Mystery Dance: Three Novels

by Scott Nicholson

  Walter must have noticed her weariness. “I seen him climb in the window right as it was getting dark. You drove up about two minutes later. I was afraid he might jump you or something, so I went to warn you, but then I saw him climb out with the….um…underwear thing.”

  He’s BLUSHING.

  Wait–if the Creep was only in the house for a few minutes…then how did he have time to find the clock, plug it in, unlock the front door, prowl through her dresser, and get out the window again?

  Walter continued. “He went into the trees, and I saw your lights come on and heard the window close. I waited to see what he would do. Then, when he snuck back to your window and started peeping, he made me so mad that I wanted to bust him.”

  “Let’s see, peeping, burglary, breaking and entering–”

  “Oh, he didn’t break nothing. Your window was already open. Which kind of made me wonder, since you were so worried about the locks.”

  “The window was open?”

  “Yeah. What’s wrong?”

  “The ring. My fiancé gave me a huge rock and somebody wanted it. I better check.”

  He followed her into the bedroom and waited by the door as she pulled the burgundy velvet box from its hiding place behind Mr. Ned. She opened the box and the diamond glistened from its golden set.

  “Man, that could keep a Creep fed and liquored up for a year or two,” Walter noted.

  She rubbed her head and yawned with exhaustion. “It’s just dirt and metal, when you get down to it.”

  “Listen, I better go and let you get some sleep.”

  Go and leave her alone with the night and the locks and the mace and the Louisville Slugger and the skull ring and the haunted clock–

  “Do you know much about electronics?” she asked.

  Walter’s head tilted inquisitively. “A little, yeah.”

  “I’d like to hire you for a job.” She went to the kitchen, feeling his gaze on her back. She extracted the clock from the trash, took off the outer bag, and carried it to Walter. “Would you mind seeing if this has been tampered with?”

  “This that broken clock?”

  Julia nodded. She didn’t want to tell him she’d found it plugged in when she’d arrived home, that the digits were still stuck on 4:06. Let him examine the clock without her imbuing it with any mystique.

  Their fingers brushed briefly together as he took the clock, and Julia felt an odd tingle of electricity. Similar to what she had experienced when putting the skull ring on her finger.

  No. The ring had no power. The clock contained no dark magic. Satan didn’t exist, and therefore had no influence in the world besides in the minds of desperate, gullible people.

  And Walter had no magic power, either. She was just tired, that’s all.

  He stood and their eyes met. One heartbeat, two, a third. They both looked away at the same time.

  “Uh–I’ll give this a look-over,” Walter said. “But don’t expect to pay me.”

  He moved toward the door, carrying the clock as if it were a football, in a hurry now, almost clumsy for the first time since she’d known him. She followed, but not too closely.

  He paused in the doorway and pointed to the bat leaning in the corner. “Would you really have used that?”

  She smiled. “You don’t ever want to find out.”

  “Reckon not.” He grinned back with strong, slightly-uneven teeth. Was he blushing again? None of the men she knew blushed. Rick O’Dell didn’t blush. Mitchell had certainly never blushed in his life. “Well, see you later.”

  “Bye.”

  He went out into the darkness as moths clustered around the porch light. The college students had gone back inside, to continue their drinking in front of the television. Maybe having a friend arrested was just one more reason to party.

  “Walter?”

  He stopped beside the Jeep, his face shadowed. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “My name’s Julia.”

  He nodded.

  “Thanks,” she said. “For…you know.”

  “Might want to lock your door,” he said, braver now with the distance between them. “There’s bums and creeps everywhere, even in Elkwood. ‘Night, Julia.”

  She waved, closed and locked the door, then stood leaning against it, replaying the sound of his saying her name. She found herself comparing it to the way Rick said it, the way Mitchell had said it back in more innocent days.

  “Jooolia,” Walter pronounced it, stretched out and lazy, a musical “ooo” in the middle. Jooolia, the way her dad had once teased. Mitchell’s high-brow friends said “Jewlia,” more precisely adding the “you” sound.

  She took the wooden box from her purse and examined it. This relic didn’t belong in Elkwood, in the new life she was trying to build. Maybe Mitchell, as screwed-up as he turned out to be, was right about one thing: perhaps the past should have been left buried.

  If I were stronger, able to control my anxiety better, we could have been married years ago, and I’d be happy now. Mitchell wouldn’t have resorted to–

  No. The attempted rape wasn’t her fault, no matter what kind of tricks her mind tried to play. And she wasn’t to blame because Mitchell had tracked down and hired a Creep to prowl in her underwear drawer and try to steal the engagement ring. If he were in financial trouble, she would have gladly pawned the ring and given him the money. She would have been happy with a simple diamond chip, or no ring at all. Jewelry had never created a commitment or love through its precious substances alone.

  Dr. Forrest would sort it all out in the morning. In the meantime, a night of hours must pass.

  Maybe, if she acted as if this were the end of a perfectly normal day, she could survive. Papers waited on her desk, notes for articles. Other chores required her attention. Reality exerted its own brand of pressure. And reality offered an escape, however briefly, from dark thoughts.

  Julia booted up her computer, surprised that the screen saver didn’t exhibit some sinister message. Other appliances seemed to belong to the unseen forces of Evil, why not her computer? With any luck, her toaster might start spouting backwards Led Zeppelin lyrics.

  She connected to the Internet, knowing she should get to work on her articles. But first she checked her e-mail, one of her strongest addictions besides coffee. A few posts from her Cardinals newsgroup speculated on a possible managerial change, Sue asked if Julia had arrived safely and said she’d soon have more info on Snead, and the director of the animal shelter had sent an e-mail of thanks. Nothing from Mitchell. Big surprise there.

  Creepmail must have closed its accounts.

  Julia closed the e-mail program without responding to the messages. She did a search for “Satan,” then got the obvious, www.satan.com. Seemed like typing w-w-w-dot-anything brought access to some bizarre site. She linked and read through some sites built by self-styled Satan worshippers.

  Not only were their edicts contradictory and juvenile, they were also poorly worded. Someone who was filled with the power of the Master of the World should at least know how to run their text through a spell check. How could these people not hold their hokey posturing up to a fire-lit mirror and laugh themselves into the grave, and thence to the hell they so eagerly sought? Except they didn’t seem to believe in hell at all, and certainly in no everlasting punishment. They mostly held up their religion as an excuse for self-indulgence and vapid cruelty.

  She finally reached the biggie, the official Church of Satan Web site. After reading through some of the Church of Satan’s premises, based on the writings of the late Anton LaVey, Julia believed that Satanists were even crazier than she was. And, at the bottom line, the little rules and rituals were as demanding and tedious as those of the most disciplined and austere religions.

  The Nine Satanic Statements. The Eleven Satanic Rules of Earth. The Nine Satanic Sins. So Satanism had its own sins. Its gate was just as strait and its way just as narrow as those of fundamentalist Christianity. Most amusing was the fact that LaVey, who a
ctually had the audacity to die while positioning himself as Satan’s High Priest, was as possessive and money-grubbing as the most odious of corrupt Christian evangelists. Here was his supposed “gift” to the world, his Satanic Bible, but it had the copyright symbol attached to every tiny segment, lest someone spread the Word without LaVey or his heirs drawing a percentage of the profit.

  Other regalia was available for purchase through the site, such as black candles, silver calabra, ceremonial robes, daggers, and various herbal potions. And the Devil took credit cards.

  Julia could easily separate these self-serving tenets from the cruel memories of her own past. This packaged-and-shrink-wrapped product bore no connection to the abuse she had suffered at the hands of Satan worshippers. As with all religions, it wasn’t the words or the beliefs or the long-dead prophets that defined transgressions. It was people, those of flesh and blood and bone who mindlessly swallowed whatever was fed to them, blind to the true nature of the hand bestowing the blessings.

  Julia shuddered as her own memories tried to spill from their carefully latched closet–goat’s head and a silver blade and smoking crucibles and bad people.

  Julia clamped her eyes shut and squeezed her temples between her palms. Her breath became shallow and her pulse accelerated to a flutter.

  No, that’s for Dr. Forrest and Dr. Forrest only. Not for here, not for now, not for YOU.

  She took a deep breath, scared. The panic attacks were occurring more frequently. Despite her sense that she was being healed, despite her faith in Dr. Forrest’s treatment, she felt on the edge of a great black chasm, and the next step would have her falling into the ink of oblivion.

  She forced herself to inhale, thought of sunshine and clouds, heard Dr. Forrest’s voice counting down from ten, let her fingers grow warm and plump and light. Let her body dream itself as a piece of the sky, apart yet part of it all. Let herself become air.

  And, riding on the breath came a warmth and comfort and a soft, distant breeze that suggested a gentle voice.

  God? Is that you?

  But if it had been God, the very act of focusing had driven him back to his hidden hole in the heavens. She concentrated on Dr. Forrest’s instructions and let herself relax further.

  When she returned from her mental vacation, the computer screen still glared. Nothing but words. If she were to understand how Satanists worked, she needed to translate this nonsense. Maybe if she read LaVey’s ideas with a cold and academic eye, without the preconceptions, Satan would lose his power to reach out from the past.

  After a few minutes of going through the rules, she thought she understood something of Satanism’s attraction. Indulge yourself in this world, right here and now, instead of waiting for an eternal reward. Seek gratification of the flesh and mind instead of the spiritual satisfaction of a life wasted helping others. Be kind only if it leads to personal gain, otherwise practice cruelty, and don’t dare turn the other cheek.

  Give in to nature instead of rising above your base animal instincts. Take what you want, because if you have the power to take it, it rightfully belongs to you.

  Be selfish and petty and to hell with everybody else.

  The “official” portrayal of Satan wasn’t the damned, evil Prince of Lies presented by the conservative sects of the Christian church. This Satan was a smiling, benevolent uncle who always had a pocketful of candy to dispense. This Satan never punished. This Satan didn’t require that his followers roast for an eternity to prove their devotion.

  Well, which one is the real Satan? If God indeed wears many faces, the devil must have more masks than a Hollywood prop shop.

  Even though LaVey urged his followers not to harm children or animals, only full-grown adults who happened to be standing in the way, the other camp believed that blood offered power and magic. And to them, what Julia considered the Crowley Camp, power was what Satan was all about.

  Not that Aleister Crowley attributed his power to Satan. No, that would have deflected some glory from Crowley himself, who petulantly demanded to be called the Great Beast. So yet another false prophet inflicted the world with his self-aggrandizing beliefs, the magick so precious that an extra letter had to be added. Scariest of all was Crowley’s espousal of blood as life energy, with sex as a source of power and magic. Naturally, the most potent “spiritual working” came from the fluids of the innocent: the children.

  So Crowley basically built himself a religious system that excused the molestation of children, and in fact encouraged it. The idea of the fat, drugged-out satyr abusing a child made her want to vomit. Crowley’s first law was “Do what thou wilt.” Was there a hell hot enough to deliver the punishment someone such as that deserved?

  “Joolia.”

  The call rode in on the whisper of breeze in the eaves or the rustle of a curtain. She looked around the empty room.

  She pushed herself away from her desk and paced rapidly, trying not to hyperventilate. The darkness outside the house pressed against the doors and windows, searching for an invasion point. Her house was weak and shook with the shadowy wind.

  She ran to the bathroom, turned on the tap at the sink, and splashed cold water on her face. When she looked into the mirror, she scarcely recognized herself. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, her hair stringy from sweat. Her skin was pallid, that of a walking corpse.

  It was all her fault. If she hadn’t kept sticking her nose in the past, if she didn’t have to explore, if she didn’t have to know, she wouldn’t be freaking out over skull rings and Black Masses and false prophets and ritual abuse. If she were normal, she might have a happy future waiting.

  She wouldn’t be isolated in Elkwood, alone with the Creeps who were closing in with their devil masks. But she wouldn’t have Dr. Forrest, either. Dr. Forrest was her light in the world of darkness, the one who led her through the tunnels of the past to the true Julia Stone that she knew she could become. The whole, healed Julia Stone, the one who would stand in light.

  If only she were that person already, instead of this limp, weak Julia who was nibbled by shadows, gnashed between the teeth of invisible monsters.

  As she leaned into the corner of the bathroom and slid down onto the cold tile, the walls of the world collapsed. The scars on her stomach throbbed, and the air smelled of mildew and rot. The temperature seemed to rise twenty degrees, and the room became as steamy as a swamp. Yet still her teeth chattered, her bones clacked against the tiles like a wind-blown skeleton on a string.

  She was sliding into that inky ocean. This time the wave had swept its mighty arm over her, crushed her spirit, drenched her with doom. All that remained was to slip beneath the surface for the final time. This was the antechamber to hell, the waiting room to the rest of her life.

  Had this been what she was born for, to end up shattered and mad, to go down without even a cry for help?

  Dr. Forrest won’t like this. She won’t like this at ALL.

  Because this isn’t only YOUR failure, Julia. It’s HERS.

  Did she really want to disappoint the one person who had faith in her? Was this the proper repayment for someone to whom she owed so much?

  She struggled for breath, her chest bound by hot bands of steel. She closed her mind off to the dark reaching fingers, the sinuous memories, the negative thoughts that were her jailkeeps. She thought of the light, of Dr. Forrest’s calm voice.

  “We can make it, Julia.”

  As if the therapist were right in the room with her. Julia grabbed a pained lungful of stale air.

  “We’ll go through it together,” came the voice of assurance. “Let me take you back, and then lead you forward.”

  Yes. Dr. Forrest could save her.

  Julia exhaled, breathed again, trying to gain a rhythm. She ignored her pounding heart, afraid that its beat might be erratic. Sweat crawled over her flesh like slimy insects.

  Dr. Forrest’s words came to her again, like a voice in the wilderness.

  “I’m here for you, Julia. I�
�ll always be here. I’ll save you.”

  And Julia shifted her focus onto the therapist’s face, built her photograph to fill her mental field of vision. And Dr. Forrest smiled.

  Julia smiled, too. Someone did love her. Someone did care enough to save her.

  She lay against the tiles, aspirating easily until her dizziness passed. The shadows slid back to their odd lairs of hibernation, the panic drifted away like mist across a morning lake, the walls of fear turned to powder and crumbled.

  Soon, seconds or minutes or hours later, she could stand. She wiped her face on the towel that hung on the back of the door, avoiding her reflection. She didn’t want to see herself this way.

  This wasn’t how Dr. Forrest wanted Julia to see herself.

  She went to the bedroom, holding onto the wall for support. The room still held that expectant air, fouled by The Creep’s stealthy invasion. He had stood on this carpet, had breathed this air, had rummaged through her intimate things–

  No. He was just a Creep. He would pay for his crimes and maybe taint Mitchell in the process. And he was out of her life, all of them were out of her life, Mitchell, her father, the bad people, everyone who had ever tried to hurt her.

  All she needed was Dr. Forrest.

  She made sure the curtains were tight, resisting an impulse to check the sash lock again. She thought of the bat and wondered if she should return it to its place under the bed. No, she was brave now, she gained strength through Dr. Forrest. Tomorrow she would tell the doctor all about this strange day, and by the end of the session, she might even be able to laugh about it.

  For now, she needed to sleep, because the exhaustion had settled upon her flesh as soon as the panic had abandoned it.

  She went to the closet to get a nightgown.

  When she opened the door, she saw the yellowed paper pinned to a dress sleeve.

  The drawing was done in red crayon, of a crude star shape in a lopsided circle, similar to the image carved on the wooden ring box.