by Brian Hodge
“No thanks, John,” Ben said, as they walked away. “We’ll take the stairs.”
When they arrived at the final flight, they stopped.
When they reached the lobby, everything was unnaturally still. It was empty, which was unusual for any time of the day. Even at night, there would be a security guard.
They heard a soft clicking sound and looked behind them at the dreaded elevator. The light was lit up on seven and the light slowly began to descend toward the lower numbers.
They stood rigid and watched the numbers count down gradually like the ticking of a bomb.
When the car reached the final number, there was a soft bell and the doors slid easily open. Inside the elevator were the doubles of Ben and Wynter, their mouths dropping down simultaneously in a moment that would almost had been comic had been not been so terrified.
“Oh my god,” Ben said, staring toward the elevator door in awe. Seeing a perfect replica of himself was even more unnerving than seeing the horrific monster he had seen on the floor above.
“What the hell is going on?” Ben’s double whispered, staring out from the open door of the elevator with wide eyes. “That’s…us.”
“Please wake me,” Wynter’s double said.
The doors closed and the numbered lights began to count as the elevator ascended yet again. Ben and Wynter stood in the lobby of the building, their bodies stiff as their brains tried to comprehend what they just saw.
Ben was the first to speak. “If that’s us, they—we are in for a big surprise when they get to the next floor.”
Ben walked over to elevator door and studied the numbers. Although every core of his body screamed for him to flee, he found himself pushing the call number of the elevator.
“Ben, what the fuck are you doing?” Wynter whispered. “Why did you just bring the elevator back down? Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Ben shook his head. “Do you honestly feel that it’s safe to go outside? Don’t you notice that there is nothing out there? No cars or people? Pretty odd for Manhattan, don’t you think?”
Wynter looked toward the revolving doors and saw that he was right. The normally crowded streets were silent.
Ben’s eyes never left the lighted numbers. He stood unbending as the numbers began to count back down to the lobby, his body tensing. Every time a number lit up, it was followed by a soft click.
They held their breaths as the last number lit up. The doors slid open, once again shocking them ever closer to insanity.
Two corpses lay sprawled in the elevator car.
Although Ben could only see the back of his head, he knew it was his own. His right arm hung off grotesquely, nearly severed off. It still spurted blood, indicating that he had just been killed. Wynter’s body was against the wall, half of her head missing. Her one eye was still filled with the terror of what she had last glimpsed and her arm twitched spasmodically, a residue of still firing nerves.
Ben began to giggle insanely, his mind shattering like little fragments of glass. He turned to face Wynter, tiny spasms of laughter still erupting from his throat. “Going up, my dear?”
“Are you deranged?” Wynter said, moving forward to grab his arm. “Get the hell out of there.”
“Actually, I didn’t think so until I saw that,” Ben said, his eyes moving past her.
Wynter followed his gaze and felt a feeling of panic detonate in her chest like a hand grenade.
The man who stood only seven feet away from her was completely hairless. His spacious eyes were black, with no eyelids, which gave him a reptilian, unblinking look. His skin was an unnatural, deathly white. Black veins snaked all around his bald, pale white head, looking almost like tattoos. He wore some kind of dark military uniform, which covered him up completely, making his white head and hands stand out in stark contrast. He grinned broadly, exposing square shaped, metallic teeth. Flames licked through the cracks in his teeth like fiery serpents in a crematorium. The man cocked his head to the side like a predator.
Wynter rushed into the car, screaming when she saw her own mutilated body against the elevator wall. Ben pushed a random number grimly, and watched the doors close like the incoming blade of a guillotine. As the elevator began to ascend, he felt his nervousness suddenly break away like a depleted storm, his energy exhausted. He closed his eyes as they rose and listened peacefully to the sound of Wynter’s weeping. Her cries accompanied the elevator music, a classical piece by Gregor Handel, like a perverted symphony.
“Look on the bright side,” he whispered calmly, his eyes still closed as he waited for the doors to open. “We’re not really going to die. We’re probably doomed to repeat this over and over for eternity.” He smiled, inhaling deeply of the stale, blood scented air. “In fact, I bet we’re down in the lobby right now, waiting for the elevator to come back down.”
The doors of the elevator opened and a wave of hot air rushed into his face. His eyes were still closed when the blade of the machete nearly severed his arm, slicing into his bone painfully. The last sound that he heard before he fell into unconsciousness was Wynter’s shrill scream.
Ben was studying the back of her neck, fantasizing about caressing her smooth skin, when the elevator stopped abruptly between the seventh and sixth floor. The feeling of déjà vu was incredible, but he shrugged it off, realizing that he went to work at this time every morning.
For a moment, they froze, both of them waiting uncomfortably for the elevator to continue on its way.
She sighed and turned to face him, smiling sheepishly. “Let’s pray that this is only a momentary thing.”
Except for Ophelia
Carverton: Victorian Era
The naked corpse of a young woman lay in the center of the forest clearing, dark shadows twisting around her smooth face as an icy breeze swayed the branches. A full moon, surrounded by shimmering stars, shone beyond the clearing, illuminating the landscape in a murky glow.
A man stood before the body, head low, his long trench coat billowing softly in the wind like a whisper. A bloody dagger dropped from his hand and into the dew-drenched grass. He removed the wide brimmed hat from his head and let his long black hair fall onto his shoulders. A long aristocratic nose made his snow-white face look regal. Clutching the hat to his chest, he stared at the moon and began to sing a lullaby, his voice so low it would have sounded like nothing more than a hiss had there not been such a beautiful melody.
The corpse was wrenched to its feet as if by spectral puppet strings, its arms and legs jerking awkwardly about. Her blood-caked hair protruded out in stick-like strands. Blood ran from the stab marks in her chest and down onto her thighs as she was pulled around, hands waving spastically. The man continued to croon, his voice rising into a falsetto, his left hand flickering around as if he were conducting an orchestra.
“Ian, must you play such foolish games?” A woman’s voice asked from behind one of the trees.
Ian stopped singing, and the corpse fell to the ground in a macabre tangle of arms and legs. He turned to face the woman as she entered the clearing from the forest. “Ophelia, must you always intrude?”
The woman was entirely in white, black hair lay across her back in silky strands. She walked toward the corpse, her hips swinging seductively underneath her flowing dress. Turning to face her stepson, she smiled, her cheekbones giving her face a predatory appearance. Dark bangs hung onto her porcelain forehead, her flesh moonlight-blue. Her eyes sparkled as she stared at Ian.
“This one is beautiful,” Ophelia purred, staring down at the corpse before planting a kiss on Ian’s cheek. “Where did you find her?”
“The town is having the yearly carnival. She is the daughter of one of the gypsies.”
“You are such a charmer, Ian,” Ophelia said. “Just like your father. But you have much to learn about reanimation. You were making her dance like a broken puppet.” She let her penetrating gaze turn back toward the corpse. “Death makes her so much more beautiful.”
&nb
sp; Ian smiled, placing the black hat back upon his head. “Ah, but how would you know, my dear? You did not even see her when she was alive.”
“Death always brings out the beauty in a woman,” Ophelia said, twirling a black curl in her finger mischievously.
Ian pulled the curl away from her hand. “I think you should leave me be. I want to practice the dance some more.”
“Take me to the carnival, Ian. I feel like being around people tonight.”
“That would not be a good idea, Ophelia. Someone may have seen me leave with this gypsy girl. It could mean trouble.”
“Nonsense,” she whispered, running her finger along his rigid jawbone. “No one notices a poor gypsy girl.” Her full lips pulled back from her teeth in a feral grin. “Come on, Ian. We have not had a date in a long time! It will be fun!”
“We must not take another victim tonight, Ophelia,” Ian said, looking at her sideways. “If we do, the woods will be crawling with hunters by morning.”
“I just want to go in and soak in some of the atmosphere,” she said, taking his hand. “Is there dancing? It has been so long since I have danced.”
Ian allowed himself to be led through the dark woods, loving the way her hand felt in his. “There is a dance, my dear. But is it wise to flaunt yourself? Every man there will wish to bed you.”
“It is for the better if we get attention. Would they suspect you of killing the young woman if they see you on my arm? I think not.”
As they walked hand in hand through the gloomy trees, Ian marveled at the way the moonlight could be seen peeking through the branches of the stark limbs above. Living within the thick forest outside of the town of Carverton only allowed him to see patches of the nighttime sky.
On some nights, he would climb one of the taller trees until he felt as if he could touch the heavens.
The moon was mysterious and enchanting—nothing made him feel more alive. He loved the way it gave his white flesh an otherworldly bluish glow. Sometimes, as he lay comfortably in the branches far above the ground, he would reach his hand out as if he could pluck stars from the sky like glittering jewels. He always imagined if he were able to steal a star from the sky, that he would give it to the moon. No woman was as beautiful, nor could a woman instill him with the power he felt when gazing upon its radiant surface.
Except for Ophelia.
“You spend too much time longing for the sky, Ian,” Ophelia whispered in his ear, her tongue flickering at his lobe like a serpent. “The real world is here down below. You should live in it once in awhile.”
They entered a clearing. Ophelia’s white skin looked dark blue without the trees to shield the moonlight. Ian longed to run his hands over her flesh, but feared his father would take revenge.
“Thinking the night sky beautiful is not unhealthy,” Ian said, tucking his hair behind his ears. He placed his wide brimmed hat on his head. “I could never tire of looking at it.”
“Do you not think I am beautiful?” she asked.
Ian took her hand to his red lips, bowed down, and kissed her smooth flesh. “I have always thought you beautiful, Ophelia. Perhaps the most beautiful creature I have ever known. I adore you.”
“Then why do you not try to take advantage of me?”
“Because I fear my father. As should you.”
“Dante has been gone for ten years. He is most likely dead. How long could he last outside the safety of the forest, Ian? There are not many places left for our kind. The world is changing. The old days are dead and gone. We can no longer mingle as easily.”
“Dead he may be…but I, for one, am not taking the chance. He would crucify me for bedding his love.”
“I have bedded hundreds of men since he vanished.”
Ian grinned crookedly, cheekbones rising on his dark face. “And how many of those men are alive?”
“You are too much like your father, Ian. Too clever and delicious for your own good. Those men died because they could not handle me. Dante did not kill even one of those men.” She stopped, pulling him to her fiercely, removing his hat. His hair fell around his ears.
Ian watched her calmly, feeling her warm breath rush into his face. It smelled of flowers. “You are in quite a mood tonight, Ophelia,” he whispered.
She moved closer, her wet lips brushing over his. “Give me one night, Ian. Even if your father is alive, there is no way he could know.” She turned his head and nibbled on his ear. “The moon has only been in the sky for an hour. We can spend a little time here in this clearing and then enjoy the rest of the evening at the carnival. It always lasts until dawn.”
Ian inhaled her breath deeply, eyes closed. “I cannot do this, Ophelia. I fear my father far too much.”
Ophelia smiled widely, her perfect white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “I’ll never give up.”
Ian took her hand back in his, leading her back through the woods. “I would not want you to.”
They spoke very little as they walked through the dense trees that bordered the town of Carverton. It wasn’t long until they began to hear the music of the carnival, a dim roar of laughter and clapping, accompanied by a few instruments. The smell of roasted lamb and freshly baked bread was heavy in the forest air. Up ahead in the distance, they saw the inviting flickering of torch light at the edge of the trees.
“Please do not make a scene,” Ian said just as they walked into the warm light.
Ophelia pulled his arm tighter and grinned like a child. “Worry not, young Ian. I shall only be myself.”
“That is what I am worried about.”
The carnival could best be described as an elegant chaos. A storyteller sat at the edge of the trees, strumming a small guitar before a group of enraptured children, their cherubic faces glowing in the campfire. Various fortuneteller wagons surrounded the clearing, beautiful young gypsy women standing outside to entice the townsfolk. Dozens of food tents dotted the area, the heady smells mixing together enticingly. A half naked snake charmer watched his serpent sway back and forth with a mysterious smile, his fingers gliding gently over his flute. Ian noticed the father of the woman he had killed looking around at the various patrons nervously for a sign of his missing daughter.
On the far side of the clearing was a small band, consisting of a few violinists, a lute player, clad entirely in red, and an African drummer, who had completely surrounded himself with his instruments. A few of the young men and women of the town danced quietly before the musicians.
Ophelia sauntered toward the band, swaying to the seductive beat.
Ian followed her through the crowd, ignoring the stares of the younger women as he walked. One victim from the carnival was definitely enough.
Ophelia stepped into the circle of people as Ian caught up. She spun gracefully, her dark hair flowing about her head as if she had stepped out of a celestial daydream. She was smiling as if she had just put a piece of heavenly chocolate on her tongue, head held back as if she was about to moan. She pulled the folds of her dress around her as she danced, giving her audience a tantalizing peek of her muscled thighs.
Many of the men gathered around to watch, ignoring the heated looks from their own wives and lovers. Even the snake charmer, his serpent coiled about his arm, walked up to watch Ophelia.
Ophelia locked eyes with Ian as she danced, enjoying the lustful way he stared at her. Much to Ian’s annoyance, she pulled the cobra from the snake charmer’s grasp, holding it before her face until she could feel the flickering of its tongue upon her dark lips. She spun around the circle, the serpent wrapped around her arm.
In a movement so quick it was but a blur, the snake lunged forward and bit Ophelia in the neck. Two thin streams of blood dripped from the fang holes.
The music stopped and the crowd stared at Ophelia, eyes wide.
Ophelia dropped the cobra to her feet and touched her neck, staring at the blood on her fingertips. Then she gave them a slow smile, her dark eyes flashing dangerously in the torchlight, and put her blo
ody fingers to her lips.
“Witch!” one of the gypsy women shrieked.
There was silence in the clearing, Ophelia staring down the members of the crowd one by one with her confident gaze.
“I can assure you, I am certainly not a witch,” Ophelia said, offering a bloody grin.
A gypsy man with a full head of dark curly hair launched himself forward, grabbing Ophelia’s left arm. “Whatever you are, woman! You will burn just as easily!”
Ophelia growled and raked her fingers across the man’s throat, splashing her white face and dress with crimson droplets. The man fell to the ground, clutching at his neck as he choked, blood gushing out into the green grass. Ophelia held her splattered head high, staring defiantly at the shocked crowd.
Two more men, one of them carrying a large dagger, threw themselves at Ophelia, taking her down to the grass. The crowd fled the clearing, screaming as they ran, knocking over stands of food and merchandise.
Ian leapt to her aid, pulling one of the men away and snapping his neck with a quick flash of his hands.
Ophelia tore away a piece of the man’s flesh with her teeth, eyes glowing yellow by the torchlight.
Everyone had fled the clearing, leaving Ophelia and Ian standing over the bloodied corpses of the men they had slain. Ian was breathing hard, eyes darting around the carnival for any further attacks.
“We better get back into the forest,” Ian said, turning to face his stepmother.
“I won’t be able to go far,” Ophelia said, nodding at her leg. A massive knife wound was on her calf, the exposed flesh glistening in the torchlight.
Ian shook his head and grabbed her hand. “You dug your own grave, Ophelia. You did not have to play with the serpent.” He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. “We cannot move very fast like this.”
The sounds of dogs barking penetrated the still air, followed by the deep yells of some of the men.
Ian frowned and moved away from the carnival and into the shadows. “The cemetery is just over here. Perhaps we can use the dead to mask our scents.”
