A Nest of Nightmares

by Lisa Tuttle

  Nora caught a glimpse of motion in the mirror, and then the clear reflection of the one who had come for her: the lumpish head with the mask of another’s face stretched crudely over his own. She looked calmly into the mirror, right into the reflections of his eyes. They were brown, she realised, very much like a pair of eyes she remembered from Mexico.

  Feeling a kind of relief because there was no longer anywhere else to run, Nora turned away from the mirror to face him, to see this man in his dead skin for the first time in a fully lighted room. ‘She sent you to me,’ Nora said, and realised she was no longer afraid.

  The skin was horrible – a streaky grey with ragged, black edges. But what of the man underneath? She had seen his eyes. Suddenly, as she gazed steadily at the figure, his name came into her mind, as clearly as if he had written it on the mirror for her: Xipe, the Flayed One. She had been right in thinking him some ancient Mexican god, Nora thought. But she knew nothing else about him, nor did she need to know. He was not a dream to be interpreted – he was here, now.

  She saw that he carried a curved knife; watched without fear as he tore seams in the skin he wore, and it fell away, a discarded husk.

  Revealed without the disfiguring, concealing outer skin, Xipe was a dark young man with a pure, handsome face. Not a Mexican, Nora thought, but an Indian, of noble and ancient blood. He smiled at her. Nora smiled back, realising now that there had never been any reason to fear him.

  He offered her the knife. So easy, his dark eyes promised her. No fear, no question in their brown depths. Shed the old skin, the old life, as I have done, and be reborn.

  When she hesitated, he reached out with his empty hand and traced a line along her skin. The touch of his hand seared like ice. Her skin was too tight. Xipe, smooth, clean and new, watched her, offering the ritual blade.

  At last she took the knife and made the first incision.

  THE NEST

  We found the house on the third day of hunting. It was in the country outside Cheltenham, half-a-mile from a small village: a tall, solid house standing on its own in an expanse of flat, weedy lawn surrounded by hedge.

  I switched off the engine and we went on sitting in the car, staring up at the house, caught. The roof looked dilapidated, and the house had obviously stood empty for some time, but the yellow stone it was built of seemed to glow softly in the sunlight.

  ‘Imagine living here,’ Sylvia said softly.

  ‘We could,’ I said.

  ‘Remember how we used to play we were the Brontë sisters? In a lonely old house on the moor.’

  ‘You could go for long walks,’ I said. ‘I’d have tea waiting for you by the fire when you came in.’

  She laughed, a brief, rich sound of uncomplicated pleasure.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ I said, and we got out and followed the broken paving stones to the door.

  ‘How old do you suppose it is?’ Sylvia asked.

  I shrugged. It was a simple, solid, stone box with a tile roof. For all I knew of architecture, it could have been twenty years old, or two hundred.

  ‘I hope it’s really old,’ Sylvia said. ‘There’s something about an old house . . .’

  The key turned stiffly in the lock, and we stepped into a narrow, rather dark entrance hall. Rooms opened to the left and right and a steep staircase rose directly ahead. My skin prickled. Sylvia touched my hand. ‘It feels . . .’ she said, very softly.

  I nodded, knowing what she meant. It felt inhabited, or only very recently vacated – not like a house which had long stood empty. That made me cautious, and I left the door open behind us as we entered on our tour.

  It was shockingly dirty. The two front rooms, large kitchen and tiny lavatory at the back; three bedrooms, and a bathroom upstairs were all filthy with litter. There were newspapers, empty cans, bottles, cigarette butts, contraceptives, food wrappers, indistinguishable scraps of clothing, dead leaves and twigs, and chunks of charred wood lying everywhere. But none of the windows were open or broken, there was no graffiti scrawled on the dirty walls, and no signs of a squatter’s rough habitation. It was all just rubbish dumped or abandoned there for some unknown reason. And yet I couldn’t lose the feeling that someone was living – or had been, until our arrival – amid all the mess.

  We were together at first, touring the house, but somewhere along the way I lost Sylvia. I retraced my steps but could not find her. Outside, clouds had moved across the sun and the rooms were full of shadows. Once I froze at the sound of paper rustling in a corner. My skin crawled at the idea of the vermin that might be lurking there. I called Sylvia’s name but there was no reply.

  I went outside, but she wasn’t waiting for me there; the garden was empty. A loud cawing drew my attention to the tall beech trees which stood close beside the house. Half a dozen rooks were perched low in one tree, but at my look they all flapped heavily away.

  ‘We’d have to get the roof fixed,’ Sylvia said from behind me.

  I started and turned and saw her standing in the doorway. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘There’s a big hole in it. Somebody covered it with plastic, but it’s all shredded now – from the wind, I guess. Rain or anything could get in. The attic floor is all covered with – ’

  ‘I didn’t know there was an attic.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  ‘I didn’t see any stairs.’

  She walked down the path to join me. ‘There aren’t any stairs. The loft door is in the ceiling of my bedroom.’ She giggled shyly. ‘Well, what could be my bedroom. There was a box there, so I used that to climb up on, and then hauled myself up. Old monkey Sylvia.’ She flexed her arms.

  I could imagine Sylvia doing just that: seeing a trapdoor and pulling herself up through it without a thought for the consequences, without a fear. Headfirst into the unknown. It made me shiver, just to think of being in that dark, dank space beneath the roof.

  ‘I suppose it would cost a lot to fix a roof,’ Sylvia said, staring up at the rapidly scudding clouds.

  ‘That’s probably why the price of the house is so low,’ I said.

  ‘Is it?’

  I nodded. ‘It’s the cheapest of all the ones we’ve looked at.’

  ‘And the best.’

  ‘You know what it is,’ I said. ‘It’s the house we always dreamed of, as kids. The big, old house in the English countryside.’

  ‘Chez Charlotte and Emily,’ Sylvia said. ‘I’ll bet it’s cozy in a gale.’

  ‘It is a little isolated,’ I said. That suited me, but Sylvia, I thought, liked parties and people, the bright lights of cities.

  ‘That’s what I want,’ Sylvia said. ‘It’s perfect. I need a change . . . I’m sick of cities, and city people. And I like England. I can see why you stayed here.’

  I smiled slightly. She had been here barely a week. ‘All right. Shall we hire someone to give us the bad news about the roof and the plumbing? Shall we make an offer?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sylvia. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’

  I want to make it clear that the house was Sylvia’s idea just as much as mine. At first she was even more enthusiastic than I was, impatient to get things moving to ensure that we had a house of our own by Christmas. She expressed no doubts, no serious reservations during all the negotiations. I did not bully her, or push her into something she did not want to do. Although I was the one who first suggested we take the money from the sale of our mother’s house and, instead of dividing it in two, use it to buy one shared house, Sylvia seized upon my suggestion eagerly. It was not I, but she who said – I remember it distinctly – how nice it would be to live together again, and how cozy we would be in our little nest in the country. I do not understand how it all went wrong.

  We weren’t able to get the roof fixed right away, but the local carpenter and his brother rigged a tarpaulin over the hole to keep us snug and dry. Sylvia went up int
o the attic to supervise, despite my assurances that it was unnecessary and that the men should be left alone to their work. I stood outside in the rare, blessed sunshine and watched the activity on the roof. I couldn’t hear anything Sylvia said, but every now and then her clear laugh floated out on the breeze. I could hear the men, for all the good it did me. The heavy, foolish way the younger one was flirting with Sylvia made me prickle with embarrassment. Fortunately, stretching a tarp over a hole is no great job, and even though Sylvia invited them in for a cup of tea afterwards, we didn’t have to endure their clumsy society for long.

  And yet, after they had gone, a stifling silence dropped, as if the tarpaulin had fallen in on us.

  ‘All cozy and snug now, aren’t we, Sylvia?’ I said, forcing the cheer.

  She looked from the clutter of cups and saucers down to her hands in her lap and began to twist her ring. It was the mate to mine, a platinum band set with rubies. They had been our mother’s, the guard-rings she had worn on either side of her diamond wedding band.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  She shook her head swiftly, then said in a rush, ‘Oh, Pam, what will I do here?’

  I almost laughed. ‘Do? Why, whatever you want. This is our home now. There’s plenty for both of us to do, to fix it up, and in the spring we’ll plant a garden. We can grow our own vegetables.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. We’re so much on our own out here. We don’t know anyone. How will we meet people?’

  ‘In the village,’ I said. ‘At church, in the pub, in shops. People are friendlier in the country than they are in London – it will be easy. Or we could have people come to visit. The house is big enough for guests.’

  She still looked doubtful, brooding.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You’re not having second thoughts now. It’s too late for all that. The house is ours now. You’ll love it here – just give it a chance.’

  ‘It’s just . . . it’s such a change from what I’m used to . . .’

  ‘But that’s what you said you wanted. And after Mother died whatever you did would have been a big change. How do you think you’d like living all by yourself in Edison? That boyfriend of yours wouldn’t have been much help.’

  ‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘I left him, didn’t I? That’s over.’

  ‘I’m just trying to point out that you could be a lot worse off than you are. Think how miserable you would have been if you’d let that affair drag on. What could he offer you? Nothing. He would never have left his wife, so you couldn’t hope for marriage, or any kind of security – ’

  She glared at me. ‘I never wanted security from him. I knew what I was doing. I wasn’t trying to get him to marry me. It wasn’t security I wanted – he gave me something else. Adventure, a feeling of excitement.’

  ‘Oh, excitement,’ I said. ‘That’ll do you a lot of good.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand. After mother died I felt I needed something else . . . he wasn’t enough. That’s why I came here. And it’s over, so why do you keep bringing it up?’

  She stood up, gathering the tea things together with a noisy clatter. As I watched her I wondered if she would ever, without me, have summoned the nerve to break up with her lover. I remembered how she had been at mother’s funeral, how dazed and helpless, sending me those blue-eyed looks that begged for rescue. In moments of crisis she always turned to her big sister for help, and was grateful for my advice.

  I remember, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday, an incident from our adolescence. We’d gone down to the drugstore as we often did, on an errand for our mother. Ready to leave, I had looked around for Sylvia. I found her at last in the shadow of a hulking, black-leather-jacketed boy. My immediate inclination was to go, and let Sylvia find her own way home. Boys, especially boys like that, made me uneasy. Usually they ignored me, but they were always hovering around my little sister, drawn to her blonde prettiness and easy charm.

  Then Sylvia caught sight of me, and the look she sent was an unmistakable cry for help. My heart beat faster as I approached, wondering what on earth I could do. As I reached her side she said, ‘Oh, gee, I’ve got to go – my sister’s waiting for me.’ She took my arm and – I didn’t even have to speak to the monster – we were away.

  Outside, safe, she began giggling. She told me how awful he was and how nervous she had been until she saw me. ‘He’s dropped out of school, imagine! And he wanted to take me for a ride on his motorbike – I couldn’t think how to say no, how to get away without making him mad. Then, thank goodness, you were there to save me.’

  I basked in her praise, believing that I had saved her from some awful fate. But only a week later I saw the horrible black leather jacket again: Sylvia’s arms were tight around him as she sat on his motorcycle, and on her face was a look of blissful terror, beyond my saving.

  On Christmas Eve I went looking for Sylvia. Upstairs all was dark, but still I called her name.

  ‘I’m in here.’

  Surprised, I went forward and found her sitting in her bedroom.

  ‘All alone in the dark, Sylvia?’ I switched on the bedside lamp.

  ‘Don’t.’ She held up a shielding hand. I saw that she had been crying, and I sighed. There was a chair situated oddly in the centre of the room. I moved it closer to the bed and sat down.

  ‘You’re not doing yourself any good, Sylvia, sitting alone and crying. Anyway, he’s not worth crying over.’

  ‘How would you know? You never met him.’

  ‘I know enough from what you told me. The facts speak for themselves: a married man, who couldn’t even be bothered to come to mother’s funeral, to be with you when he must have known how much you – ’

  ‘God, I wish I’d never told you! Can’t you ever leave me alone, let me make my own mistakes?’

  ‘If you really want to go back to him, I won’t stop you.’

  ‘You know it’s too late.’ She stared down at her lap, looking like a sullen child. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to. I wasn’t crying about him.’

  I felt embarrassed and full of remorse. Of course. It was Christmas Eve – her first not spent with mother.

  ‘Come on,’ I said gently. ‘You’ll only make yourself feel worse, sitting up here alone. Come downstairs and help me decorate the tree. We always used to do that on Christmas Eve, remember? I’ve got a fire going and I thought I’d make some mulled wine. We’ll put the Christmas Oratorio on – would you like that?’

  ‘All right,’ she said, her voice dreary. ‘But in a minute. Just give me a minute alone.’

  I hesitated, hating to leave her in such a mood. Her hand went out and switched off the light.

  ‘Sitting alone in the dark,’ I said. ‘Well.’ I stood up and moved uncertainly towards the door. ‘You always used to be afraid of the dark.’

  She gave a heavy sigh. ‘Not for years, Pam. And it never scared me half as much as it did you.’

  I left without answering. I was surprised, and a little shaken, to discover that she knew that about me. I had always been terrified of the dark. Even now a residual uneasiness lingered. But my own fear had always meant very little to me beside my obligation to protect my little sister. I had been her scout and protector, going ahead of her into darkened rooms to turn on the light and make certain no monsters lurked. I remembered the night my protectorate had ended, when Sylvia had turned on me, screaming, ‘Leave me alone! Leave me alone! You never let me do anything! I’m not a baby, I’m not scared!’ To prove it, to free herself from my loving care, she had rushed headlong, alone, into the terrifying dark.

  On Christmas Day Sylvia vanished. It was to be the first of many such disappearances, although I didn’t know that at the time. I had no particular reason for searching for her, but finding her room empty made me curious and I went on a circuit of the house. I hadn’t heard her go out, and looking out of the win
dow I saw that the car was still parked in the drive, and there was no one in sight. I went upstairs again, thinking that somehow I had missed her, but still the rooms were empty. In her room I found a straight-backed chair in an odd position, almost blocking the door. I had my hands on it to move it when I happened to glance up. The loft door was directly overhead.

  I stared up, wondering. ‘Sylvia,’ I said loudly. ‘Sylvia?’

  Footsteps sounded, so close over my head that I winced. Then the door clattered open and Sylvia’s head, the fine hair all tangled rat-tails, swung out and smiled. ‘Hi.’

  ‘What are you doing up there?’

  ‘Cleaning.’

  ‘On Christmas Day?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t sound like much fun.’

  ‘I got bored with reading. Anyway, I thought I’d better get it cleaned up before the roofers come.’

  ‘There’s no rush. We won’t get anyone out to fix the roof until after the holidays.’

  ‘I know. I just felt like doing it. Okay?’

  ‘I thought we could take a walk.’

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘It’s lovely out.’

  ‘Great, you go for a walk. Maybe I’ll be finished when you get back. Have fun.’ Her head swung up out of sight and the door – really nothing more than a flimsy piece of wood – came clattering down to close me out.

  Having suggested a walk, I now felt obligated to go for one, but I was not in a good mood as I set out. Sylvia wasn’t being fair, I thought. It was Christmas, after all: a special, family holiday. We should celebrate it by doing something together. Was that really asking too much of Sylvia? I argued it out with her in my imagination as I put on coat, hat, boots, and gloves, and by the time I had reached the road she had apologised and explained that cleaning out the attic was by way of being a present to me.