Night Shadows

by Greg Herren

  When she woke, the room showed a faint tinge of light, as if the day was struggling weakly to get in, defeated by the dark curtains. The light was too dim to reveal much, not even the door out of the room. Malda next noticed the air, a heavy fetid smell as if it too was without light.

  Malda was lying on her side, something—someone, curled behind her. The woman. An arm was around her waist, felt more than seen in the dim light. Maybe the woman was as much a prisoner as she was, her giving of pleasure a way to make up for the pain. Malda understood the night had changed her, seduced her into carnal pleasures that she had been taught to shun as evil. Carnal pleasures that she would have to engage in over and over again to survive. They didn’t just want living bones, it had to be a game, a pursuit of wit and will.

  The woman’s arm tightened around her waist. Malda looked down, expecting to see pale smooth skin.

  The decaying smell grew denser.

  The arm pressed against her, a prison. It was more bone than human—no pale youthful skin, instead a hide weathered to dark leather, wrinkled and scarred, the arm pushing her down on her back.

  The woman was again on top of her.

  Malda screamed, terror this time. This foul creature had touched her, caressed every secret place, given her more physical pleasure than anyone had ever given her.

  A creature of the grave, red eyes shrunk in a skull face, the waft of decay about her. Lips shriveled to rawhide strips, the teeth loose and green. Her skin was slack, sliding over the bones as if only a bag containing what used to be human.

  Malda struggled, but the creature was swift and cunning, pinning her down, again binding her hands, the smell of decay gagging her.

  “Let’s review some of the things you learned last night,” the creature said, her mouth a rictus grin that widened into a harsh laugh. She wrapped her claws into Malda’s hair holding her still enough to force a kiss. She broke it off only as Malda started to retch.

  She shoved another pillow under Malda’s head, propping her up to watch as the monster kissed and fondled her. The lips and fingers were dirty sandpaper, the kisses leaving foul wet greasy splotches.

  Malda panted through her mouth. She had thought that being forced by a man would be the worst thing that could happen. The wallpapered room now seemed a sanctuary. “Let me free and I’ll bring the goddamned pope in,” she muttered.

  “Oh, we have plenty of those,” the creature replied. “No, you’ll have to do better.” Her hands shoved Malda’s thighs apart. “You liked this last night.”

  Malda felt the hot, rancid breath between her legs. The lizard tongue started to stroke her there.

  “No, please, don’t,” she begged. But as the words left her, she understood that there was no mercy here. Asking for it only let them know your weakness.

  The bony, decayed finger slid inside Malda. “Yes, you liked this a lot last night.”

  Malda jerked her hips, trying to pull away. But the creature held on, her skull head fastened between Malda’s legs.

  Malda gagged, starting to retch, but she had eaten little, so only a wet stream came out of her lips.

  “You don’t much like me as I really am, do you?” the creature said.

  Malda knew not to reply.

  “You’re going to have to do better, you know. I won’t stop until you feel the same pleasure you felt last night.”

  “I can’t…”

  “Oh, yes, you can. Or you can spend another eternity chained to this bed.”

  “No!” The word was out before Malda thought to be silent.

  “Imagine your delightful Ysabel here instead of me. Picture her delicate tongue touching you as mine is now.”

  “No!” This time Malda meant to speak. She had betrayed Ysabel in life; she would not use her again.

  “As you wish. It’s been a long time since I’ve had company. I’ll enjoy yours.” The hag again started kissing Malda, her bony finger sliding in and out.

  Malda shut her eyes, breathing through her mouth to keep the decayed stench out of her nostrils. She tried to imagine the woman of last night, the beautiful Nordic blonde, but the image always turned into the monster she really was. She tried an imaginary woman, but could only hold the image for a static moment, the false visage too amorphous for her to bring to life.

  Her body was rebelling, the constant rub and touch making her swollen and wet, yet with no relief possible. Yet only relief would end this horror.

  Brown eyes, a light olive skin, flawless and young. Her perfect smile, a small gap between her front teeth. The sound of her laughter, her voice, the way she walked, she knew them well.

  “Forgive me, Ysabel,” Malda breathed, so softly no ghost could hear.

  They were in an olive garden, the early-morning sun warm against their skin. It was here, now, a future far from the convent. A time when touching each other was possible. They were alone. Touching, kissing. Giving each other pleasure. It was Ysabel’s mouth on her, loving her as they had been forbidden those eons ago.

  It was Ysabel who made her shudder and moan, gave her the final pleasure that racked through her body.

  It was the woman-monster who cursed her and threw her out of the room, naked and covered in her sour sweat and guilt.

  He was there, waiting for her, a sardonic smile on his face as if he knew what she’d done.

  “I hope you’ve learned your lesson well,” he said. He walked her back to the mirror, only throwing clothes at her at the last moment.

  *

  Boring, boring, boring, Kerrie thought. Life was unfair; she was tired of hearing about it. The woman had been pretty enough, young enough, perhaps too young. She worried about things like social justice and poor people. Kerrie didn’t even pretend to do anything other than look at her watch. Her date paused mid-sentence.

  “I’m sorry, I feel a migraine coming on,” the woman said, her tone making clear this wasn’t true. She put twenty dollars on the table and left.

  Kerrie was nonplussed, then angry. Women didn’t leave her; she left them. She had a comfortable six-figure income and a luxurious house in an exclusive location, drove a new and expensive car, and looked a good ten years younger than her forty-two years. No one walked out on her.

  Of course, the woman knew that Kerrie was about to do the same thing and was just enough of a bitch to do it first. She finished her drink, not wanting to appear as if anything unexpected had happened, and perused her date book. It wasn’t a calendar, but a list of the women she dated. It wouldn’t do to accidentally date someone she had already rejected. One more tonight, so all was not lost. In fact, the woman, by being so rude, had saved her the trouble of ditching her to make the next date. And her twenty dollars covered the cost of both their drinks. No tip, but the bar maid hadn’t been that attentive.

  This last one wasn’t a real date, more a sex hook-up, or so Kerrie hoped. She was tired of her vibrator and watching girl/girl porn to get off. The ad had been simple: In town on business. Looking for someone to have some fun with. Open to all kinds of fun. A woman seeking other women. She claimed to be twenty-six, which probably meant she was thirty-two. No, Kerrie didn’t list her real age, but she went to the gym three times a week, used expensive lotions every morning and evening, and had a spa day once a month.

  The woman had suggested meeting in the hotel bar. It was on the edge of the French Quarter and parking was always a pain there. But the woman wasn’t from here, probably didn’t have a car, so Kerrie couldn’t suggest one of the uptown bars she preferred.

  “This had better be worth it,” Kerrie muttered as she gave up finding street parking in a safe enough area and settled for paying to valet park at the hotel.

  The bar was packed. Of course, it would be, a Saturday night full of conventions in town. How the hell do I find someone I’ve never seen before in a place like this, Kerrie thought. She valued discretion and wasn’t about to go up to various strangers asking if they were…she had already blanked on the woman’s name.

/>   Just as she was retrieving her date book to look up the name, a voice said in her ear, “You must be Kerrie.”

  Kerrie turned to face one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen, certainly the best-looking one in the bar. “Yes, I am. How good of you to find me,” she said as she glanced down in her book for the name. “Megan.” She was tall, ink black hair with startling blue eyes and dressed in designer clothes, including a leather jacket that clearly was not bought off the rack.

  “It was easy, you’re the most beautiful woman here,” Megan said, a seductive smile playing on her face. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

  “You have an accent,” Kerrie said. “Where are you from?” It was slight; she spoke English perfectly. Kerrie could deal with that.

  “Spain,” the woman answered. “But I haven’t lived there for a long time.” She took Kerrie by the hand and led her to a back corner where two seats had opened up. She didn’t sit, instead asked Kerrie for her drink order.

  Kerrie was gratified to notice that the woman ordered top-shelf Scotch for both of them. Yes, this one was promising. She was already beginning to picture the woman naked when she returned with their drinks.

  She was easy to speak to, nodding sympathetically when Kerrie talked about managing a business, adding, “Yes, money is a burden that few people realize. It must be tended to.” She knew wines and liked to travel, could name fine restaurants in many cities. She was everything Kerrie was looking for in a woman. What was her name again? Kerrie quickly checked her date book when the woman went to get another round of drinks. Megan. She had even insisted on paying, claiming that Kerrie was nice enough to keep her company in this strange city, it was the least she could do.

  As she had hoped, the evening ended with the woman taking Kerrie up to her room. Kerrie had had more to drink than usual, but the woman took the lead, with Kerrie naked by the time they made it to the bed. Then a night of passion that ended too early as the woman had to be up in time to take care of the business she had in town. Odd for a Sunday, Kerrie thought, but maybe international business didn’t hew to American rules.

  “Can I see you later?” the woman asked as she walked a groggy Kerrie to the elevator. Megan said she would change her plane, as she had planned to be gone this evening. Kerrie readily agreed. This was her dream woman.

  Once they parted, Kerrie raced back to the Northshore. She had to shower and change her clothes. Not to mention a frenzy of house cleaning. She wanted to bring the woman back here, show off the fine things in her house. Everything had to be perfect for this perfect woman.

  She didn’t even bother looking for street parking, there was no time. The price of parking was a good deal to have this woman in her life. Kerrie was already fantacizing about a long-distance romance, passionate meetings in faraway places.

  Megan was waiting for her, tall and beautiful in her expensive leather coat. Kerrie smiled at her smile. A lot of frogs to find one princess.

  “Show me your city,” Megan asked.

  Kerrie knew she meant New Orleans and not the town where she lived.

  They wandered through the French Quarter, past the antique stores and art galleries on Royal Street. The woman had amazing taste, almost the same as her own, Kerrie noted. Their shoulders touched, as lovers do.

  Kerrie was in such a state of bliss that she didn’t recognize the woman with the fake migraine from last night until she was in front of them. The woman looked past her, as if Kerrie didn’t exist.

  “How’s your migraine?” Kerrie asked. She had little time for this woman, but she wasn’t going to be ignored.

  “Obviously all gone.” The woman looked at her and then at Megan.

  Of course she stared at Megan, she was a beautiful woman. But she stared a bit too long for Kerrie’s liking, especially as Megan kept her eyes on the other woman.

  “Glad to hear it,” Kerrie said. “We’ve got to be going.”

  “Have a great time, Kerrie,” the woman said.

  “You, too…” What was her name? “Ingrid.”

  “Isabella. My name is Isabella.”

  *

  It couldn’t be. Had her torrid imaginings of Ysabel conjured her spirit? Her face? The woman they walked by matched in every detail her memory of Ysabel. She wanted to run from this prattling woman with her chatter of the “finer things,” all material, no soul in any of them. Run back to the woman and…and what? Ask if she had once been a nun in Spain all those centuries ago? If she had loved another of the sisters, who had returned her love with betrayal?

  No, Malda told herself, it is my guilt seeing through my eyes, punishing me for conjuring her image to rid myself of the hag.

  She had her task. This woman thought the world belonged to her and she would fight and yell and scream when those faded walls closed around her. That was what they wanted; that was what she would give them.

  She pretended to listen, pretended to agree, pretended to think the woman beautiful. It would be over soon. They had dinner in one of the expensive restaurants. Malda paid, of course, still claimed to be grateful to Kerrie for the companionship and showing her around the city. One of the lessons Malda had learned on her long night was that touching—sex—didn’t need love; it could be used for many purposes: punishment, control. A trap, like the one she was setting now.

  After dinner they strolled along the riverfront. In the place between the streetlights, Malda kissed the woman. She couldn’t request, had to wait to be invited, but a few ardent kisses might hurry things along.

  “Would you like to come home with me?” Kerrie finally asked.

  “I desire nothing more.” Kerrie had described her home, quiet, secluded. Neighbors far enough away that they couldn’t hear her cries for help.

  After one final kiss, they retrieved Kerrie’s car. It was a long drive. Malda couldn’t understand living this far away from a jewel of a city like New Orleans, trading in its vibrant streets, mighty river for the sterile newness of the far side of the lake. To cover the time, Malda asked questions, pointless questions about favorite trips as if hinting they would travel together.

  The vile thing felt like it was still growing in her. Her only solace was that it would keep the vile things outside her—the tiny room, the monster lover—away.

  Malda was disappointed in the house, expecting some grand thing to rival the palaces she had glimpsed in Spain. Yes, it was large, six bedrooms, four and a half baths, but the walls would not hold through time, it would last at most a century, no span for history to take hold.

  The niceties were observed. Kerrie poured them drinks, noting the expensive liquor.

  Malda sipped slowly, letting Kerrie be well into her second drink before she finished her first. Unlike her tormentors, she didn’t enjoy the struggle and had no desire to prolong this.

  She didn’t let Kerrie fix her another drink, instead kissing her, running her hands under Kerrie’s shirt. Malda was sad to notice her body responding to the warm flesh of even a woman like this. That was another thing she had learned in the night—when holding someone in a warm embrace it is easy to steal their soul.

  Malda feigned passion, hurrying because she wanted to get this done, not from ardor. If she could find lust with this woman, where would she not be corrupt? But she had to let this happen, had to do it to survive. Had to let this shell she was living in, feel everything her own body never had. She howled when the physical release coursed through her. Her scream was anger, pleasure, pain, guilt. And calculating enough to test that Kerrie’s pleas would go unheard.

  Finally, after several bouts, the woman fell into sleep. Malda could not. She was the hunter and had to be more cunning than her prey.

  She waited a few scant hours, until the sun started to tinge the sky, then roughly grabbed Kerrie, holding her down.

  “Um, honey, I’m glad you’re interested, but I have to pee first,” the sleepy woman mumbled.

  “I’m not interested in sex,” Malda said, her voice tight and cruel
. She pinned Kerrie’s wrists.

  Kerrie’s eyes flashed open. “What do you…look, I really need to pee. I’ll ruin the bed if I don’t.”

  “It’s not a very nice bed. It needs to be ruined.” Malda straddled Kerrie, pushing her groin against her abdomen.

  “Stop that! This isn’t funny.”

  “It’s not meant to be funny.” Malda started riding her, a hard bounce. She saw fear in Kerrie’s eyes and felt ashamed at the growing carnal desire she felt from her groin pressed and rubbing against the woman. The fear didn’t make it go away.

  “Please, I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t hurt me,” Kerrie begged.

  “Or your bed,” Malda said as she again pushed down.

  “You don’t need to do this. I’ll give you money!” Kerrie screamed.

  “I don’t want money,” Malda whispered in her ear. She yanked Kerrie’s arms, pinning her wrists against her breasts with one hand. Malda slid down Kerrie’s body until she was sitting on her thighs. She started to stroke and play with her with her free hand.

  “Stop! Please stop!”

  Malda ignored her screams. No one could hear them. She roughly put two, then three fingers inside Kerrie, shoving in and out. She felt Kerrie’s muscles tighten, trying to hold back what her body needed. Yes, she was going to fight.

  Malda barred her teeth, swooping down at Kerrie’s breasts, as if to bite her nipple. She stopped just short. But the fear was enough. A wet stream spewed over her fingers. She kept thrusting until it stopped.

  “Why?” Kerrie brayed. “Why did you make me mess up my bed?”

  “Because you’re so proud of it.” Malda wiped her sticky fingers across Kerrie’s face.

  The woman sputtered and spat, shaking her head against the wetness.

  Then asked, “Are you going to kill me?”

  Malda answered, “No, something far worse.” She yanked Kerrie off the bed and to the mirror.

  This time Kerrie’s scream was louder and more harrowing than the others. The mirror reflected Malda as she really was, a decayed hag, withered face, eyes so deep they were almost black holes.