The large, open room, spanning the full width of the library building, feels cozy despite its size, illuminated by the warm yellow sunshine streaming through the skylights of the raftered ceiling. I peer into the rows of glass cases, many of them containing old photographs of early Niagara Falls glory: people in Victorian dress gathered on the falls viewing areas, or walking arm in arm downtown. There are postcards and postage stamps, novels and storybooks, newspaper clippings detailing the thrill of hydropower and the tragedy of ill-fated barrel dives. It isn’t until I reach the final case—featuring prominent Niagara Falls residents—that I find what I’m looking for: Elizabeth’s urn.
Only it isn’t an urn; it’s a water flask made of rough-hewn pottery, and a beautiful example, dyed saffron with vegetable extracts and inked with a strange, spiraling design. Frankly, I’m surprised that the flask has been archived here, rather than at a museum, but Elizabeth—being an amateur, and a female amateur, at that—didn’t have the status of most other archaeologists of her time. It’s entirely possible that no one with academic historical or archaeological interest has ever even seen this flask, or heard of its existence.
I lean in closer to read the flask’s placard: Ancient flask, discovered in Macedonia by Elizabeth Patton, daughter of Godrick Patton of Patton Papers. The Pattons built and occupied the house at 1080 Cascade Avenue in Niagara Falls from 1876 to 1901.
And that’s it. That’s it? Nothing about Elizabeth’s globetrotting adventures, or the fact that, as a lady archaeologist—amateur or not—she was a rare creature, at odds with her repressed, patriarchal time?
Maybe I was expecting too much from a display case placard, but I’m insatiably curious about all of this, too hungry for facts, stories… Hopefully the biographies will tell me something of value about Elizabeth, or give me a jumping-off point for beginning my own research.
Disappointed, I let go of the case, leaving finger smudges on the glass, and begin to turn away. But a thick, curling piece of paper positioned just behind the flask catches my eye as I’m about to head off toward the stairs.
I peer down at the little drawing, a rough sketch in pen and ink, and my heart stumbles. Is it really…But it is; it’s her, the same figure drawn on the sketches hanging by the bed at the house. I’d know her lovely face, her liquid length, anywhere, in any context.
There’s a placard positioned by the drawing, too: Portrait of Victoria Richards inked by Elizabeth Patton.
Victoria Richards…
The dream comes back to me, comes back with such force that I have to take a step backward and grip my head to combat the sudden dizziness. I see her so clearly, that woman standing with her back to the Bridal Veil Falls. She’s dressed all in white, and her hair is as yellow as gold. The contrast between her dress and her hair is stark, disorienting, and when she lifts her arms to me, she opens her palm and reveals something bright, something shining.
Is it a coin? I can’t tell—
“Are you all right?”
“What?” I blink my eyes at the elderly man standing just to my left; he’s hesitantly touching my elbow, as if to steady me. “Sorry. Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just… I was only remembering something.”
He nods his head politely and moves off, convinced of my relative sanity—though I have to admit, I’m beginning to doubt it myself. Why did I react like that to an old drawing? It’s bizarre… I’ve rarely felt out of control—save for that Sunday in March, when the accident happened… But that was an extreme circumstance, an anomaly, and there was a clear cause and effect. Here, there’s no cause, only a picture, and a vague picture at that. Apparently Elizabeth was something of an Impressionist. Her drawings are clearly of a long-haired woman, but my dream supplied the hair color, the facial features, the graceful limbs and sad, seeking gaze.
God… Maybe that Bean Power barista spiked my coffee with a hallucinogenic drug. Or maybe I breathed in too much black mold at my new, incredibly old house. I hope one of those scenarios plays out to be true, because the alternative is that I’ve gone stark-raving mad. If I can help it, I’d rather not become the bedraggled Miss Havisham on the block, raving about heartache, heartbreak, from decades past.
Feeling shaky but slightly more lucid, I venture near the case again. Who was Victoria to Elizabeth, I wonder? A friend? A fellow archaeologist? Or just a model, not an acquaintance at all? But why would Elizabeth have hung Victoria’s portraits by her bedside, if that were the case? No, they must have been close.
Flushed and uneasy, I make my way back downstairs and check out my books at the scanning machine near the Reference Desk. “See you tonight, superhero,” Trudy calls out, and I wave to her distractedly as I shove the books into my bag and, foggy-headed, move through the revolving glass door.
---
“You’re late.”
“I’m sorry. And I hate to make excuses, but I don’t have a clock, and my phone died because I haven’t got an adapter or electricity yet—”
“No clock, no power. What kind of slum are you living in?” Trudy teases, nudging the straw of her frothy drink between her pink-glossed lips.
I smile weakly as I take the seat across from her. “A Victorian on Cascade Avenue, actually.”
“Cascade…” Her startling blue-violet eyes widen. “You’re braver than I am. My friend Cory got jumped on Cascade just last year. It’s a rough street, Alex.”
“So I’ve heard.” I tilt my chin on my hand, offering up an admiring smile. “You look beautiful.”
“You’re not so scruffy yourself.”
Trudy changed her makeup, and her face looks softer now, younger, too, with pink and violet replacing the harsher red and black. Stripped of eyeliner and that aggressively sexy lipstick, she reminds me of a girl that I dated in undergrad—Sophie Travertina, the blonde English major and wannabe novelist. We broke up when we realized that, after being exclusive for four months, neither of us had any desire to move in together. To this day, I’ve never lived with a romantic partner, and, given my propensity for travel, I doubt that I’ll ever share a roof—except, maybe, with a dog. I’ve always wanted a dog.
“Can I buy you a drink? Something to”—Trudy’s eyes take me in, loitering at the thick leather belt at my waist, and then sliding a little bit lower, her lips parting, tongue flicking over her too-white teeth—“energize you for the wild night of passion to come?”
Surprised, I laugh softly. “Is that the plan?”
“Mm. Let’s be straight, all right?” She shoves her half-full glass off to the side and takes my hands; her wide mouth slants into a lopsided grin. “Not straight, obviously, but…honest. Honesty is my policy. So…I’m kind of a free spirit. I like to keep all of my doors open, you know? I think you and I have a little spark between us, and I’d like to see that spark become a great big lightning bolt…” She trails her long, lavender nails over my palms; I lick my lips and suppress a shiver. “But I’m not really into monogamy. I mean, it’s cool and all, and maybe someday I’ll settle down with the proverbial woman of my dreams, but right now, I’m just looking for something casual.” Her mouth slides up at the corners. “And sexy. And since you seem both casual and sexy—”
“Thanks, I guess...”
“What do you say? How’s about you whisk me off to your little love nest on dirty old Cascade?”
“Well…” Chuckling, I still her ticklish fingers and entwine them with my own. Her nails poke into my skin softly, and I realize that it’s been a long time since I dated a woman with long nails; archaeologists tend to keep their nails short and unpainted.
“It could be dangerous, you know,” I whisper playfully, gazing into Trudy’s bright, eager eyes. “Not only because of Cascade’s reputation, but… The truth is…I think my house—or love nest—is haunted.”
Her jaw drops, and she pulls her hands out of mine to lay them flat on the table, nearly tipping over her drink. “Ghosts? Honest-to-goodness ghosts? Oh, this is perfect! I'm an amateur ghost hunter.”
“Mm. And I’ve never had sex in a haunted house before. That could be kind of creepy…” She touches a finger to her chin and regards me with a wicked gleam. “Good thing I’m into creepy stuff. Let’s go!”
“What—now?” I laugh and lift my brows as she rises from the table, straightening her short, clingy black skirt. “But we haven’t talked. You haven’t told me anything about yourself.” I fall back against my chair and stare up at her, amused by her pouty, impatient expression. “Come on. I don’t even know your last name.”
Trudy leans over me then, so that her half-bared breasts are—quite purposefully—within my line of sight, and she positions her face, her mouth, very near to mine. My eyes flick over her features; my body warms at her closeness and begins to arc toward her. She smells of old paper and cotton candy. “Guess what?” she says. “I’ve got a superhero name, too: Trudy Strange.”
My eyes widen. “Really?”
“Really.” She snakes her hand into mine and, before I can protest, neatly pulls me to my feet, drawing me tight against her, her free arm clutching at my waist. “So what do you say—up for a Dark and Strange time, Alex?”
I bite my lip and feel my mouth move into a slow smile. “Always, Trudy.”
“That’s what I like to hear. Then come on, tiger. Let’s fly.”
---
Trudy pins me against the front door as soon I shut it behind us, her mouth hot and hungry against mine, her body soft and warm as it molds itself to me; I break the kiss and moan as she moves her bare knee between my legs, applying pressure there—gentle at first, but then harder, faster. With one hand, I unhook her bra, digging my nails into the smooth skin of her curving back.
“Bed?” she breathes into my ear, kissing the line of my neck and sliding her hand beneath my shirt.
“Oh, well…it hasn’t got any pillows,” I pant, pausing to claim her mouth, savoring the sugary flavor of her lip gloss, “and it’s old and might not be up for all of this…Darkness and Strangeness…” I grin against the kiss.
“Well, what the hell! Who needs a bed, anyway?” Trudy declares, and with that, she’s pushed me down to the dusty floor, right over the wretched hole that tripped me up yesterday, and somehow she’s already unbuckled my belt and unzipped my fly. With expert fingers, she shimmies my pants over the length of my legs, and I kick off my boots, laughing.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you don’t like to waste time,” I whisper into her ear as she bends over me, wavy blonde hair trailing over my collarbones. She ducks her head for a long, deep kiss that steals my breath from my lungs and makes my heart pound like a drum. “Coincidentally…” I begin, “I don’t like to waste time, either.”
Grinning, I wrap my arms around her waist and roll until I’m lying on top of her, my hips pressing hard against her hips, my mouth at her neck, tasting her salty-sweet skin—
“Should’ve guessed you’d play dirty,” she laughs, arching her back as my kisses move from her throat to her chest, and then to the soft, pink curves of the tops of her breasts. She moans beneath me. I slide my fingers under her shirt and bra, then, and she tosses the clothes off to the side, pulling my hair, pulling me close. Again, her knee angles itself between my legs.
With a groan, I fall upon her large, lovely breasts; I suck at her nipples, teasing them, biting them, and as she begins to thrust her knee harder against me, I slip a hand under the waistband of her skirt, of her lacy panties, searching for her wetness—and then I massage her as I lift my head, crashing my mouth against her cotton-candy lips.
For long moments, minutes, we hold that kiss, still touching, moaning, pressing our bodies close together, tormenting one another in small, practiced, delicious ways.
“Oh, God, Alex,” Trudy gasps for air, long nails scratching at the fabric on my back; clawing, desperate, those nails slip beneath the hem of my shirt, trailing ticklish paths over my sides.
Catching her hands and pinning them down beside her head, I made a tsk-tsk sound, leaning over to kiss her mouth so hard that our teeth clack together. “No distractions while I’m working,” I breathe against her; then I leave her mouth and lick her hot length. Her skin flushes a shadowy scarlet. I bite her nipples, pinch them with my fingertips as my lips travel lower, lower, tongue teasing at the edge of her skirt.
“Alex…”
I rise up onto my knees and straddle her; my hands slide between her skin and her skirt and drag the bunched black fabric down, over her hips and legs, revealing a pair of black panties embroidered with the words MISS STRANGE.
“Are all of your clothes personalized?” I ask, smiling, edging my fingers beneath the beribboned elastic band.
“Most of them. I never said I wasn’t vain. Besides, every girl needs some luxury in her life—oh…ohhh…yes…tiger…”
Trudy’s panties now lying beside her other clothes on the floor, I smooth my hands over her bared legs, gliding my tongue along the inner curve of her thigh…
“Yes…please…”
…and then I’m tasting her at last, as her hips begin to buck around me. I give myself over to the bliss of her, the sweet scent of her, and when she grows quiet, eyelids closed upon her pink cheeks, I slide my fingers inside of her, gently rotating my fingertips as my tongue continues its slow, wet ministrations.
Her hips thrust upward then—once, twice, three times—and I feel her thrumming, squeezing, hear her crying out as the orgasm moves through her; her hands seek my hair and pull hard, tangling in the curls. A minute passes, two, as she relaxes, lets go of my hair, drawing in slow, trembling breaths, eyes still closed.
Finally, she laughs a hoarse, raw laugh and tugs at my hair again, pulling me on top of her, neatly rolling me over, just as I had done to her. “Your turn,” she says—or tries to say, but the words scarcely leave her tongue before she gasps, falling to the side of me and gaping toward the staircase. “Alex, there’s…there’s…”
“What is it?” I smile lazily up at her, grazing her folded leg with my fingertips. I shiver slightly, suddenly chilled, despite the heat and longing still raging through me; the outdoor temperature must have dropped. There are goosebumps all over my skin, and, I notice, all over Trudy’s skin, too.
“No—look.”
“Trudy, what’s wrong?” I take in her expression—shock, or, no…fear—and sit up quickly, placing a hand on her shoulder, turning to follow her line of sight.
It must be after eight o’clock; the downstairs windows are still boarded up, save for the small window in the door, and there aren’t any lights on, no candles, nothing; visibility fades in the recesses of the entryway, and the stairs themselves are awash with strange, multicolored darkness, thanks to starlight or streetlights beaming through the stained glass window of Elizabeth Patton. Trudy’s attention wasn’t caught by the quality of light there, though, but by the being of light adrift on the steps, descending in eerie, slow, floating degrees.
“There’s a g-ghost,” she finally manages to whisper, sliding nearer to me, wrapping a cool, shaky arm around my waist. “You were serious. I thought you were j-joking. Your house is haunted. Oh, my God, I just orgasmed in a haunted house. Alex.” Her grasp on my waist tightens. “Is it friendly, like Casper?”
“I don’t…” I stare in mute astonishment at the illuminated shape. At first, it looks like a vaguely person-shaped mass of gray light, hazy, undulating with shadows. But as I stare, that shape begins to take on distinction, features—there, the curve of a hip. And there, I think, is the long, flowing hem of a gown. It’s a woman; it feels like a woman, like a female’s gaze, pointed toward us, somehow serene in its unhurried drifting and its silence.
“Alex!”
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, reaching for her hand and giving it a weak squeeze. My muscles feel oddly liquid, and my heart is beating so quickly that it seems as if it isn’t beating at all. “I’ve never seen…that…before. I—someone told me a story, but—”
&
nbsp; “Should we go?” Trudy whispers urgently, pressing her chin to my shoulder. “Do you think it’ll hurt us, possess us or—”
“No. No, I don’t think it will.”
“How can you be sure?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure.” I swallow and lick my dry lips. I want to look away, look at Trudy, comfort her, kiss her again, ignore the impossible specter looming behind us.
But I’m unable to remove my eyes from the apparition on the stairs. Though it had appeared to be descending at first, I realize now that it’s lingering halfway down the staircase: its loose skirt sweeps around its feet, as if caught in a breeze, creating the illusion of forward movement. The skirt is dark; the whole body is dark, save for the too-white arms and face and the smooth, shadowy updo of its hair.
As I watch, in one strange sweep of its head, it looks to the left, over the banister and into midair, presenting us with a clear view of its profile.
Elizabeth Patton. It looks like Elizabeth Patton, the woman in the window.
I blink, shaking.
Honestly, I think I’m in shock.
“Oh!” Trudy says then. “It’s fading, I think.”
But the ghost doesn’t fade so much as evaporate, separating into infinitesimal pinpoints of light, like a Seurat painting, or like the clouds of mist generated by Niagara Falls. “Water dust,” my mother always called that mist, as if the falls were engaged in a never-ending spree of hydropowered Earth-cleaning.
My mouth hangs open as the phantom—a gathering of pulsating dots now—drifts upward, disappearing moments before it touches the ceiling. There’s an odd whoosh to the air around us when it goes at last, icy and quick but somehow soundless.
“It’s gone.” Trudy’s words, whispered against my neck, hang heavily in the dark, empty space around us.
“Yeah,” I say, “she’s gone. It’s okay. We’re okay. She’s gone.” There’s no question that she’s gone. We saw the ghost vanish, but the house feels different now, too. Vacant. I couldn’t have described it before, but now that I’ve had the experience and can make a comparison, I realize that there was a being-watched feeling just before the apparition appeared, an instinctive awareness of a presence in the house other than Trudy and myself.
Cross My Heart Page 5
