Inflictions

by John McIlveen

  “If you’re sincere, I feel as if I’ve won the lottery,” he said.

  “In a way you have,” she assured him. “As long as you agree, you will want for nothing. No sleeping in coffins, susceptible to discovery. You won’t even have to hunt or stalk, or whatever it is you do to feed.”

  She watched him as he contemplated her offer.

  “So, do we have a deal?”

  “Naturally,” said Biello. “I’d be crazy not to accept.”

  “And I may be a little crazy to offer,” Sketcher chuckled.

  “What will be my first pose?” asked Biello.

  “I’m haven’t thought about that,” Sketcher admitted. “I wasn’t even sure you’d accept. How about you decide?”

  “I haven’t a clue where to start.”

  “Would you like to see my paintings?” asked Sketcher. “Maybe they’ll inspire you.”

  “Absolutely. How could I resist?” said Biello.

  Sketcher lifted herself from the divan and walked to the study doors. “Follow me,” she instructed.

  She led him down a series of hallways before stopping at a large set of innocuous doors no different from any of the other doors in the mansion.

  “We call this the vault,” she said, and swung one of the doors open.

  “We?”

  “My family.” Sketcher smiled seductively over her shoulder. “Follow me.”

  “You tease,” he accused.

  “Yes, I do.” Sketcher walked into the room. “I have to get a switch installed outside the door, I can never find the light pull,” she said.

  Biello followed her into the room and paused as a light hiss escaped from behind him. He screamed in pain.

  A light came to life, single but bright, hung from the ceiling and aimed toward Biello.

  “Welcome to my … vault,” Sketcher, said from beyond the glaring light. She stared at Biello, her hand still holding a pull cord leading to a switch box on the ceiling. She released the pull and approached Don Biello, who was now enclosed within a square cage with a row of twelve-inch tall crosses molded into each side of the small prison.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded and lunged forward. His hands contacted the metal bars which sizzled beneath his hands, as had the bars behind him burned his legs. He jumped backward, but the bars behind him scalded his back. He centered himself, careful not to move.

  “Careful, dear,” Sketcher said and pragmatically tapped the bars. “Silver bars and crosses … blessed even.”

  Don looked at the well-oiled tracks and the locking mechanism of the cage.

  “You can’t escape,” Sketcher said. “Simple but effective … one quick tug and gotcha!”

  “What is going on here?” he asked again.

  He looked around the room. It was large and dry with hundreds of paintings piled throughout, leaning against the walls in stacks, some orderly, some haphazardly. Ignoring him, Sketcher walked between two stacks, picked up a pile of rags, and looked intently at Biello. He looked angry but unsure; for the first time since he walked through Sketcher’s doorway, his confidence was wavering. Sketcher selected a large painting facing the wall and slowly turned it around.

  “Mika!” Biello cried. His reaction upon seeing the image of his former lover pleased Sketcher.

  “Oh, you know her?” Sketcher asked. “She was so beautiful … a wonderful model. This is some of my work. Do you like it?”

  “What have you done with her?” he roared.

  He nearly grabbed the bars again, but retracted his hands in time. He glared at her from his cage, and Sketcher also saw a glimpse of fear that delighted her.

  “Do you miss her?” Sketcher’s voice dripped like acid. She pointed to the painting. “Not to worry my love, Mika is here.”

  She grabbed the picture and slid it closer to the cage, watching Biello as he studied the painting.

  “I’m quite proud of this one, it’s almost too good. I did this nearly a year ago but the paint is still vivid.” Sketcher ran her hand over the portrait almost lovingly. “You could almost swear Mika was breathing. Go ahead, look at her.”

  Biello looker at Sketcher, and then returned his attention to the painting, horror and distress unmistakable on his handsome face.

  “Now she was a challenge. Fortunately, she had a hankering for a little pussy.” Sketcher smiled at Biello. “The drapes aren’t the right shade of red yet, but it takes a while for the blood to darken completely.”

  From the bundle of rags, she extracted a thick-bladed dagger. Don Biello shifted his gaze as she displayed the blade to him as if she were selling the newest breakthrough in kitchenware. Both sides of its aged onyx handle were engraved with crosses topped by a single eye.

  “Silver,” she said. “Blessed, too.”

  “What are you planning to do?” Biello asked. He tried to sound stoic, but he couldn’t disguise the nervous intonation.

  Sketcher ran the blade along the pad of her thumb. “Sharp,” she whispered, staring at a thin line of blood. “I want to paint your portrait, but first we need a canvas. Vampire flesh makes a beautiful canvas. It stays so alive and vital if cured properly. Mika had beautiful skin, don’t you agree?” asked Sketcher. “She’ll make a flawless canvas.”

  She looked at the painting of Mika, back to Biello, and lifted another canvas from a nearby pile and turned it to face Biello. It was a blank, but clearly not canvas. Sketcher ran her hand fondly across the surface.

  “You’re insane!” said Biello.

  “May well be,” Sketcher said. She motioned to five more paintings stacked against the wall, set the knife atop of them, and moved forward to confront Biello. “As I said, I am fixated by vampires, you in particular.”

  “Why me?” growled Biello.

  “Why you?” Sketcher sneered. “Let’s call it a grudge.” She locked eyes with Biello, her hatred and barely contained sanity evident in her stare. “It took six of them to get to you, but I did it, you piece of shit!” She pointed to Mika’s image. “Look at her! I hope you miss her!” she screamed. “If there’s a soul in that fucking shell of yours, I hope you hurt!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I want you to feel what it’s like to have everything and lose it in an instant. I wish I could, but I can’t come close to taking from you what you took from me.”

  “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?” Biello roared.

  From between two piles of paintings, Sketcher dragged out a portrait of a couple. She positioned it so it faced Biello, supported by Sketcher’s pile of vampire portraits.

  “Am I supposed to know who the fuck they are?”

  “My parents, Mr. Biello! You took their lives almost ten years ago, you bastard!” Sketcher lifted the dagger and moved toward the cage. “The little girl ran, didn’t she Mr. Biello?” Sketcher asked tearfully. “She got away and it pissed you right the hell off, didn’t it? You raped her, Biello! Without laying a fucking finger on her, you raped her! You stole from her everything important in her little world. I wish I could make you feel a fraction of the pain you caused her, make you experience an iota of the loss she lived with, because it would tear you inside out. How does it feel to get it back, be it only that fraction? How does it feel to lose?” She jabbed the dagger at him. “You have sunk your teeth into the wrong people, Biello. You fucked with the wrong little girl.”

  He looked at the painting of Mika with resignation.

  “I won’t be painting you, Biello, nor will you be my canvas. You’re not worth the time or effort,” Sketcher said and smiled her malicious intent. “And Mr. Biello? There’s a belief about vampires—one that I’m counting on—that you are immortal.”

  She lunged, sinking the dagger deep into Biello’s stomach, withdrew it, and looked at the bloodied blade fondly.

  “This may take a while,” she said. “I’m hoping it will.”

  Nina

  The tenement was by far the oldest of the abandoned buildings they had
considered for renovation. Andrea’s boss, Fred Bastian, had made a fortune buying these old dinosaurs around the Boston area for pennies on the dollar, refurbishing them at moderate expense, and then renting the units out for substantial profit, not quite accurately labeled as luxury properties. A good friend once told Andrea, you can’t shine a turd. Good old Fred had done well at proving her friend wrong.

  In nearly eight years as an interior designer, Andrea had become very good at recognizing the potential in properties. She could envision the grand foyer hidden in an old decrepit entryway, or the beauty in converting a dilapidated old attic into an open concept loft. Fred Bastian recognized the profitability of Andrea’s talent, and capitalized manifold on it.

  Andrea climbed the stairway to the fifth floor, stepping over a riser that had a little too much give, and stood on the top landing, sweeping her flashlight back and forth over the deteriorated carpet. If they did purchase this, an elevator would be indispensable. The building, like most, had potential, but would the renovation costs exceed Fred’s spending boundary? She hoped not. The building had a lot of little effects that were appealing, like carved woodwork and moldings, glass doorknobs, and the nifty built-in cabinets that were so common in the Twenties and Thirties. The glass doorknobs surprised Andrea, not in that the building had them, but in that they were still present. Glass and bronze doorknobs were usually one of the first things stolen from abandoned properties, collectible as they were.

  The hallway stretched nearly two hundred feet in front of her, but the slowly fading flashlight only lit the first forty or so in the boarded-up darkness of the building. Treks like this intimidated Andrea when she first started evaluating older properties, but she found there was never anything her pepper spray couldn’t handle. If the pepper spray didn’t work, she could always revert to the 9mm Beretta she had tucked in the small of her back. Fortunately, it had never come to that.

  She moved down the dusty hallway, stepping lightly, testing for weak spots. A rot- through could mean a fast, ten-foot descent.

  The smell of urine, booze, and rotting food that had assaulted her upon entering the building faded considerably after the third floor. The fifth floor only offered the lonely smell of desertion.

  Counting doorways—as was her habit, a reference act not unlike Hansel & Gretel’s breadcrumb trail—she continued down the corridor, but stopped in front of unit 518. The door was closed, which wasn’t unusual, but Andrea could swear she heard singing coming from inside.

  She had heard plenty of mournful renditions in other abandoned buildings, but they were usually the drunken lamentations of the homeless, inebriated, or any mixture thereof. This was feminine, eerie, and beautiful, unmistakably a child’s voice. She moved closer, almost resting her ear on the door while her flashlight played across the floor. The voice was much clearer now, unaccompanied by music and very distinctly live, not a recording or a radio.

  Andrea reached out and gently pushed the door. It opened with a click that echoed throughout the fifth floor, betraying the claustrophobic confines of the darkness.

  No way, Andrea thought as the door silently swung open on smooth hinges, as if oiled weekly instead of thirty years ignored. The singing was louder, but still sounded distant.

  Andrea entered a deserted room, her flashlight falling upon abandoned piping within the ghostly outlines of where kitchen cabinets had hung, jutting from the walls like gnarled branches. She moved forward breaching the corner to a lonely living room, across which stood two doorways, one opened, one closed. From beneath the closed door a band of light emanated, looking as bright like fire in the muted gloom of the old room.

  She raised the flashlight and swept the beam over the doorway. Once white, now yellowed with age, the door looked very much like the other doors throughout the building, the only difference being that instead of a clear glass doorknob, this one was an uncommonly rich shade of amber.

  Andrea quietly approached the doorway and halted when the singing from within stopped.

  “Who’s there?” asked a small voice from beyond the door. Light and feminine, guarded, yet unwavering, it was clearly the voice of a child … most likely a girl.

  “Hello? My name is Andrea. Are you up here by yourself? Are you okay?”

  “Will you play with me?” the voice asked.

  What was a little girl doing up here? She must know the dangers of a building this age.

  Andrea softly grasped the amber knob and turned. The door opened as easily and as silently as the last. Inside the room was complete transformation. An ornate brass and crystal gas chandelier blazed brilliantly, its dancing flames displaying a bedroom of any girl’s dreams. The walls were adorned in lustrous, pink and white silk-cloth wallpaper, feminine, yet exquisite. A dark walnut desk was nestled in one corner of the room and a matching six-drawer dresser centered the opposing wall. A large window bisected the wall to the left of the desk giving view to a crystalline sky. A full bed, lovingly made, centered the room. A pink and white comforter, the lacy skirt and shams matched the curtains and wallpaper perfectly.

  Andrea was astonished by the pure innocence of the room, but most of all, the dolls—hundreds of dolls—perfectly propped on the floor, the desk, and the bed … on every available surface. White dolls, black dolls, Asian dolls, Hispanic dolls, they were all here—female, male, young, and old. The clothing styles ranged from the roaring Twenties to present day, from ascots to FUBU sweatshirts.

  “Will you play with me?” the little voice asked again.

  Standing at the foot of the bed was a little girl, probably nine years old, dressed in a frilly blue and white ankle-length dress, reminiscent of those worn by most porcelain dolls, or children of the early twentieth century. Her light brown hair fell just over her shoulders in large looping curls, framing a face so pale it seemed to be porcelain, or maybe marble. Her eyes, so dark they almost appeared black, were wide and nearly expressionless. To Andrea, she looked like one of the dolls, like a perfect living doll.

  Andrea looked behind her, at the deserted room she had just passed through, lit by the brilliance of the light from the little girl’s room. Behind her, her footprints were evident on the dusty floor … only hers.

  Everything is wrong here, thought Andrea. The building was abandoned, the utilities long turned off. There should be no lights, especially gas.

  “What’s your name?” Andrea asked the girl. She wondered if she was trapped here, some sick bastard’s prisoner.

  No footprints.

  “Nina,” said the child.

  “Are you alone?”

  “No,” Nina said, never moving, standing perfectly straight. She looked around her room, seeming confused.

  “Can you move?” Andrea asked, wary, but concerned.

  Nina took a hesitant step forward. Behind her came the unmistakable rattling of chain on carpet.

  “Oh my God!” said Andrea.

  She rushed to the child, knelt, and lifted the hem of Nina’s dress, exposing braces on both of Nina’s legs. They were not the streamline, modern braces, but the cumbersome contraptions worn by polio victims of decades earlier. The sight was heartrending, but what caused the lump to form in Andrea’s chest, and the tears to spring to her eyes, was the shackle with a padlock tethered to Nina’s right ankle, connected by a chain to the frame of the heavy iron bed. Nina’s leg bore the scars—old scars—of long imprisonment.

  “Who did this to you?” Andrea asked, unable to keep her voice from breaking.

  “Daddy,” said Nina. “Mommy.”

  Andrea looked back to the doorway, expecting to see the faces of the child’s insane parents looking at her.

  She needed the key!

  “Who has the key, Nina? Where’s your family … your parents?”

  “Here,” said Nina. Again, she looked confused. “They’re … somewhere.”

  Call the police, Andrea thought, and reached into her blazer pocket for her phone.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie,” she as
sured Nina. “Once the police get here, they’ll get those chains off you.”

  “Can’t,” said Nina.

  “Of course we can, honey,” said Andrea. “You won’t have to wear that chain any longer.”

  “They protect,” Nina said.

  Andrea felt her rage leap up a dozen pegs. What the hell was the matter with people? Were they some kind of extreme fundamentalists, thinking imprisonment the only way to protect their child?

  “Protect you from what?” Andrea barked, astounded.

  “Not me,” said Nina, and then she repeated, “Will you play with me?”

  Andrea started to tap in 911, but Nina’s small hand gently closed over the phone.

  “Not me,” Nina said again. “You.”

  Andrea looked at the girl and saw a smile spread across her face, but the smile was wrong. Demented, Andrea thought, and then thought again, No … evil.

  Nina stepped toward Andrea, her steps disjointed and jerky under the weight of the braces, and placed her hand on Andrea’s head. Fear traced fire up Andrea’s spine and a chill wracked her body. She tried to rise and move away, but her sudden fear wouldn’t carry her; her legs felt laden and immovable. Her vision wavered and her stomach clenched.

  Andrea somehow managed to stand. She stepped away from Nina and toward the door, but Nina—moving impossibly fast—stepped directly in front of her and stared at her eye to eye.

  But that wasn’t right—couldn’t be right—Andrea was a woman, and this girl was hardly four feet tall.

  Did she drug me? Andrea wondered as reality warped and the room swayed and tumbled. Suddenly Andrea only saw the hem of Nina’s frilly blue and white dress. She couldn’t move, and when she tried to cry out, it felt as if her throat was solid and immovable.

  Andrea felt herself being lifted what seemed a great height. She was placed on the bed, seated with her back on the pink, heart-shaped pillow, a place of honor for the girl’s newest toy.

  Andrea couldn’t turn her head, but through her peripheral vision, she saw the doll nearest to her, a porcelain doll of a policewoman. She saw a single tear run down the policewoman’s cheek.