“No, not me. Ella. The girl in room twelve. I met her, and she had bite marks on her wrists. We talked about it yesterday.”
His father shook his head. “There is no girl in room twelve, and there are no bites. Nothing happened.” The words were oddly mechanical, like he was reading from a script. He looked back to his newspaper and continued to read, the conversation apparently over. His mother got up to check on the bread she was baking. Jack didn’t understand why they wanted to pretend that nothing had happened, but he couldn't just let it go.
“I met her yesterday and you told me you'd ask about her!”
His father looked up again. “Who?”
Jack knew his father was a little irritated at being interrupted.
“The girl in room twelve. She had a meal delivered to her room last night.” How could his father not remember the conversation and huge argument that had happened less than twelve hours ago?
“Jack! I'm sorry, but I have no idea what you are talking about. Maybe... Why don't you go to the beach today? Your mama will give you money. Go find Paolo and some of the boys from school. No one is checking out today anyway.”
His stomach flipped over in fear. “When will they go?”
“Tomorrow evening. They want to travel at night.” He chuckled. “I wish all our guests were so easy. Don't do anything to bother them.” His father sounded like a pleased businessman.
“Why are they easy guests?” Jack was surprised that his father was happy to have them staying here. They were creepy and abusive—what was there to like?
“Only a few of them want meals, they are paying a lot of money, and they are very quiet during the day. No one is even up yet, and it's noon! Don't you hear how quiet it is?” His father was perpetually amused by foreigners.
“Where are they from?”
“Hmm. Everywhere. Some from America, Asia, Australia, a few even from Italy.”
“Why are they meeting here?”
His father sighed. “Jack, I don't know. I would guess they wanted to be close to Venice. It's a conference. Unless they need something in particular, I don't ask. Tomorrow there will be another group, and then another. Go. Find your friends and be thankful that there is no work for you today. ”
Jack left the kitchen feeling torn between leaving the hotel as instructed, and investigating what was going on with Ella. He wanted to go to room twelve and knock, or even take the key and fling open the door to see if she was in there. Making it up! Why would he do that? And his parents were behaving strangely. What could anyone do if he did go up and open the door, anyway? His parents would be angry, but they would get over it.
Perhaps he could say he was supposed to deliver more towels. He could say he had made a mistake, went to the wrong room. Pleased with this idea, he went to the laundry closet and took down the ring of keys that opened all the rooms. Holding the white bath towels tightly to his chest, he slipped along the corridor on silent feet. There was something wrong with these people, and it was made worse by the fact that no one remembered anything. He wasn't crazy or wrong, and he'd prove it.
If nothing else, he wouldn't leave a little girl to suffer if there was something he could do to prevent it. If he did nothing, he suspected that he’d spend his whole life wondering about that little girl and the things he didn't do. He'd regret being so afraid that he didn't help her. Resolve strengthened, he knocked on the door and leaned forward, listening for sounds of movement within the room.
His heart thundered as he transferred the towels to one arm, then unlocked the door. The room was dark, and all the shades were shut. The air was oppressive and heavy, a metallic smell making him nauseous. He peered around the door and saw two lumps in the bed while he waited for his eyes to adjust. He could tell that the sleeping woman was the one from the lobby who had looked at him so disconcertingly with her hazel eyes. What if she woke up and saw him? Ella jerked up into a sitting position and looked at him. Jack stumbled back, surprised by her quick movement.
“What are you doing here?” Ella hissed at him.
“I wanted to make sure that you were all right.”
She was dressed in a very old-fashioned cotton nightgown, her hair tied back in a ribbon so that it was off her neck.
That was when he saw it—another purple mark on her neck that was covered with scabs.
“What are those? It's like...” He couldn't think of anything it could be besides a bite mark, but didn't want to articulate the words. “Did she do this to you? Does she hurt you?” he asked her instead.
Ella shook her head in denial. Tears formed in her eyes. She reached out to him, to make him listen or keep him from rushing out for help, he didn't know which. Her hand was small, and he wondered if she was younger than he'd initially thought.
“No, it's not like that. She loves me. She's the only family I have, and she cares for me. She wouldn't hurt me. Truly, she wouldn't. Please, just leave.”
Jack shook his head, denying her words.
She changed tactics “All right then, why don't you come back tonight, and we can all talk about it. Just wait until tonight. Don't say anything until then. Okay? Please? Meet Marion, let her explain what has happened. She can make all this go away if you just wait.” The last was said with a broken sob, her blue eyes huge on her pale face.
Jack didn't like the way Ella said Marion would make it all go away. Had she done something to make his parents forget last night too? Would Marion do that to him? Maybe she was a hypnotist or something.
Knowing he was unconvinced, the girl covered her face with her hands and cried out angrily. “Just get out! Come back tonight, and she'll tell you!”
She got out of bed and started pushing at him, her emotions changing from devastated tears to fury so fast, he couldn't get a word out either way. He found himself being moved by this slip of a girl who was a foot shorter than him and half his weight, his feet sliding backward. She slammed the door, almost hitting his nose.
There was a sudden gasp and cry on the other side of the door, like someone deprived of air bursting up out of the water, inhaling loudly. Or like someone dead to the world waking up. Every irrational fiber in Jack’s being told him to run. He sprinted down the corridor, careful to stay on the dark blue carpet runner so that he wouldn't slip on the wooden floor. He needed to tell his papa! Tell Uncle Vito and the police. Someone! Then a hand grabbed him, yanking him down another hallway and pressing him against the wall.
A man in a long brown coat knelt on his knees before him, urging him to be quiet by raising a finger to his own lips, light brown eyes capturing his.
“What's your name, son?” His voice was quiet, and he spoke with an American accent. The man smiled, a pained and insincere expression, but Jack understood that the man was attempting to calm him, maybe even gain his trust.
“Jack. Sir, I have to go downstairs now.” He tried to pull away, but the man held on, another grimace-like smile on his face.
“My name is Nate. There is a problem, Jack. You saw the little girl with the bites, right? The vampire bites?” The man stared at him intently to gauge Jack's reaction to his words.
“Vampire? They looked like bites, but vampires aren't real.” His hand unconsciously reached up to his rosary.
“I want that little girl away from Marion as much as you do. She's a very old vampire, and that means she's powerful. If you get your parents involved in this, they will die and so will you.” Nate spoke in a low murmur, his eyes boring into Jack's, as though he wanted him to understand the gravity of the moment.
Jack nodded, but he didn't really understand what was going on—the crazy things the man was saying, that it was a matter of life and death. He didn’t know, that for the rest of his life, he would dream about this moment; relive it over and over again
“They can move like that.” Nate snapped his fingers. “Faster than you can think. You need to go down to your parents and wait. Keep them safe and let me do my job. Do you understand? Will you listen to me
?”
Jack heard ringing in his ears. Did he understand? Yes. Go downstairs and wait. He nodded, and the man let him go. Jack took off down the stairs but then stopped to look behind him, watching as the man with the coat stood up, holding a shotgun in his hand as he walked down the hallway towards Marion and Ella's room.
Jack burst into his apartment behind the lobby, slamming the door and locking it behind him. “Mama! Papa!”
His mother came out of the living room, her blue house dress covered in dust. His father was right behind her. She put her arm around Jack, cuddling him into her warm body. She wasn't a large woman, but neither was she particularly thin. His father had once made a comment about having something to hold onto, a comment he tried not to think about.
“What's wrong Jackie? You look upset.”
“Upstairs.” He stopped speaking, unsure what to say. The man had said he would take care of it. But he had a gun. Plus, Ella was up there. What if the man missed, and Ella got hurt? What if he was lying and killed them both? Uncle Vito would know what to do better than some American rambling about vampires.
“Papa, there is a man upstairs with a gun. And the girl in room twelve has more bites! They’re on her neck! He told me to wait, but I don't know what to do! Call Uncle Vito!” He began to tremble, the enormity of the moment overwhelming him.
His dad touched his hair and began to nod. “Okay, Jack. It will be all right. I'll go and see. Maria, call Vito and send him over to have a look. It can't hurt.” He shrugged lightly, and it was clear that his father thought he was humoring Jack and didn't take him seriously. The police station was across the street, their small town virtually crimeless unless a tourist got drunk and rowdy.
“It's true, Papa! Don't go upstairs. Wait for Uncle to come!”
His dad left the apartment.
Jack stood frozen as his mother took his hand and led him over to the phone, sitting him down on the old brown couch so she could watch him while she made the phone call. Why had he let his father leave? Why hadn't he reached out and stopped him? It was dangerous upstairs, maybe even deadly. His mother started speaking to Uncle Vito, and Jack jumped up, running after his father.
“Papa! Papa!” he tried to shout, but couldn't make his voice go above a whisper, terror choking him. Jack tried to go faster and heard steps behind him. He looked behind him quickly, barely slowing to look, and saw his mother following him up the stairs.
Suddenly, there was a shot. The picture on the wall beside him jumping at the recoil. The sound of Ella screaming echoed through the hallway.
Skidding around the corner, Jack saw the door to Ella's room was open. A few more steps and he'd be there. But then the woman, Marion, came out. Uncommonly tall and painfully thin, her already narrow waist was cinched into a corset that made her body look almost bisected; like an ant. Her dark blue Victorian-style dress was covered in blood from where she'd been shot, but she moved quickly and sleekly, unaffected by the gaping hole in her chest.
She was wrong and frightening in a primal way, like a predator, and even though it was stupid, nonsensical; he knew he was the prey. Her pace was odd, as though she floated down the hall, rather than walked. She gained on him, and Jack had to decide if he was going to run towards her, to his father, or away.
She would kill him. The certainty of it washed through him, forcing him to turn back the way he'd come.
His feet slipped, and his knee banged hard on the wooden floor, pain shooting up his leg. Scrambling to his feet, he started to move again when he felt the cold steel of her grip wrap around his neck. She carried him forward by the scruff, as though he were a puppy, the smell of her burning his nostrils. It was a cloying scent—sweet and rotten at the same time.
“I have you to thank for this, do I? I've just lost my little girl thanks to you.” There was a long, dramatic pause. “I suppose you’ll do instead.” She hissed it in his ear, each word protracted and icy, holding him suspended in midair, as though he was a bag of garbage someone forgot to put out.
It was hard to breathe with her hard hand gripping him, almost choking him. He struggled, tried to kick and scratch her, in his frantic attempt to free himself. Another shot sounded, and Marion jerked forward as a bullet went into her from behind, dropping Jack in the process.
Marion stood again, a black, oily substance sliding like sludge down her chest. Her movements were jerky and stilted, like a marionette, as she grabbed him up again and threw him over her shoulder. Hitting her with all his strength, Jack flailed and twisted, but she was as hard as rock, his blows affecting her as lightly as rain. It was like a fight between a mouse and a snake—over before it started.
His mother rushed at them, and he felt her hands grip his legs hard for an instant as she tried to pull him free of Marion's grasp. Then, there was a hard, wet snap right next to his ear. He felt the vibration of it rattling around in his ear canal. His mother's hands let go, sliding off him as softly as a caress. Marion kept walking, and as she went down the stairs, Jack lifted his head from her bony back, trying to catch a glimpse of his mother.
She was lying on the floor in the middle of the hallway, brown eyes open and unseeing, arms carelessly thrown out to her sides; legs twisted as though she'd fallen while in the process of turning in a circle. Jack started to scream and thrash harder, his voice a continuous, pitiable shriek as he realized that his mother was dead. She’d died trying to protect him, and if only he’d listened to Nate; she’d still be alive.
“Oh god! You're not even worth it, if you're going to cause this much of a racket.” Marion tossed him aside, his body skidding along the marble entryway until his shoulder hit the wall. She kept walking—this woman of destruction—straight towards the wall, and then she disappeared as though she'd walked right through it.
Gingerly, he stood up and walked to the stairs, shock surrounding him like a blanket, making him slow and awkward. He needed to see his father, maybe he was all right. Maybe Jack could help him. At the top of the stairs, he saw his mother's broken body and walked by it carefully, refusing to look too closely, unable to bear the sight of her—the whirling dervish she had been, still…forever.
He wouldn't think about that right now, couldn't see that again. Just keep moving.
And suddenly, he was at room twelve. The room eerily quiet, the hallway undisturbed as though Marion had never been there. It was just an empty hallway now. White walls, wood floors, the blue carpet runner, and a few paintings of Venice and Rome on the walls.
The light was on. Ella was dead. Eyes closed, fine blond hair spread out along the pillow. Her hands were folded peacefully on top of her chest, the silver duvet smoothed around her carefully, as though she'd been tucked in before Marion killed her. She looked asleep, and even in her sleep, she was a proper doll.
Jack moved around the bed looking for his father, torn between the urge to call for him, and the feeling of fear that demanded he say nothing.
Was that his father? That was his clothing—his brown pants and vest, his white shirt…but there was no head. Just a huge pool of blood on the floor and splatters on the wall, as though it had sprayed from his neck in an explosive gush. Jack toppled backward, sitting on the bed and landing on Ella's foot. With a cry, he listed away from her but didn't stand, his legs unable to support him as his body tried to decide what to do. How to feel and function after what he'd just seen.
This isn't possible. He could go back five minutes, and everything would be all right. When he walked out of this room and went downstairs, he'd find his pretty mama making pasta, and his papa smoking a cigarette. That was the life Jack lived. These last few minutes were just a nightmare.
There was a gasp behind him, and he turned, seeing a girl standing behind him in the entryway. Another one, he thought dazedly. She had dark hair, brown eyes and couldn't be more than ten or eleven years old. Her face was not quite heart-shaped, her skin a warm, golden color as though she was from somewhere hot. And she was American. He knew it by looking at he
r. She was looking around the room frantically, a gun that was too large for her wobbling in her small hand.
“Daddy? Daddy? Where are you?” Her voice was shrill.
Jack's gaze met hers, and he knew she didn't want to come inside the room. Instead she hovered near the door, shifting from foot to foot as though once she went into the room, she might never come out again.
This girl knows about death. She expected her father to be in here, and she didn't want to see his dead and bloodied body.
“Is he here?” she asked.
Jack forced himself to look around the room, his gaze nearing his father's body, but never resting on him directly. Jack hadn't even noticed that there were two bodies on the ground, but there he was—the American man in the coat. He had blood on his lips and the gun still in his hand. His eyes were open and fixed on Jack. A wet breath slid out of his mouth, his chest lurching up and down with each painful breath. Jack turned to tell her that her father was there and still alive, but he didn't need to.
Whatever she saw on his face, she knew her father was still alive. Distantly, he wondered what expression he'd made. Had it been envy for a girl who still had her father? Or shock at the events that had happened to him and corrupted his life forever?
She ran into the room and knelt by her father, putting the gun beside her carefully, so that she could reach it quickly if she needed to. He was amazed that she thought about it. But maybe she was used to her father being injured, carrying guns around, and vampires killing each other. Did someone get used to that?
Dimly, he watched her tug at the sheet he was sitting on. He stood and fell to the ground beside her, unable to stand. She yanked it free and wadded it up, pushing it against her father's chest to try to stop the blood that was leaking down his side.
“Here! You take this. Push hard, and I'll call for help.”
She grabbed his hands, and he let her place them firmly over the wound before running off. His gaze focused on the gun the girl had left behind, and he wondered if she had been the one who shot Marion.
Love Is The Beginning (Valerie Dearborn) Page 2
