The Atrocities

by Jeremy C. Shipp

  What I find in the playhouse is a slight figure with a mouse-print blanket draped over her body like some cartoon ghost. She sits facing a wooden table topped with brightly colored cups. The top of a Heinz bottle pokes out of a baroque teapot.

  “Hello?” I say.

  The figure titters but stays perfectly still.

  Part of me hopes there’s a real human being under that blanket, and an equally powerful part of me hopes there isn’t.

  I pinch the blanket between two fingers and lift.

  Mrs. Evers snorts with laughter, her hands coated with ashes, her hair decorated with sticks and purple flowers. She’s dressed in a tattered white sleepshirt, hugging a stuffed capybara close to her chest.

  A cold, invisible hand wraps around me and squeezes.

  “Mrs. Evers,” I say. I know I should say more, but the words won’t come.

  “You should see your face!” she says, her voice high and unnatural, like a cartoon bird’s. “Go look in the mirror!”

  “Mrs. Evers, what are you doing in here?” Even as I’m speaking, I feel as if my body is running on automatic. My consciousness is a ball of static, hovering somewhere above my head, near the shingled roof of the cottage.

  The woman grips my wrist with frozen fingers. Somehow, every lamp in the bedroom flares into brilliance as soon as she exits the playhouse. She drags me to a mirror on the wall, decorated with brass calla lilies.

  “Look,” Mrs. Evers says. “Look!”

  In the grainy reflection, I appear as a lone figure lost in a fog. The woman’s wan face stares silently ahead with dark, sunken eyes. Dewdrops of sweat linger on her forehead. I can still feel my consciousness orbiting my body, not quite touching my skin, not quite accepting that the woman in the mirror is definitely me.

  After what could be a moment or a minute, I break free from my gaze. And I find Mrs. Evers sitting cross-legged on the floor, chattering into the furry ear of the stuffed capybara.

  “Why did you do this?” I ask.

  Without looking at me, she says, “I was just playing.”

  I need answers from Mrs. Evers, but she’s obviously in no state to give them. Without warning, my consciousness and my body collide, merging again. I can feel the last of my energy flowing from my feet, like water escaping a cracked fish tank. At any moment, the fissure could expand and everything could burst.

  “We need to get you back to your room,” I say.

  Mrs. Evers laughs and grins at me with all her teeth. She says, “This is my room.”

  I suppose I should have suspected this, after everything Mrs. Evers has shown me tonight. Here she is, playing in Isabella’s room. She’s whispering to her daughter’s stuffed animal. She’s using the high-pitched voice of a child.

  “We should go talk to Mr. Evers,” I say, holding out my hand to the small woman.

  “I want to sleep here,” Mrs. Evers says. “Will you tuck me in?”

  Before I have time to reply, Mrs. Evers stands and rushes over to the four-poster bed. For a while, she crawls in circles under the quilt like an animal searching for food. Finally she pokes her head and arms out near the pillows. In her left hand, she’s holding a small remote that she uses to turn off the lamps.

  I tuck her in, the way I haven’t tucked in anyone for seven years. I pluck the twigs and flowers out of her hair, and I place them carefully on the bedside table.

  She says, “Did you know most types of mice don’t need to drink water? It’s true. You can look in my book if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you,” I say.

  Mrs. Evers closes her eyes. Soon, she begins snoring.

  I need to speak with Mr. Evers, of course, but that can wait until tomorrow. For now, I collapse onto a teal beanbag and look up at the bed for as long as possible. Moments or minutes pass. As soon as I close my eyes, I lose myself in a chimerical fog. Hazy, slender figures appear before me, but when I reach out to touch them, they dissipate, leaving me lost and alone.

  * * *

  When the fog finally clears, I find myself suffused in sunlight, back in my own bed. How did I get here? A vague memory scratches at my mind of Mrs. Evers holding my hand, towing me through the byzantine path to my room. She whispered to me in the dark hallways, too quiet for me to hear. She squeezed my hand gently.

  While lying in bed, I look through the photos from Isaac. Today, he’s sent me a baby dressed up as Colonel Sanders. He’s also sent me a lion cuddling with a miniature dachshund.

  A little voice tells me to turn off my phone and keep sleeping, but a little voice always tells me to keep sleeping.

  I dress in a vermillion cardigan, a chartreuse floral dress, and a thin black belt. In the mirror, my clothes give off a faint aura of cheerfulness and optimism. I will myself to absorb this energy, as if through osmosis, but I don’t feel any different.

  On my way to the servants’ hall, I find no scattered ashes or shattered faces or bleeding angels. An ambiguous floral fragrance lingers in the air, intermingled with the acrid smell of bleach. Lace curtains slump lifeless over closed windows.

  Before long, Robin materializes at the end of a narrow corridor. Today she’s wearing a gray dress and a muslin apron embroidered with pale blue eggs.

  “Hello, miss,” she says. “I was just on my way to your room. I thought you might want an escort to breakfast.”

  “I need to speak with Mr. Evers,” I say. “Can you take me to him?”

  “Ah,” she says, smoothing her apron with both hands. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have breakfast first, miss? I made almond-crusted French toast with fresh berries and sliced bananas. I made sure to use almond milk for your toast, miss.”

  “I appreciate that, Robin, but I need to see Mr. Evers now.”

  The housekeeper rubs her hands together. “I’m sure he’d be happy to see you, only he’s currently at work in his studio and he doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

  “This is important.”

  Robin nods. “Of course, miss.”

  For a moment, she stares at the floor in silence. Then she pulls a smartphone from her apron pocket and makes a call.

  “Ms. Valdez would like to see you, sir.” Her eyes widen. “Oh? I will, sir.” She lowers the phone and looks me in the eyes. “He says he’ll see you now, miss. He says he’s expecting you. I’ll show you the way.”

  Without another word, Robin twirls and scurries away.

  In an unfamiliar hallway, she slows a little and says, “Did I ever tell you that Mr. Evers surprised us with these smartphones about two months ago? They have five-inch screens, twenty-three-megapixel cameras, and three gigabytes of RAM. In truth, miss, I’m not positive what megapixels and RAM are, but Mr. Evers implied that the specifications are state-of-the-art.”

  We come to a pallid wooden door carved with a motif of climbing vines. Plump eyes dangle from the vines like grapes. After knocking three times, Robin opens the door and ushers me inside. Instantly, the stench of linseed oil and turpentine hits my face. The faintest aroma of coffee manages to touch me through the stink.

  “Come in, Ms. Valdez,” Mr. Evers says, over to my right.

  But I can’t take my eyes off the clay statue in front of me. The sculpture depicts a maelstrom of elongated limbs and hairless faces. In my imagination, the whirlpool of flesh swirls around a murky vortex. The lipless mouths open wider, wider.

  “It’s an intriguing piece, isn’t it?” Mr. Evers says.

  Breaking free from the vision, I turn to Mr. Evers. He’s dressed in blue jeans and a beige smock freckled with color. Painted on his forehead is an amorphous, crimson eye surrounded by spirals.

  He taps the eye with the tip of a black paintbrush and says, “You’ll have to forgive my little absurdities. My grandfather wore a similar symbol while he painted, and I haven’t the heart to break from tradition. But you aren’t here to muse over my family’s idiosyncrasies. Please sit down.” He motions to a velvet armchair positioned on a white muslin backdrop.
/>   On my way to the chair, I lock eyes with the angel on the nearest easel. She resembles the paintings from the hallway, with her wings comprised of human fingers and toes. But unlike her exsanguinous cousins, her face exudes a startling sense of vitality, as if she might reach out at any moment. One pleading eye stares ahead while the other commingles with her ear. Her nose bends to the side, and the line of her frown travels down her chin at a diagonal. If not for the asymmetry of her face, she would be beautiful.

  Angels like her float on the walls, gripping skulls and flowers, writhing their bodies in transparent robes. I know these creatures are only paintings, but here on the velvet armchair, I feel as if I’m on display in a crowded room. Soft boxes point at me without emitting any light.

  “I know why you’re here,” Mr. Evers says, grinning at me from across the room. “Last night you caught a glimpse or two of the phantom haunting my wife’s psyche. And now you’re here to ascertain whether or not my Molly is being cared for.” He polishes his speckled glasses with a red handkerchief. “Firstly, I truly appreciate your concern for my family’s well-being. You are, it turns out, the kind, empathetic person we all hoped you would be. Secondly, you can put your worries to rest as far as my wife is concerned. She has at her disposal a team of mental health professionals, including a psychiatrist, a psychologist, etcetera, etcetera. The phantom in my wife’s mind may wreak havoc on certain household items, but the doctors assure me that Molly herself is in no physical danger.”

  “Mr. Evers, you should have told me all this during our initial communications.”

  He takes a few steps closer to me and clears his throat. Behind him, a clay man trapped in the cyclone of bodies glares at me with eyes full of spirals. “I suppose you’re right,” Mr. Evers says. “My wife’s episodes have occurred so infrequently the past few months, I had hoped not to burden you with them. But your frustrations with me are not unfounded. You’ll have to forgive me my discretion.”

  I stand, and I can feel Mr. Evers’s eyes on my legs. “I’m sorry for your loss, and I wish I could help your wife, but I can’t.”

  “There you’re wrong,” he says, shifting his gaze to my face. “We’re faced with two possible versions of reality, and in either case your presence would only benefit my family. In one reality, the doctors are correct and Molly is suffering a shattered psyche. Her desire to connect with Isabella and do right by her has manifested as a sort of psychological possession. And since Molly believes that Isabella’s poltergeistlike outbursts can be tempered with your influence, then her faith in you will make this so.”

  He takes a deep breath. “And now let us slip into the other reality where Molly is correct, and Isabella has crossed the veil back to the world. You might see this possibility as beyond the realm of rationality, but I am not what you’d call a rational man. From an early age, I’ve rooted myself in spiritual mysteries and esoteric realms. True, I haven’t witnessed any phantoms walking the halls, but I’m not going to discount the possibility.” He waves the paintbrush in my direction. “In the case of a true haunting, we would still need you. When Isabella was alive, she was a defiant child, and easy to anger. I’m afraid her temperament has only intensified since her passing. She’s destroyed priceless heirlooms and family death masks. Of course, I love Isabella, and I want what’s best for her, even now. And what she requires is structure and education, provided by a feminine role model who won’t coddle her or indulge her every whim. My wife is an angel, but she isn’t the one to take up this mantle.” Mr. Evers cuts at the air with his paintbrush. “So there we have it, Ms. Valdez. I wish I could tell you which direction the truth lies, but unfortunately I’m as much in the dark as you are.”

  At this point, Mr. Evers stops and stares at me, waiting. My vision pushes past him to an angel on the wall, reaching for me with crooked, pale fingers. Her one eye peeks at me through her short bangs.

  “I’m afraid I’m not qualified to help you,” I say. “I’m sorry, but I’m going home.”

  “Very well,” he says, and lets out a soft sigh. “I hope you—”

  Mr. Evers never finishes his sentence because we’re interrupted by a giant rodent in a pink tutu. The creature scampers through the open door and sniffs at the pungent air. For a few long moments, Mr. Evers glares at the capybara in silence, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Hello, Princess,” I say, suddenly remembering the creature’s name.

  After glancing at me, Princess takes off in a flurry of copper fur. She gallops around the studio, emitting low clicking noises, knocking over easels and a metal bucket full of radishes and carrots and parsnips. Mr. Evers holds the screen of his phone close to his face. He whispers in rough consonants.

  Eventually, Princess hops up onto a cushioned window seat and lazes in a shaft of powder blue light. From where I’m standing, she looks like a hulking loaf of bread. I feel a faint urge to curl up beside her and sleep.

  “I apologize for the commotion,” Mr. Evers says. “This is unacceptable.”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  I’m still standing on the white backdrop, frozen, as if posing for a photograph. Maybe I’m worried that any sudden movement will wake Princess and result in another minor rampage. For now, I decide to return to the chair and wait.

  Moments later, Raul hastens into the room, his face and arms shiny with sweat. His serrated blade, smeared with black mud, dangles at his side.

  “Animals belong outside, Mr. Guzman,” Mr. Evers says, in a hushed yet hard tone. “Stockton House may no longer bear the responsibilities of a church, but it is still a sacred space.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Raul says, approaching the slumbering rodent. “I don’t know how she keeps escaping. I can’t find any weaknesses in the enclosure.”

  Mr. Evers frowns at the gardener’s back for a moment and then sighs. “Forgive me if I sounded churlish, Raul. I do trust your judgment in these matters.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, sir. I’ll check the enclosure again and see what I can find.” He pats the rodent on the back. “Come on, Princess.”

  Princess hops off the floral-print cushion and yawns, showing off her long beaver teeth. She scampers behind Raul as he heads for the door. Only now does the gardener seem to notice me. He smiles in my direction and I give a little wave in reply.

  With the creature gone, Mr. Evers restores the toppled easels and the upturned bucket. Every step, every motion seems strained, as if he’s moving in slow motion. He says, “I would send the cursed animal away, but Molly has lost enough already.”

  “I should go,” I say, standing again.

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Evers says, and he shakes my hand with a trembling palm. “Goodbye, Ms. Valdez.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Once I pass the tangle of pasty corpses, Mr. Evers clears his throat. He says, “Have you . . . seen her?”

  I turn around. “What?”

  “Have you seen my daughter? Her spirit?”

  “No.” The word seems to hover in the air between us, like one of the grotesque angels. I don’t want to end our conversation like this, but what more can I say? What more can I do for this man?

  Mr. Evers turns away, and I do the same.

  * * *

  On the trek back to my room, I’m forced to sit on the floor, with my back against the wall. I feel as if an invisible hand has grabbed hold of my body and spun me around and around.

  I take a deep breath. Another.

  Soon, when the dizziness passes, I spot a broken piece of ceramic beside me. I pick up the white fragment, which depicts a closed eye and a winged eyebrow.

  “Are you well, miss?” Robin says, appearing at my side. “Should I call for the doctor?”

  “No,” I say, dropping the ceramic shard. “I get dizzy sometimes, but it’s only an inner ear thing. I’m fine.”

  The old woman squeezes her hands together. “Are you quite sure, miss? You complained of a headache last night, and you still seem a little flu
shed. I have a wide selection of over-the-counter and prescription medications at the ready if you’d rather bypass the doctor visit.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  To prove my point, I stand and straighten my cardigan.

  “Will you be joining us for breakfast now, miss?”

  “I just quit, so maybe I should pack up and go.”

  “Oh no, miss. Eat first, and then Raul can drive you back to town. He has a small utility vehicle that can navigate the twists and turns of the hedge. I was somewhat hesitant to ride in such a vehicle, but I’ll tell you, miss, it’s not as harrowing as it seems. Raul drives like a snail, and the UTV has cushioned seats and integrated cup holders.”

  If Raul had one of these vehicles when I first arrived, why didn’t he drive me through the maze? Was this another absurd test, like the lost wallet? I could ask Robin or Raul if they know anything about this, but I suppose the answer doesn’t matter anymore.

  We walk side by side, and somehow Robin suppresses her natural inclination to surge ahead. I can still feel the grip of the invisible hand around my body, shaking me a little from time to time. I focus on the mosaic floor streaming toward my feet.

  During breakfast, the theme song from Who’s the Boss blares from under the dining table, and Robin jumps up from her chair. Into her phone, she says, “Hello, Mrs. Evers. Ah. Yes, I’ll tell her.” When she hangs up, she says, “That was Mrs. Evers, miss. She wants you to meet her in your bedroom.” She sighs, still standing, holding the phone in her hand. “I should tell you, miss. Mrs. Evers is not in her right mind. I spoke with her early this morning, and she talked all sorts of nonsense. I knew that Mrs. Evers was sick with grief, but now she seems away with the fairies, as they say. In truth, miss, she frightened me, and I could understand if you’d rather not speak with her alone. I’m confident Mr. Evers would be happy to accompany you, or I could go with you myself. Or would you rather not speak with Mrs. Evers at all?”