on the horizon.
But there was nothing I could do about it.
I couldn’t close the window. Or pull the drapes back together. Or even swing my legs around the side of the bed to rise.
I lay on the bed, simply, and that’s all I had been able to do.
Flat on my back, spread out, covered by a sheet, and unable to move.
I was in Miami recently, I had remembered that.
My mind still worked at that point, I knew that. But there was a point when I disconnected. When there was no longer a reality; when the others in my life were still there – I could still sense their presence – but it was in a different way.
They were still in the room with me.
The armoire had still been located at the end of the bed, and it was still made of dark wood. It was blurred, but a dark object against a pale, white background.
Still there.
The rocking chair still sat next to it, and Antoine, as far as I knew, still sat in the chair regularly, when we were in our chateau, to sit and enjoy a glass of red wine.
Usually a Cabernet.
Sometimes a Beaujolais.
I could feel the sheet being pulled up and over my body. Soon after, the world became white, for my eyes were still open.
It was placed gently over my face, and moments later, I could hear Antoine start to cry.
I knew it was him.
I wanted to get up. To swing my legs over the side of the bed, to let the sheet fall gently to the floor. To walk over to him, to place my arms around him, as I had so many times in life, to hug him and let him know that everything was fine, everything was alright.
I am here! I would say. I was never dead! You don’t have to cry! There is no reason to be sad! For I am sitting right here next to you, alive, talking and well!
Antoine eyes would most certainly widen.
His mouth would drop open, and would wipe the tears from his face.
As soon as he would figure out that I was actually sitting there on the bed, living, eyes open and seeing; ears hearing, he would rush to my side, taking me into his arms.
But that isn’t what happened.
For I was dead.
And even though I could still hear, even though I could still feel, there was something that I had been unable to do. I could not move. Nor could I speak. So I would wait, and listen. After some time, as the room grew silent, and Antoine’s sobbing had subsided, I could hear him breathing, slow and steady.
He might have been sleeping.
But after the silence, I could hear the methodic creak of the rocking chair. The same, old rickety wooden chair that had sat in that room for over a century. And in my mind, I could picture Antoine sitting in the chair, moving his legs up and down, his knees moving upwards, powered by his toes, rocking the chair back and forth, his face buried in his hands. He’d be slumped over the side of the chair, because I would know that Antoine slumped over the side of that very same rocking chair each and every time he would grow sad.
But after some time, the creak of the old, rickety wooden chair ceased, and the room grew silent again. I felt as though the days were passing through the window on the other side of the room.
The door creaked open, and I heard the slow shuffle of footsteps approach the side of the bed. And then a second set of footsteps followed.
“We must bury him tonight. He has been lying here for days. It’s time to decide what you want to do.”
It was Giovanni.
I could recognize his gravelly voice. It was quite distinct. There was a certain dialect that Giovanni spoke with. A certain accent he had.
And then, the other set of footsteps could only belong to Antoine, now the Master of the House. “Yes, yes,” Antoine said. “We should take him to Les Enfantes. We have a crypt there. No sense now in burying him in the plot under the tree. I am taking him to his family mausoleum.”
“Just a moment, Antoine. I have some papers that Darius had me guard when he became ill. He told me it was his wish, and to be opened only by you.”
I knew where I was being taken.
It was over.
For I was still residing in the same bedroom, listening to them in the hours after my death.
I had yet to cross over.
But I knew.
It was time.
I had been lying in the room long enough. My body was decaying.
Starting to decompose. Certainly a stench was starting to permeate the room.
It was time to bury the body.
I couldn’t feel the arms which wrapped around my torso, hoisting me off of the bed – but the amazing thing – the part that was truly wondrous…was that I didn’t have to rely on senses.
For at that moment, when my body was touched by another pair of hands, I stood on the side and watched. I was able to hear, see, and witness all of it. It was as if I weren’t even dead at all; as if I were watching the removal of my body take place in a strange, supernatural show, where I was the star but my eyes would be closed and my lips would be pursed in silence.
I would open my mouth, but the words could not come out. I tried to scream, to place my mouth by their ears, but every time, they went about their business and I was unheard.
But one thing was for certain.
Antoine had been right.
During my final days, I had always been looking over my shoulder. My mind, as it sank into a sea of uncertainty as the age of my body caught up with the passage of time, had an increasingly difficult time deciphering reality versus things that were taking place in my mind. Or in alternate dimensions of existence.
I remember running from hellhounds.
Yes, I remembered the hounds.
They had stood watch over Antoine’s estate in Miami, like a marrying of the supernatural with reality. They patrolled the front yards, and the front doors to the mansion, which at that point, had been a burned out shell. But that part – the fact that the building had been covered in ashes and surrounded by bright yellow police crime tape – did not matter.
It was what was inside that the hellhounds were protecting.
I’d remembered that house.
So many times, living there with Antoine. That palatial Miami house. A mansion, really, in any better sense of description. It was the house where he had introduced me to Roberto, his young Latino lover, and Sheldon, the director of The Astral, a paranormal research society with offices in nearby Coral Gables, who had sat in the front room, on many occasions, sipping whiskey and talking to Antoine about a book he’d been writing. I’d stayed there on many occasions, but had never truly moved in. I’d always been most connected to our chateau in France, but still,
I loved the Miami estate.
Loved it there.
Miss it.
Tried visiting it, several times, when I was mortal and dying, trying to say a goodbye. But as soon as I managed to duck under the crime scene tape, I heard the growl in the bushes.
The rustling.
And I remember, on multiple occasions, running from those viscous supernatural dogs. And I would jump into my car and head to Delia’s apartment.
But I knew what they were protecting.
I knew, Delia knew, everyone knew…
*****
Antoine and Giovanni stood at the foot of the bed.
Antoine had thought Darius, completely covered under the sheets, resembled a snow covered mountain range. “I can’t get that thought out of my head,” Antoine said. Giovanni raised his head towards Antoine. “Hm, sir?” After a few minutes of silence, Giovanni raised his head up and over in Antoine’s direction. He placed his hand on Antoine’s shoulder.
The curtains blew inwards.
“Close the windows,” Antoine said. “We do not want him to rot here in the heat.”
There was a breeze that found its way through the windows. It was late in the fall, and southern France had experienced an unusually warm period.
Giovanni shuffled over close to Antoine, and placed his hand gently on Antoine’s arm. He raised his head up towards Antoine.
Antoine could only see the white handkerchief wrapped around Giovanni’s head. His thin and wispy hair hung lazily along the sides of his head.
“She may have gouged my eyes out,” Giovanni said. “But I can see when you are suffering.”
“We must get you soon to get your vision restored, Gio.”
Antoine lowered his head, nodded slowly, and found his way to the rocking chair, and sat as the chair emitted a slow creak. He leaned the chair back as far as it would go. He closed his eyes and hung his head for a moment. He could feel the warmth of a tear cascading down his cheek. He reached up, wiped it away, and looked over at Giovanni, who had sat at the foot of the bed. “Do you think Darius can hear us?” Antoine asked. He leaned forward slightly as the runners gave an audible creak against the otherwise silent room.
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Giovanni looked down at Darius as Antoine waited patiently for an answer.
“You don’t see anything, Giovanni.”
He raised his head towards Antoine’s voice. “Oh, but I do, Antoine. I do. And even though I may have lost my vision, my sense of remembrance is so much stronger.”
“So you didn’t answer my question, Gio.”
He nodded. “Do I think Darius can hear us? What we are saying?”
Antoine nodded as Giovanni turned around.
He shuffled over towards the rocker, dragging his feet along the hardwood. He stopped just short of the chair, and leaned down, closer towards Antoine’s face. Antoine could smell the wine on his breath. Gio leaned towards the side, and as he spoke, Antoine felt the heat of his breath.
“Darius can hear us. He can hear everything. He is lying under the sheet listening to our every word!”
*****
Do you love me?
Do you hear me calling your name through the howl of the winds? Through the storms and the rain? Did you watch as I fought through the skulls towards the altar? Did you see me thrash through the sea of souls?
As Nesmaron waited for me?
As Asmodai assaulted me through the clouds?
My genesis; the epoxy of my mind…has only just begun…
…Darius opened his eyes…
All he saw was darkness.
Total blackness.
He took a deep breath and sighed. Where had he just been?
He could not remember. He closed his eyes (not that it mattered, given that he was in total darkness) and tried to remember.
There were fleeting images of Antoine.
And visions of the Master Suite at their chateau in Lyon. Yes, he knew it was their Master Suite. He recognized the soaring pedestals from their dark oak bed; the cranberry colored drapes and how they spilled to the floor.
But not much more.
Under normal circumstances, the solitude might have been inviting, but in this case, the coffin lid had been closed. He had heard the creak and the lowering of the wood, and the click of the lock.
How long must I stay buried this time, Antoine? How long until you will rescue me?
He could hear Antoine’s muffled screaming as they carried coffin lower into the ground. Towards the crypt. And to be sealed for all of eternity.
There had not been such a travesty of emotion pouring out of his partner the previous time he had been buried –
Drive the dagger, Antoine! Into my heart! Do it! Do it now!
Kill me, kill me, kill me!
Antoine hadn’t driven a dagger into his heart this time. There hadn’t been a challenge of death in the foyer next to the fountain like there had been before.
There was no call for death.
No need for the darkness. But he tried to remember. An attempt to get his mind to work. To recall the last days of his life. For the last thing he remembered, he had watched Antoine burn to ashes on the bleeding altar.
What had happened after that?
It was a blur.
Like a blackout of memories perpetuated by an overindulgence of alcohol, there was the fight to remember.
And nothing.
Just blackness.
Darius waited for a resolution.
And then, in the darkness, far off in the distance, appeared a tiny pinpoint of light. His pain was gone. The headaches that had plagued him later in his life no longer existed. But this body…was it there?
He struggled to focus his eyes in the darkness, but the only thing he could see was the tiny pinpoint of light. Was it a sliver of his life? Was he floating through space? Through the heavens?
The dark ones didn’t come, my friend.
He had heard Antoine’s voice. Speaking to him just after he had passed. There was a certain point, when he lost consciousness, that the room became black. But he could still see. There were snippets – the armoire in the corner. And they flashed before his eyes, amidst the blackness, like old photos on a projector. He saw the rocking chair. Even the light seemed different. He saw the nightclub conference room for a fleeting moment.
They didn’t come.
And then there was Antoine.
Standing at the foot of the bed.
He was looking down at the bed. And Darius knew…he knew what was under the white sheet…
Darius looked up and saw Giovanni.
Giovanni raised his head. “Master Antoine, I hear a car. I think it may be pulling up.”
Antoine ran for the door as Giovanni followed. Darius remained standing at the foot of the bed, still looking down at his body covered in the white sheet. He listened to the front doors opening, and he struggled to hear what Antoine was saying.
Muffled voices followed.
He turned, glided across the room, noticing that the floor felt different now. He looked down. He saw his bare feet. He saw himself standing on the hardwood, but he couldn’t feel it. It was like he were standing on air.
*****
Antoine parted the sheer drapes that hung on the expansive windows that bordered either side of the heavy, double wooden doors. He pressed his nose against the glass and saw a long, black hearse pull up in front of the chateau. It was quite long, slender, and sleek. This was no ordinary hearse, as all of the windows were tinted dark back.
As he heard the driver cut the engine, he went to the front door. He clicked the lock and turned the oversized brass handle.
The big, heavy wooden door slowly opened inwards as the brilliant daylight spilled inside. He looked out, as the driver’s door opened and an unusually tall man stood and turned around.
Antoine recognized the man from his photo: his dark hair was plastered to his head; combed over in the front and parted on the side.
Kind of a greasy look. The man was quite thin and lanky, Antoine thought. The driver spun around and watched Antoine. The tall man nodded as he slowly walked around the car towards the front steps. He said nothing, but remained focused on Antoine, who stood on the front porch, his hand still on the oversized brass doorknob. The man stopped at the base of the stairs and reached into his coat pocket. He fished an overly long, white cigarette and produced a small, silver lighter. After he lit the cigarette, took a long drag, and exhaled a cloud of smoke, and he finally spoke.
“I’m here for the body,” he said, as the passenger door opened. But Antoine’s mouth dropped open as he looked beyond the man at the car. The lanky man turned around as Antoine gasped. Another man stepped out, dressed in a similar black suit, dark brown hair plastered to his head in a similar fashion.
“Ramiel?! Is that really you?” Antoine said, returning his attention to the man on the steps. “I thought you were coming alone?”
“Ramiel insisted that he come,” he said. “And I am Ned McCracken. My apologies. So rude of me to not introduce myself.” He extended his hand once reaching the top of the porch steps.
“Yes, yes. I remember from the document that Giovanni gave me.”
Antoine looked into the man’s eyes. There seemed to be something a little “off” about the man, but he couldn’t quite place it. He had heard about the mortician, back in Miami. But never had met him in person until this one time. Ned looked back at Antoine with unusually large, brown eyes. Antoine took his hand and shook it as Ned ran his free hand through his dark, greasy-looking hair.
“I was instructed to come as soon as Darius passed,” Ned explained.
Ramiel joined them on the steps. “And I came to investigate his death. With all the talk in Rome about The Hooded Man rumors, The Inspiriti is going to conduct their own investigation.” Ramiel extended his hand.
“No,” Antoine said. He grabbed Ramiel and hugged him tightly. “You don’t think you are going to get off with just a handshake, are you?”
Ramiel chuckled. “No, my friend, no. How long has it been now?”
