I look like a cross between Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face, and a Playboy bunny. Well, with cat ears. I was going for a 1960’s cat woman look, but this is close enough.
I open up shop again and streams of parents enter and parade their children around my shop. I love that the shopping district in Uptown is where most kids and parents start their trick-or-treating. Some costumes are sometimes even a source of inspiration for me.
I pass out candy and watch parents look around my shop and pick fun Halloween knick-knacks and used books to read to their children after their night of trick-or-treating. I pop fresh popcorn, and pass out warm apple cider. Word must have got around about my pre-Halloween fun last year because there are much more people coming in than usual, which is great!
People can see that my shop isn’t just great for Halloween costumes, but there is so much more I have to offer, year round. Like unique one-of-a-kind vintage clothing and household goods. I listen to a couple of mothers speaking in hushed voices about my shop being Uptown’s best kept secret. I smile inwardly at the compliment.
Uptown is abuzz with Halloween excitement. Most shops put out fun and scary displays and pass out candy, but the old ice cream factory charges to enter its terrifying haunted maze. I’ve never gone, but from what I hear, they have a new theme every year. This year they’ve made it so that you have to be thirteen or older to enter, so I have more pre-teens coming in than usual. The excitement is tangible, and contagious.
My record player is setting the mood, playing old Halloween songs. It’s the noisiest my shop has ever been, and 6:30 rolls around very quickly. All I’m left with in the shop now, are the kids who weren’t old enough, or didn’t have the five dollars to get into the maze. They’re waiting for the streets to empty out, so they can pull their pranks and clean up on left over candy. I dim the lights, and the boys and girls crowd around my makeshift living room area. I put a Rachmaninoff record on to further set the mood.
They waste no time, a little raven-haired girl dressed as the zombie version of Snow White, dives right into the story of how her house is haunted. Everyone tries to debunk her story, but her good friend, zombie Cinderella, corroborates her tale. I believe it full on. The houses in Uptown are old and full of history and I’m a believer in the spirit world. It was ingrained inside me at an early age.
Apparently, a woman killed herself in the young girl’s home in 1893 after her infant died of influenza. Her mother and father looked into the history of the home and she claims she can provide proof! Everyone falls silent, as do I. It’s a very sad story. Children should never die before their mother’s.
I soon realize that isn’t why they’ve all gone quiet. They are all looking behind me. I turn around and behind me is a man, dressed in black, with a black trench coat and a black sack over his head. The kids are all staring wide-eyed in dead silence; my heart is in my throat, the fear in the room is palpable.
“Can—Can I help you?” I stutter. My heart hits double time.
He is silent, and all the kids begin shifting around uncomfortably. One boy slowly gets up from his place on the floor and begins inching his way toward the door. I’m about to muster up the courage to tell him to get lost when he pounces out at us, letting out a horrifying yell. All the children scream loudly in terror! I stand up as anger overrides my fear and grab the sack off of his head, ready to slap whomever it is, but it’s fucking Vincent, laughing hysterically at my expense.
The kids all break out in nervous laughter as I beat a laughing Vincent with his black sack. I hit him over the head with it before I fling the black sack across the room. He scared the crap out me! Out of all of us! He grabs my hands and crushes me to his chest. All my anger and fear disappears as I breathe in his now familiar scent. I grip the lapels of his finely tailored trench coat.
“What do you think guys, did I scare her?” he asks, his eyes glued to mine. He looks spellbound. They laugh nervously at first; then begin shouting, “Yes! Do it again!” He takes my hand and leads me back to the couch, sitting as close to me as possible. My heart is starting to calm back down. I think I just aged ten years. But, damn does it feel good to be sitting in such close proximity to him.
“Ok, so am I allowed to tell a story now?” Vincent asks, playfully.
“Yes!” They all shout in unison, the boy that was sneaking out of my shop creeps back in quietly. Vincent has everyone’s undivided attention. He dives into a story about how he and his older brother went exploring in their attic as children and came across an old Ouija board.
“We didn’t know how to use it properly of course, but we didn’t care. We pulled it out of the box and started asking stupid questions, and to our surprise it moved, it really did. I thought it was him, he thought it was me. We took our hands off, and it moved. It moved by itself! And not only that, it really did answer our questions.”
A chill goes up my spine as he says this, the kids are all skeptical, telling him it was his brother, or an unseen magnet, but I know better. It doesn’t take long for him to convince the children that it was something that wasn’t of this world that was causing the planchette to move.
I know that the Ouija isn’t something to play with, not without great care. The way Vincent and his brother were playing, well—that’s just not the safe way to do it.
“It became an addiction for us,” he continues. “We’d come home from school and run up to the attic to play and ask questions. Just asking if so and so liked us, or you know, inappropriate questions and the like.” He chuckles softly at the memory. He grows serious, apprehensive even as he gazes at the faces gazing up at him.
“My brother asked it how old he’d be at his time of death. The Ouija answered seventeen. He asked what day—it answered with his birth date. My brother got really angry, seeing as he was sixteen already and his birthday was only a month away. He made a big mistake. He tried to throw the Ouija away; he told me it was broken and I wasn’t allowed to use it anymore.”
Vincent looks around at the kids, I sense he regrets starting this story, but he continues anyway. “You see…it had been right about everything. So when it said he’d die at seventeen, we couldn’t help but believe it.”
I can tell this isn’t a made up story; his voice is heavily laced with emotion.
“Anyway, I guess the Ouija didn’t like that my brother threw it in the trash because it started showing up in odd places. My brother blamed me, and we actually fought about it. One morning at breakfast, my brother was pouring his cereal and the planchette fell out of the box and into his cereal bowl. He was angry with me. He really thought I did it, when he realized it wasn’t me...we both freaked out. We were out of our minds with terror.” He shakes his head...a lost look crosses his face. Goosebumps break out across both of my arms.
“My brother started to keep to himself more and more; his 17th birthday was coming closer. I found him upstairs in the attic, in the middle of the night, asking the Ouija who was going to kill him...he was so convinced that he was going to be killed, that it wasn’t going to be an accident that lead to his death.”
Vincent’s voice takes on a bleak tone; I place my hand on his back. I really don’t want him to finish his story. I don’t even think he’s aware of the children anymore; he’s so far off. I’ve noticed he does this quite a bit; drifts off to another place and time when he’s remembering something or when he’s deep in thought. I know the feeling. The feeling of getting caught up in memories past, and feeling like your half awake and half dreaming the nightmare that was your life.
He grows quiet again. “Anyway, on the evening of his birthday, he went out to the lake to meet a friend. He said I couldn’t come...and he never came back,” he adds solemnly.
The room is silent. Deafeningly quiet.
He stands suddenly, straightening out his slacks, and walks to the bookshelf and chooses a book seemingly at random. No one wants to question him but I’m sure they’re wondering how the story really ended. The kids all look at one ano
ther, and then back at Vincent, waiting for him to elaborate. He sits back down a moment later and begins reading The Raven in an effort to recover the atmosphere that has plummeted in the wake of his story.
His voice is hypnotic, and after a minute the kids relax; the deep timber of Vincent’s voice sucks everyone in. As much as I love the sound of his voice, and The Raven, I’m still lost in the story he didn’t finish. Everyone else seems to have forgotten it completely.
How strange of him to choose to share his story and then stop before telling us all what really happened to his brother. Maybe it’s all part of his plan? To really make us believe…perhaps it isn’t even true.
But I don’t think he’s making it up; he had such a haunted look in his eyes. I shake the thoughts from my mind, and concentrate on his voice. He really does tell the story well. Soon, like the kids sitting cross-legged on the floor, I become enraptured, wrapped up in the madness that is Edgar Allan Poe.
“...And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!”
The children erupt into applause for my handsome Vincent. He would make an excellent teacher, it’s not just his beauty that captures attention; it’s his depth and his passion.
I slide the doors open and ask the kids to scram, giving each of them a can of silly string and a small bag of candy. None of them want to leave, but they reluctantly do. I hear them shrieking and spraying each other as they run down the streets, ready to wreak havoc.
My stranger places his hand on my back; my bag over his shoulder.
“Are you ready to go, Lenore?”
I feel my heart still and swell at the same time. I am ready to go, I’m ready to go anywhere with him. He too is a mystery I must unravel. I stare up at him, studying every inch of his face. Who is this man? What has he lived through? What is this sadness that sleeps beneath the surface of his composed, confident exterior?
I have resisted wondering about him, and who he is. His likes and dislikes, his past, or what he wants of his future. I know I am treading on dangerous ground if I allow these questions to bubble to the front of my mind, and out of my mouth, but now it is I who wants to know everything about him. But that can wait, because what I have in store for tonight doesn’t require words, or questions.
“I’m ready. Let’s go,” I say urgently.
He clasps my hand firmly in his, and we walk into the crisp night air.
The Mercedes roars to life. It smells so good in his car, like leather and vanilla. It’s the smell Vincent always carries with him. I place my hands on the seat of the Mercedes and I smile to myself, this car is a dream! He reaches over me and buckles me in, grinning at my expression. Yes, I am in love with your car Vincent. He plants a tender kiss on my lips and I feel my heart grow wings.
We speed off into the night, a smile on my face the entire drive. Billy Holiday’s voice sings quietly in the car, keeping us company in the darkness. Desire blooms within me as each mile ticks past.
We pull off the 101 in no time; the downtown skyline disappears from view as we exit the freeway. We make our way down the busy streets, past sharply dressed couples and loud, raging homeless people. Tents line a few of the streets we pass, and I catch glimpses of people sleeping in cardboard houses with blankets thrown over them; I feel a sad twist in my heart at the sight of it all.
Young exuberant people walk past, seemingly unfazed, as they make their way down the crowded streets. Many are in costumes, but most appear to be wearing as little as possible. I smile to myself, and enjoy their excitement over Halloween despite the fact that, to the homeless of L.A., it’s just another night of the week.
We arrive at a very industrial looking building in the heart of Little Tokyo. Vincent waves at the security in the booth and the yellow gates before us part. We pull into a garage and he veers off to the right and into the furthest depths of the parking garage. He presses a button on a remote clipped to his visor, and another set of yellow gates part. He has his own special parking? A vintage Triumph is parked in the garage, just off to the right. It’s dark, and kind of spooky in here.
He gets out of the car and quickly comes around to open my door for me. He takes my hand and pulls me from the car, like the gentleman he is. My legs don’t want to cooperate. I feel a tremble deep in my bones. He closes the door after me, and the sound echoes throughout the garage and sends shock waves through my body. I feel the excited energy and anticipation buzzing off of him. I’m nervous.
With my hand in his, he walks us to the doors of an ancient looking elevator. I stop in my tracks. Oh, my god, what if we get stuck in the elevator? I don’t like being underground, and I don’t see a stairway anywhere in sight, so I have no choice but to brave the death trap elevator before us.
He slides open the heavy metal gate, and I step in apprehensively. There is only a single dim light above our heads. He slides the gates closed and I hear the loud click of a latch falling into place. He pulls a lever and up we go, ever so slowly. With one hand on the lever, and one arm around my waist, he pulls me to him, my bag thrown casually over his shoulder.
“Trust me, we won’t be trapped in here, Lenore. It looks old, but I get it serviced regularly.” He smiles down at me, I let out a deep breath, and his smile widens. He kisses my temple, and my fears disappear.
Quick flashes of light illuminate his face with each floor we pass. It puts me in a trance, and my hands are in his hair in no time, bringing his mouth to mine, I take his bottom lip between my teeth and tug gently. He moans into me. The elevator jerks to a halt. I hear my bag slide from his shoulder and fall to the floor. He pulls my legs up and I wrap them around his waist, his hands are on my thighs, and I’m pushed into the furthest corner of the elevator.
My lips part and make way for his tongue. Soon, we’re both panting as I writhe against him. He pulls away first. His eyes are a scorching blue, alight with desire. Vivid despite the lack of light in this enclosed space.
“We better get to my floor before security comes to see why the elevator has stalled.” We’re lip to lip, both of us trying to steady our erratic breath. He let’s me down gently and grabs my bag off the floor and throws it over his shoulder again. He folds his fingers over mine, and squeezes gently. We continue up a few more floors; the elevator groans quietly in protest. He slides the gates open once the elevator comes to a halt, his chest still heaving with each breath he takes. My eyes are wide with panic and suspense.
We step into a dimly lit hallway. Everything is smooth gray concrete, the walls, and the floor, everything except for his bright red door. There is a security camera facing the elevator doors from a corner in the ceiling. Good to know. Makes me feel a little safer considering all the madness we drove past just to get here. He pulls out his keys and proceeds to open the door. I take another deep and jagged breath to steady my nerves. He enters and places my bag down at the door. He flicks the lights on in silence and watches me expectantly.
I squint my eyes to adjust to the intrusion of light. He dims them slightly after watching my reaction. He takes my jacket and removes his coat and disappears to hang them up. We’re in a very masculine space, that’s for sure. The walls and floor are all smooth concrete, but it’s still warm and inviting. Most of his furniture and shelving look to be made out of reclaimed wood. Old wooden crates hang on the wall, housing books and records. Colorful and surreal art decorate the walls, and bring texture and warmth into his home.
It’s a large loft. There is a makeshift wooden pallet wall separating his bedroom from the vast living area. An electric blue suede couch, a coffee table made of dense and old-looking reclaimed wood, take center stage in his home. Double-stacked crates are used as side-tables, and a large comfortable leather armchair rests beside the couch. No T.V. But there is a projector mounted to the ceiling, and what looks to be a retractable screen on the opposite wall.
A
thick wooden desk faces a large wall of windows on the far end of the loft; an old lamp casts a soft glow on that far side of the room. I can see a vintage typewriter atop of his desk. I smile to myself. I think it’s a vintage Royal. I sold one in my shop not too long ago.
There are long low bookcases on either side of his desk with rows of leather bound books lining the shelves. A large oriental rug in the living space brings warmth into the room with shades of plum, crimson, brown and blue.
I can’t really see his bedroom from where I’m standing, only that it is walled off by a half wall of wooden pallets. There looks to be a large baroque style mirror above a low bed...It looks like something from a magazine. His home is gorgeous; exquisite even. Punches of color come from random pillows, and clocks, artwork and framed records. Mostly blues records, I notice.
His kitchen, where I’m standing, has old craftsman style kitchen cabinetry, with black latches and knobs, and black open-faced cabinetry above the smooth concrete countertops. Above a large chunky wooden island, three pendant lights, cradling large vintage-looking bulbs, illuminate the kitchen. The flooring in the kitchen is different from the rest of the space; large dark, chunky wooden planks lead to a single step down to the rest of the loft. I love it. It’s perfect. This space is such a perfect reflection of Vincent.
Opposite of the living area, there is a long, harvest style table with a blue table-runner. A simple crystal chandelier hangs above the table. For seating, he has sturdy chairs at the ends of the table and two benches on the opposite sides. It could comfortable seat eight to ten people.
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