by A. L. Mengel
Father Bauman’s small blue sedan pulled up in front of One Andelusia Avenue with a slight squeak of the brakes. The rain had let up somewhat, there was a lull in the storm.
“What if he won’t come?” Delia asked, as they approached the house. The lights burned brightly, reflecting against the wet grass. They stopped for a moment, just short of the stairs that rose up towards the front porch.
“Delia, I know who you are. I know about your history. It’s long, and it’s rich. I know that you are the complete antithesis of what I am trying to do here. But you are needed. And you are the best choice. He trusts you. And looks up to you.”
Delia looked up at the house, but said nothing.
The hanging chandelier on the porch was suspended with soaring black chains, and the grand wooden door was framed by two, large hanging lamps, black iron against cool, white stucco, framing a pristine front porch that expanded the entire length of the estate. Tall floor to ceiling windows framed either side of the entryway, but the view inside was masked by shears.
All of the lights were on, but nobody appeared to be home.
“You knock, Delia. It would be best if he saw your face first.”
And then the door opened.
Delia and Father Bauman both stopped talking and looked towards the direction of the front door. The door was standing wide open, the expansive foyer, crystal chandelier, round mahogany table, and winding staircase were all in plain view as the lights burned brightly.
But there was no one there.
And then raindrops started to fall again, as thunder crashed in front of them, and as the lightning flashed, the lights went out, leaving them in darkness. The open door remained as the walls inside seemed a pale blue against the flashes of bright light, as another line of storms descended upon the city.
Father Bauman and Delia huddled on the front porch as the rain increased in intensity.
You’re a whore.
Delia looked up, and then into the foyer. “Darius?”
But there was no answer. She stepped up onto the travertine, and peered behind the door. “Who was that?”
No one was there.
Just the sound of the rain against the pavement, the howl of the winds and blinding light from the storm.
But then there was a scuffling deeper into the house.
Delia turned around to face Father Bauman. She raised her eyebrows.
“We have to find him.”
*~*~*
Father Bauman lit a match, bathing the room in a warm glow. The winds were picking up outside, blowing rain into the house. The rain was blowing and the winds were fierce, and the door blew open even further, banging against the frame.
Father Bauman sighed. “Close the door. The center of the storm is here.”
“So we have to stay?”
“Yes, until the storm is passed, we stay.”
Delia walked to the other side of the foyer, and stopped in front of a hallway that fingered its way back into the house. “Darius?” she called out.
Father Bauman went off to the left. “I’m going to try to find some candles, or a flashlight or something.”
And then he disappeared into the darkness.
Delia stood in the foyer in darkness.
The darkness was temporarily abated as the lightning struck, giving her a split second view of her surroundings.
She could tell that she was standing in front of a mirror.
But the years previous, and the many times that she had been in this house before, as a guest of Antoine, she could not shake how very different the house felt today.
And then she stopped just short of the mirror that she remembered. She could see her reflection, but it was shadow against the darkness. And there was nothing else distinct in the mirror.
And then she saw herself.
She saw herself in the youth and beauty that she once possessed, standing right inside this foyer, and the lights were shining brightly and the flowers were full, and beautiful, and their scent permeated the expansive room.
The black and white marble was clean and shiny; the lights reflected in the black squares, and everything was clean, and new.
And then Antoine appeared at the base of the stairs, standing in a black and white tuxedo, smiling a bright, white smile, his black hair slicked back in a ponytail.
Yes, she remembered that evening.
It was shortly after he had come to Miami, after he had acquired Roberto, and after she had come from London. But she stood in the foyer, in a long, purple evening gown that she remembered, with a cigarette in a long, ivory cigarette holder.
She looked down at herself.
She remembered the night. When Antoine extended his arm, and when she took it, and they left into the night together.
But it wasn’t that night anymore.
She was now just a shadow in the mirror, the travertine at the threshold was dirty, the marble tile was no longer shiny and polished, it was showing the dirt and cracked with age.
And then the thunder crashed overhead, so loud it shook the walls. And looking into the mirror, the brilliant flash of light that followed revealed that was no longer alone.
*~*~*
Delia snapped her head around, looking for the mysterious dark figure that was in the mirror.
She scanned the room, but it was pitch black. She could hardly make out her surroundings. She felt her way to the center of the foyer, and felt the cool wood of the round table.
She heard a shuffle behind her and turned, taking deeper breaths.
“Father Bauman?”
But there was no answer.
You have found me, Delia.
I see you watching and waiting and remembering.
Your hands tremble. Your face is perspiring. But your heart does not beat. And your lungs do not breathe the air that surrounds you. You walk. You live. But you are not alive.
For I know who you are. And what you are.
Delia opened her eyes. “Tramos?”
The room replied in silence and the falling rain outside, which had abated somewhat.
The winds still howled.
And then the power returned.
“It’s you!”
She stepped back, one step, then another, and backed into the wall.
For standing on the other side of the table was a tall, dark figure, soaring towards the ceiling but cloaked in darkness with no face. “I am not Tramos.”
She squinted.
“If you had remained loyal to me then you would not be aged now as you are.”
She stopped. “I am no longer dying. I am immortal once again.”
“But you are a shell of your former self, Delia. You are but a shell. You have aged considerably, and now you must live eternally with this older form.”
And then she knew who it was.
“Take off your hood.”
The dark figure moved closer, and Delia looked up.
“Take it off!”
The hood covered the face, but the face remained in darkness. She could hear breathing, a steady in and out, raspy, rattling air fighting mucous.
Delia made an attempt to move further back, but the wall prevented her from going any further. “Are you going to show me?”
And then it raised its arms to remove the hood. Slowly, with circumspect and prudence.
But Delia did not have to wait for the hood to fall back. As soon as she got a glimpse, the crimson red, she knew.
It was always the crimson red hair that revealed her.
Her face was twisted and burned, skin was bubbling off the bone. Delia watched with wide eyes, her mouth agape.
“Come with me and drink from the blood decanter!” She raised her arms, and like a phoenix, the flames ignited around her. “Come with me!”
Delia ran to the front door, snapped the lock open, and then powerful winds blew the door open.
“Come back here to me!”
I can hear you.
I could always hear y
ou.
You struggle with the door, but you cannot leave.
And Delia turned around.
The hair was red and full and vibrant, but her face was no longer rotten, the skin no longer bubbled and hung from her face, she was youthful and pretty, her lips were full and bright, red and sensuous, her eyes were dark and lined with blue, and her arms were extended outwards.
“Come Delia. Come back to me.”
Delia hesitated. “Claret…”
Claret smiled and nodded. “I have waited for you, my daughter. I have watched you and wished you would return, but you always would run. You always ran.”
“But now, you cannot, I have to leave!” Delia closed the door. The winds were too ferocious. And Father Bauman was still in the house somewhere.
Claret smiled, lowered her arms, and walked around the table. She smiled, and came closer to Delia, but stopped when Delia stood with her back against the front door, her hand on the doorknob.
“I never understood why you left me,” Claret said, reaching out to caress Delia’s cheek. “And Darius…what he says about me is far from the truth.”
Delia pulled away from Claret’s touch. She started at her long, slender fingers, warm and smelling of perfume and baby powder, gentle and loving.
“Come with me, Delia.”
But Delia remained frozen.
“Come with me and drink from the blood decanter.”
“Yes mother, I understand you. Yes mother, I need you.”
And then Claret sat and smiled. She looked up at Delia. “It was you, the daughter I never thought I had.”
“But you always did.”
And then the thunder crashed outside, and the lightning flashed through the foyer, and the windows rattled.
Claret rose from her chair.
Delia stopped and looked over at Claret.
“It is finally time for us to be mother and daughter, like when I birthed you. When the rivers ran red with blood, and the roses turned black. And the thunder rang through the heavens. Do you remember, Delia? Do you remember those days?”
Delia looked down at the table. And then up at the dead and dried roses in the large crystal vase in the center of the table. “Yes, mother I do.” She spoke softly and without hesitation. “You always taught me what it was like to be noticed. And to be chosen.”
Claret moved around the table and caressed Delia’s cheek. “There, there, my child. Don’t you see? Don’t you see how much you have missed me?” Claret smiled, her brilliantly white teeth catching the light.
“Yes mother.” Delia stared at the floor.
And then it was so apparent, so utterly clear, like a crystal and brilliantly blue daytime sky, what Claret was trying to say to her.
She was trying to get her to remember.
And remember, Delia did.
There were for too many memories that Delia had been trying to forget, especially from the days and years before she had met Darius, and before she had become immortal at all.
But she never forgot Claret.
She had appeared in the mirror when Delia was applying brilliantly red lipstick. And, somehow, the mysterious visitor with the red hair got Delia to stop what she was doing, sit in her folding chair, and smile at her.
“Come with me,” the red haired visitor said. “I need you to come with me now.”
Delia smiled politely. Her teeth gleamed between brilliantly red lips, framed by perfectly curled brunette hair. She leaned back in her chair. “Come with you? Where?”
Claret stooped down, looking Delia directly in the eyes. “My what pretty lips you have.”
Delia smiled politely.
“I need you. I need you to come with me.”
Delia chuckled again. “But I go on stage in fifteen minutes…and I am not a lesbian…so if you don’t mind…I’ll pass.”
It was just like that night in the makeup room, behind the stage so many years ago; it was a similar scene in the foyer of Antoine’s estate, as the two women stood in front of each other again, across from the table with the dead flowers.
Claret smiled at Delia, like she had the first night that they met in Paris. “Come with me, Delia. I need you to come with me.”
Delia smiled back, but shook her head. “I can’t, I really can’t. You know I can’t.”
And then Claret’s smile faded, as Delia looked over at her. The rain started to fall again. Claret reached across the table and grabbed Delia’s arm. “You are coming with me.”
She dragged Delia around the table to her, and the old woman fell to the floor, crying out. “Leave me be! I cannot come with you!”
Delia struggled, and Claret fought to gain control of Delia, and finally, started dragging her across the floor, kicking and screaming, down the hallway towards the basement.
“Not the basement! Not the basement, mother! You know what happens in that basement!”
And then Claret flung the basement door open, so hard the handle smashed through the drywall and buried itself in the wall.
*~*~*
Delia came to at the foot of the basement stairs.
She looked upwards, and saw the light filtering in from the kitchen, as she lay still and motionless. She was surrounded in a cloak of darkness; it was impenetrable and forceful, without a warrant for light.
“Father Bauman?” She called up the stairs, but there was no answer. In the distance, she could hear the falling rain and the howl of the hurricane force winds outside the mansion. “Father Bauman!?”
And then she thought of Claret, and closed her eyes. Something told her that Claret was never really here; that the house knew her thoughts, that the basement was here and exploiting her inner secrets – but then she knew that Claret was real, Claret was there, and Claret had dragged her down the steps and that it wasn’t a dream.
She struggled to her feet.
It was a shame to be immortal, to never die, and be stuck in such an old body for all of eternity. There was too much that she missed doing now, that she had been able to do when she had been a young immortal, but now, everything took every effort, and now, she was cursed to live eternally in a state of old age.
She knew that there was youth to be found in the cup, but she doubted if she, or Darius for that matter, would be able to resurrect Antoine in time before Douglas destroyed Antoine’s heart.
Douglas would be flying to Germany after the storm passes. And Darius, too, would be planning a trip to Lyon, she knew that from when she last spoke to him.
And then there were footsteps at the top of the stairs, Delia could no longer see up to the top, she was on her knees and hanging her head low as she pondered what to do.
“Delia?”
Father Bauman.
She raised her head and saw the familiar silhouette.
“Did you fall down the stairs?” There was a touch of concern in his voice as he descended several steps, then stopped. “I was wandering through this house – it is huge – and I went upstairs. Can’t find Darius anywhere.”
Delia got up to her feet, and brushed herself off. “Darius isn’t here anymore,” she said. “I think he is already on his way to Germany.”
“Germany? What on earth would he be going to Germany for?”
The wooden steps creaked as Delia grabbed the railing and headed up. “Let’s sit the storm out in the kitchen. I will explain to you what’s going on in there.”
*~*~*
Doug ignored the small blue sedan that was parked in front of the abandoned mansion.
He had a trunk full of gasoline and intended to use it. And during a land falling hurricane, it would be the most precise time to burn Antoine’s estate to the ground. (Reader should already know this at this point in the story)
The house was dark.
But despite the lack of power, one could still see the palm trees swaying in the wind, amidst the falling rain, and the blowing bushes.
The windows and doors were dark, the house was silent, but Douglas stopped for a
moment, holding the trunk open, as he looked over towards the house.
He sensed movement.
He shook off the temporary distraction and reached inside the trunk, grabbed a large canister of gasoline, and several thick, wooden torches.
It looked as if the house had been abandoned for years. The front lawn was unkempt and overgrown. He hoped he would be able to ignite the fire and leave before anyone noticed anything. And the blue sedan parked in front might help.
When he approached the front stairs, he stopped.
The front door was ajar.
He set his equipment down. “Hello?”
And then there was a voice that spoke, off to his left, but a female voice that clearly came from the front porch.
“I know why you are here,” she said, stepping closer to him, where he could make out her white hair and wrinkled, friendly face and hanging pearls. “I see your supplies down there.”
Doug turned around, and then looked back at the old woman. She smiled. “This house is evil, my son. I know what you are here to do, and I know who sent you. And I know why.”
“I couldn’t even understand the reason. But after I read his letter to me, I have felt compelled to do it.”
“And you must,” she said. “This is no ordinary house. It must be destroyed. And I must help you.”
And then Douglas realized that, despite his thoughts of being alone, and sitting in the hotel room alone and reading Sheldon’s letter, that he may never have been meant to complete this task alone. He may not have been the one who was needed to perform the task at all.
He just needed to see that it got done.
*~*~*
Delia sat on a small, wooden rocking chair on the porch. “We don’t have much more time,” she said. “The night’s almost over, and the storm’ll be passed soon.”
*~*~*
You’re a whore bitch from hell.
