She’d ordered a vanilla latte, while Maria inhaled a cappuccino. Finally, they gazed through sparkling storefront windows, as the city lights turned the sidewalks into a blazing glow.
The pair burst into laughter when Maria realized Bonita had left her face print on one of the windows. Maria laughed at her friend, which caused the remnants of her tepid coffee to topple over and slosh onto her sequined dress. The pair fell into each other’s arms, attempting to hold one another up during their out of control laughter. They’d finally managed to trot away in wheezing fits, back into the anonymity of the darkness.
Bonita smiled as she strolled down the long corridor toward her room. The walking had done her feet no good. They ached so much, she was tempted to kick her shoes off and leave them behind.
When she’d first come to work in the great house, Harmon had given her the pick of any suite in the expansive mansion. If she’d taken a fancy to the elaborate suite next to his, he would have graciously bowed and escorted her to it.
But alas, she was not one for the finer things in life. She was a simple housekeeper, with a simple life. The simpler, the better. Instead, she’d chosen a very nice but mediocre suite, only a door from the kitchen. After all, that is where she spent most of her time.
And indeed, Harmon had escorted her to it and confirmed everything inside was to her liking. She adored him.
She peeled off her gloves and tossed them on the buffet table in the dim hallway. She would not worry that the majordomo would rap harshly on her door at dawn, holding them out to her with a grimace the moment she opened the door.
She already knew Harmon would scoop them up, tap her door lightly and hand them to her with a smile. He was a fine man indeed. In the dimness before her, a figure appeared in front of the kitchen doors. Harmon was usually a night owl, as all musicians seemed to be.
“Harmon, is that you?” She called into the darkness.
“No, it’s me, Bice.”
She quickly caught up to him. He too, was a fine man. As she gazed into his deep auburn eyes, she suddenly longed to be twenty years younger. Why he was single, she’d never know. What she did know was the longer he worked for Harmon, the less chance he would ever have getting a woman long term.
Women flocked to Harmon like magnets, while Bice stood in the shadows seemingly waiting his turn. But, his turn had never come.
“You’re up late.” She smiled.
“Going to grab a juice. Want to join me?”
“No thanks, Mr. Bice.” She called over her shoulder. “I’m exhausted. Good night.”
“Hold on a minute, Bonita.”
She stopped and slowly turned back to him, watching him curiously as he caught up to her. Suddenly, he whirled on his heel, until his backside was facing her.
“Do you think I have a nice ass?” He asked, glancing at her over his shoulder.
* * *
Heaven opened her eyes and gazed around the darkened room.
The vague outline of a tiffany lamp rested in the far corner of the room near the window. The colored glass glowed in the moonlight, reminding her of the majestic window in her suite. She shuddered away the thought of the magnificent window. She’d be sure to stay far away from the colorful lamp.
Above it, gold records lined the walls. The moonlight glinted off each of them, transforming them into lunar discs behind their transparent casings. On the far side of the room, leather-bound books lined a bookcase, which stretched from wall to wall.
She must be in the study. How she got here, she didn’t want to know.
She sat up and spat the carpet from her parched mouth. It’d become a strangely familiar taste lately. Back at the orphanage, she didn’t recall waking up on the floor as much, if at all.
She gazed once again at the books. She shuddered, remembering the books at the children’s prison. Glittering, lovely covers on the outside, but on the inside it was quite the opposite tale.
Nuns roamed the stark halls, ruler in hand. Always ready to strike the palms of a child who might dare even breathe without asking.
She’d had her palms struck on more than one occasion. Once, for talking to Dreams during class. The Sister had warned her, but she had not taken heed.
The grumpy woman had stomped to her desk, her gargoyle robes twisting grotesquely around her ankles. She had demanded Heaven relinquish her palms to her.
She’d hesitated, knowing full well it would be much easier to do as instructed, rather than face the wrath of the headmistress.
The blows came in a succession of three. Stinging, burning pain overwhelmed her as she fought back the tears for what seemed an eternity. Stifled chuckles drifted from students in the distance.
Dreams was the only one who didn’t laugh at her friend’s predicament. Her friend had contorted her face behind the nun’s back, and made a few impolite gestures. The students burst into another round of laughter. The nun whirled around to see what the snickering was about. But her robes once again snared her ankles. She was suddenly a forest creature caught in a leaf-riddled trap, and crashed to the floor.
Her head struck the desk behind her.
Heaven could only stare at the dead nun. There was no urge to rush to her aid, to put her hands on her head, to make her better. But the woman was a fellow human being, she knew she had no choice, and resigned herself to help. She cautiously moved toward the fallen nun.
She gasped in horror as a black wall burst from the dirty floor, slowly rising until it hit the grimy ceiling. When it came to a rest, it had effectively separated her from the grisly scene of death in the room. It was impenetrable. She couldn’t help the nun now, even if she’d really wanted to.
She gazed in terror at the students. No one could see the opaque wall but her. She suddenly understood. The nun would never go on to do great things. As a matter of fact, after her death it was discovered the nun was actually a man.
A man who sported a long track record of preying on small, helpless children forgotten by society. He’d found the perfect place to take a job. He’d fooled the entire staff, and all of the children.
That was the day she decided to make her escape. And it was an escape well made, once she broke the lock on her door and found Dreams. The pair had run for the distant hills, and had never looked back.
But she was suddenly confused. Her palms still stung from the rapping by the man-nun.
She gazed at her hands in the moonlight, almost afraid to bring them to her face. Inhaling deeply, she studied her palm. Not surprisingly, it was blistered yet again. Maybe she’d ask Harmon for a pair of gloves. That way, she might stay out of trouble.
She couldn’t be sure if they’d work. Trouble seemed to follow her no matter where she went. She’d only remove them at bath time. At least that would be a start to finding normalcy. Harmon would never know the difference. She’d simply tell him her hands were often cold.
The familiar, searing pain was now slowly sweeping up her wrist. Tiny bubbles formed beneath the skin, threatening to break open and spill forth their poison. She fought back tears, as she slowly turned over her other hand.
It too was blistered. But something was different. She crawled toward the window, and positioned her hand under a beam of moonlight weakly filtering through.
She was holding the photo of a beautiful, young girl. She wore what appeared to be a school uniform from long ago, her long golden curls floated gently down her neck. The photo was in pristine condition for its age. She rolled her fingers along the corrugated sides. The paper was crisp and seemingly new. She could almost smell the darkroom chemicals on the snapshot.
Harmon must have dropped it. She’d be sure to lay it back on the desk as she quietly made her exit. She’d caused enough trouble for the day. Actually, since she had stepped foot into his expansive castle. She wasn’t about to let him know she’d been in his private study without permission.
She slowly pulled herself up and leaned against the desk. She was tired. Very, very tired. But she kn
ew she’d have to make it back upstairs, somehow. Harmon mustn’t know she’d been in the study alone. All hell would certainly break loose.
She tossed the photo onto the desk and quietly slipped out the door.
* * *
Bice strolled into the kitchen.
He certainly hoped he hadn’t insulted Bonita. The poor maid had gasped when he flexed his buttocks at her, and rushed to her room. The slam of her door had echoed down the darkened corridor.
He hadn’t meant his question as a sexual innuendo, he merely wanted her opinion. He always respected her opinions. She was a quiet woman, but an honest woman. He sighed as he walked across the kitchen. His lips were parched, and his tongue was plastered to the roof of his mouth.
He stuck his head into the fridge, and pushed aside the many fine imported beers and ales. The Philly Monster was dead and buried, where it would stay. He was much too strong to let it creep silently back into his life. He would resist the urge.
He decided on a jar of juice. He flipped off the cap and took a long drink. He turned and gazed at the lovely vases across the kitchen, sitting proudly under the dim lights as the cool liquid nourished his lips.
Bonita had truly done a fine job polishing them. He sincerely hoped she wouldn’t go to Harmon in the morning, accusing him of sexual harassment. Perhaps, he’d visit her first thing in the morning and offer his apologies.
Suddenly, reality came crashing down on him. He blinked his eyes in astonishment at the glittering keepsakes, which spontaneously caused him to swallow the beverage too late.
The liquid took a wrong turn. It filled his lungs until it threatened to smother out his very existence. The jar crashed to the floor and burst into an exotic orange rainbow across Thornton’s perfectly manicured tile. He never felt it leave his hand.
He dropped to his knees as he struggled to breathe. He gasped repeatedly as the searing amber liquid spewed from his nose. Salted brine streamed from his eyes, his body jerked and flopped on the hard tile as a fish might when suddenly pulled from the murky depths of a lost lagoon. Wheals of moving flesh prickled along his arms as he once again fought for his life.
An eternity later, his breathing returned to normal. His hands shook as he brushed the sticky hair from his face.
Now he was bleeding. Blood covered his palms and arms. He grasped the kitchen island and heaved himself onto the chair. Still gasping, he gazed at his arms and his legs. But he had no mortal wounds. There were no wounds at all.
An overwhelming nausea overtook him as he studied the vases once more. His head swam, wave after wave crashed against his skull. Damned that hurricane. Damn it to hell. It was the reason Heaven was here. The blasted storm was the reason the house had turned into a cathedral of the damned.
He must be in a movie, that was it. Any moment now someone would certainly come into the kitchen, even at this late hour, and unplug the projector. It would click and jump and grind in protest to a stop. The vases would fall back into a million glittering pieces, like they were before. He’d finish his juice and head upstairs to his waiting bed.
But his instincts told him things were far from normal.
The Philly Monster was slowly crawling up his legs. He could feel its grimy tentacles as they wove and crisscrossed along his skin. Burning freeways of slithery movement threatened to overtake him. He’d wake up in a pile of sawdust if he relented. No, he’d be the sawdust.
Harmon would come into his suite in the morning, or in the afternoon, or whenever the hell big Hollywood stars decided to climb out of bed and find a pile of shriveled wood castings under the sheets.
Nothing would be left of him but an empty bottle of very, very fine ale. And perhaps the imprint of his manly buttocks. Harmon would then pour plaster-of-Paris into the crevices and have yet another conversation piece for his future parties.
He already knew what he was looking at, as he gazed through the vases to the floor beyond. But his mind couldn’t take it in. It couldn’t absorb the reality of the blood-red swirls materializing through the crystal fog. The painting was coming to life despite his fight against it.
He hadn’t even had a chance to dutifully accept the fact that the vases were once again whole. It was too much to ask of a man who’d nearly choked to death on juice only moments before. Maybe if it’d been a fine beer or imported ale, it would have been worth it. But not a damned orange juice.
He was suddenly a thousand miles away, cutting his breakfast on a mirror. But no that wasn’t him anymore. He shook himself repeatedly, trying to fling from his mind the image that lay before him. Like he’d done as a child when the ants in his ant farm had died.
He’d pried the top off, and shook and pounded the tiny entombed carcasses from their eternal desert sands. He’d stared at their tiny bodies until the sun had set. The image stayed in his young mind for days. He never quite got over the loss of his pet ants. He loved those damned ants.
But he knew he was in full control of his mind since he left Philadelphia. That is, until Heaven made her presence in the household. A household that was slowly morphing into a sanitarium. He should’ve seen to it that Harmon stayed on tour and never came back to this place. Because the mansion was now haunted. Haunted with an unexplainable presence which materialized into a very beautiful girl who called herself, of all things, Heaven.
The movie projector jolted back to life. It whirred and crackled as it replayed its black and white film of impossibility to him. He struggled to fight it, but once again was drawn helplessly into the silver screen in front of him.
Through the shimmering and once again perfect butterflies, dancing high above the frozen crystalline roses, lay Harmon in a pool of blood.
* * *
Chapter Ten
Rays of sun burst through the imported Tuscany curtains. Metallic threads interwoven in the fleur-de-lis fabric danced in the morning light. They mixed with the rising glow, and set the room on fire in a bath of gold.
Harmon slowly opened his eyes. He blinked, and blinked again. He must be dead. He had to be dead. He remembered nothing. No, there was something. Deep down in the darkest closet of his cobwebbed mind. He must’ve fallen off the stage.
No, he hadn’t fallen. He remembered the blood. A fuzzy image danced beyond his memory. Too much blood. His life ebbed from his wound, much like the tide had ebbed when he was on the beach in the moonlight, leaving behind a pool of crimson on the pristine sands.
He gazed toward the sunlight. Next to his bed an angel sat upon a gilded chair. She seemed to be sleeping. But angels didn’t sleep. The sun glinted in her golden hair, spinning the delicate strands into silken threads.
“Heaven, is that you?”
She didn’t respond. He stared at her a moment longer. Satisfied she was breathing, he realized his mouth was terribly dry. His belly churned with pangs of hunger, unwilling to be stifled. He couldn’t be dead. Dead people didn’t get hungry. Or for that matter, thirsty.
He raised his hand to his face. His skin was glowing pink, far from the hand of a skeleton he expected to see. He turned it over and studied his veins. There appeared to still be blood coursing through them.
He wasn’t convinced. He pressed his fingertips to his cheeks, searching for the warmth only a living body could bring. Still unsatisfied, he ran his hand down his neck and across his chest. The warm, gentle beat deep within finally reassured him once and for all. He was still a Musical God.
“Harmon?” Bice asked. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”
Harmon turned toward the voice. He gasped as is eyes fell upon his manager.
Bice looked like he’d wrangled with the devil himself the entire night. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot. Dark circles beneath nearly overcame the soft allure of his auburn gaze. Orange stains mottled his shirt collar. What seemed to be traces of blood lined his cuffs.
He sat up and gazed at his manager. “What happened to you?”
Bice sighed and rubbed his chin. “I’m fine. The real question
is, what happened to you last night?”
Harmon noticed his foot felt rather odd. Prickling sensations overcame it, yet it was freezing cold at the same time. He threw the covers back in fear.
Thick gauze covered his limb, reaching upward beyond his mummified ankle. On each side were packs of ice, encased in sea blue latex gloves. The fingers stuck out at odd angles, mimicking a mime without a body.
Harmon struggled to reply. Feathery wisps of a headache were beginning to form deep within his temples. “I was on the beach and I stepped on something. I managed to get back to the house, but must’ve fallen in the kitchen.”
Bice gave the musician a reassuring smile. “The doctor said you’ll be fine, but you lost a lot of blood. Apparently you fainted. He said you didn’t loose enough blood to cause you to loose consciousness. He sewed up your foot and explained your fainting spells are most likely stress related, or due to the fact that you can’t stand the sight of blood.”
Harmon barely listened to his assistant, choosing instead to gaze at Heaven. “Why is she in here? What’s going on?”
“I needed to keep an eye on her.” Bice hesitated a moment, gazing at her as she slept on the chair. He started to chew his nail, but suddenly stopped as the image of a termite played in his mind. “Someone needs to.”
Harmon fought to bring back the memory of the night before. “The vases. They are whole again.” He kicked aside the ice packs, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Bice, tell me it was a hallucination. Tell me it isn’t so.”
Bice paled. After the doctor had left the night before and Harmon was safely in bed, he’d gathered the vases up. He hid them in a linen closet on a mostly unused wing of the great house. He’d be damned if Thornton or Bonita walked into the kitchen and discovered them as new again. He wouldn’t be the chosen one left holding the bag, grasping for explanations to tell the staff.
Finally he’d checked on Heaven. She was safely and surprisingly, asleep on her bed. Once again, her hands were burned to a crisp. He’d spent the next hour applying ointment and bandages.
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