by Rosanna Leo
“What have you done?”
He rolled his eyes, bored. I raced to the bed and grabbed the woman by the arms, taking note of the long, black hair covering her face. My heart jumped into my throat. Trembling, I brushed the hair from her face. My Claudia’s beautiful face, now so pale and cold.
As I spied the marks on her neck, the bile rose in my throat and I vomited on the floor next to the bed.
Malanotte inspected his fingernails. “Really, signore, I must take issue with your outburst.”
I wiped my mouth and struggled to keep my composure. Ignoring him, I sat on the bed next to her, my heart aching as her thigh brushed mine. I touched her cheek, her lips, her nose, desperate to find signs of life.
“Please breathe,” I whispered.
But she did not. He’d stolen her breath.
I looked up and down her body and saw other signs of abuse. Her raised skirts, the smears on her thighs, the bruises. My hand shaking, I pulled her skirts down and covered her, granting her modesty in death. I leaned down and kissed her mouth, dismayed she no longer smelled like herself.
She smelled of carnality. And of him.
As white-hot fury gripped me, I rose off the bed. “Did you defile her body, you monster?”
Malanotte had the nerve to look titillated by the idea. “Preserve me from your saintly judgment. Never fear, dear man. She was alive and kicking when I had her.” He grinned. “Kicking quite a lot, actually.”
From somewhere dark inside me, a guttural war cry emerged, and I lunged at him. I threw him to the floor and pounced on him, allowing myself to finally smash him. His face was nothing more now than a magnet, drawing my fists toward it. I battered his smug features and vowed I would stop his mouth if it was the last thing I ever did.
Eventually, I stopped punching long enough to regard my nemesis. He cried like a baby, clutching at his face. I felt no sympathy. Even still, I lifted myself up off of him and allowed him to wipe the blood from his eyes. “Why?”
“I wanted her! Is that what you need to hear? I saw her perform at the Venice opera house and wanted her from that moment. She…appealed to me. So young, so…untouched. I wanted nothing more than to ravish the girl. Surely you are not immune to her voluptuous charms? If you are, then you are not the man I imagined you to be.” The smug smile returned to his bruised face. “Think about it. The soft, full hips squirming underneath you, those round arms about your neck. She tempted me as no other woman ever has.”
“Stop it!” I clenched my fists again, ready for another brawl. How I hated hearing every profane word out of his filthy mouth.
“Come now, Mr. Dawlish,” he taunted, spitting out blood. “These girls are never as innocent as they appear. I saw past her façade. I always knew a strumpet hid behind those downcast eyes. No doubt she played the innocent with you as well, but I can assure you la Sebastiano could teach the Whore of Babylon a thing or two.”
My head shook, my whole body shook, as I refuted his vile claims. “No.”
His eyes glittered. “I assure you, she enjoyed every last caress.”
“Animal! I will kill you.”
“You self-righteous prig, I can do much worse to you.” He stood tall, his eyes glowing bright. “I curse you, Hugh Dawlish. You will never find peace and love in this life. You will wander, a ghost, seeking Claudia in every woman you see, but never finding her. Just as I stole her life’s breath, so will you seek to steal the breath of others. I curse you with evil, you puritanical bastard. And when you die, may you spend eternity as a foul demon, taking as I have taken. Lusting as I have lusted. Killing as I have killed. May the Dark One make it so.”
I saw nothing but the need for black revenge. Not granting him another word, I launched myself at him, grabbing hold of his neck and tightening my grip. Determined to end his life, I maintained pressure, even though my hands began to ache. His body stiffened and then went slack. It might have been seconds. It might have been hours. All I knew was he was dead.
Like her.
Even as his foul words echoed in my ears, sending shivers through my spine, I stood and moved over to the bed. I sat and picked her up, setting her gently on my lap. Leaning against the headboard, I cradled her and we rocked together.
I knew I no longer wanted to live. He took her life. I took his. There is nothing left for me.
I am already damned.
Sometime later, the innkeeper ventured into the room. “Sir, I heard him confess.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “The poor lady’s gone. Let her go.”
I held her tighter. “No. Leave us.”
Only she’d grown so cold.
My tears washed her face, and I prayed they’d clean away all traces of her murderer. I watched as they settled into the fabric of her torn gown and into her hair, each tear a tiny elegy devoted to what might have been.
Determined no one else would ever touch her, I stood and carried her out of the room and out of the inn. Under cover of darkness, I walked back to the manor, my precious bundle in my arms. With only the moonlight as my guide, I made my way to the rose garden and set her on the ground there. Finding a shovel among the gardener’s implements, I dug a deep hole, not stopping until my body was drenched in sweat. Only then did I wrap Claudia in my cloak and offer her a last, reverent kiss. I placed her in the hole and buried her.
I would keep her next to me always.
Once the hole was filled in, I lay on her grave. Even as morning light disturbed our last interlude, I was yet filled with darkness and Malanotte’s curse made my pulse skitter.
Vile memories of my drunken time in Venice intruded. Whispered gossip about Malanotte now made sense. They’d said he practiced the dark arts. Indeed, I had seen things myself, things I wished I could erase from my brain. Images of the Italian dressed in a black cloak, wielding ceremonial swords, mumbling strange words. I’d seen him toy with prostitutes, strangling them until they were blue, only to release them at the last moment. I remembered the way he used to curse the church and its priests, and his penchant for tormenting young girls.
He’d said to me once, “It is always more exciting when they fear you.”
I had feared him then and had left Venice, never to return.
“May you spend eternity as a foul demon.” His words echoed in my head and although I pulled at my hair, I could not dislodge the sound of his voice.
He had damned me. Forever.
Sept. 3, 1820
The servants keep bringing me food and drink, but I send them away. I want nothing.
I only want her.
Sept. 10, 1820
I cannot forget his words. “You will wander, a ghost, seeking Claudia in every woman you see, but never finding her.”
I fear it has already come to pass. Everywhere I look, I think I see her face. Just as my father has been plagued by my mother’s memory, I am now tortured by Claudia’s. Every voice carries a hint of her sweet tones. Her singing haunts me. I cannot shake those melodies from my head. I have paced my rooms, singing snatches of lullabies and drinking songs in an attempt to forget Mozart’s music and the way she performed it, but they always return to me. Teasing me with what I can’t have. I have pounded my head against the wall, and still I cannot forget her.
God help me, in a strange way, I actually enjoy this torment. I revel in it. I thrive on it, if one can call my existence thriving.
After all, it is all I have left of her. I will cling to her memory while I have breath in my body. By all that is holy, even longer.
Sept. 16, 1820
I went down to the rose garden tonight, being unable to sleep yet again. It was the first time I ventured from the manor since the night she was killed.
I saw her there.
At first, she seemed nothing more than a trick of the eyes, a shadow among larger shadows. But within seconds, the moon passed before the clouds and she took shape. Her shape. It was all the same. Her halo of black hair, tendrils gracing her beauty. Olive skin, so robust and alive. And dar
k eyes which regarded me with sadness. Every blink of her lashes a new slice through my heart.
“Claudia,” I whispered.
Just as I moved toward her, my feet stumbling, she turned and ran. When she giggled, her voice echoing with mirth, I almost forgot my own grief. Surely the past days had been a mistake. Surely I’d had a terrible nightmare and she still lived. I stared dumbfounded as she disappeared into the darkness.
“Claudia, wait!” I called to her. “Why do you run?”
Without wasting another second, I tore after her. Despite the lack of light, I could still pick out her form. Her pace, quicker than I would have imagined, kept me at a short distance.
She led me around the garden, over the lawns and around the house. Every time I thought I’d lost sight of her, she reappeared behind a distant statue or behind a yew tree. I cursed my feet, not understanding why I could not catch up. As if to tease me, she stopped here and there, looking back in encouragement. Whenever she did, she smiled, as if to poke fun at my agony.
After a time, my ribs ached and I could not breathe. My throat grew hoarse from calling her name. And all the while, she continued with her dance of madness, dashing through the night on a desperate chase that threatened to destroy my sanity.
Eventually, we arrived back at the rose garden. Only then did she stop. My chest heaving, I reached for her but she held out a hand. I gazed at her, my only love, and realized she had already begun to fade.
“Don’t go.”
My plea made no difference. Standing on her grave, a hole that contained my sweat and tears as well, my Claudia disappeared.
I spent the rest of the night in the same spot, praying to God, asking him to return her in whatever form he could.
Sept. 20, 1820
She does not come. She does not come. She does not come.
Sept. 30, 1820
Tormented by thoughts of Claudia’s young brothers and sisters, I have sent De Courcy to Venice. I know he thinks me foolish for wanting to provide for these strangers, as he calls them. However, I trust him to follow my instructions. I have given him all the money at my disposal and he is to help them. I do not need the funds and do not trust my father to help me in this matter.
I couldn’t help their beloved sister. I will help them.
Oct. 14, 1820
Blackness surrounds me. I feel the claws of the Beast, scratching, scratching, scratching at my back.
Malanotte’s voice has drowned hers out now. All I hear is his vicious curse. “May you spend eternity as a foul demon, taking as I have taken. Lusting as I have lusted. Killing as I have killed. May the Dark One make it so.”
I see the looks on the servants’ faces. When they encounter me in the halls, they hurry in the opposite direction. They look at me as if I am a ghost. Word of the curse has spread, making me a demon while still in the flesh.
My father refuses to talk to me. I am certain he sees his own pain etched into the lines of my face. Perhaps a part of him would have me find an appropriate woman and marry her, but surely he understands why I cannot. No, my heart is forever pledged. No other woman will do. I am utterly enslaved, a prisoner to my recollections.
And so, here I sit in darkness, gazing out the window toward the rose garden. Hoping for a glimpse of her sweet specter.
I must find her.
Oct. 16, 1820
The shadows have seeped into my rooms. When all is still, I glimpse them, clinging as they do to the walls and curtains. In them, I see Claudia’s smile, but I also see Malanotte’s leer. Every time I do, my breath grows shorter. Stilted. Painful.
I would do anything to end this torment, even bargain with the devil. But then I remember he already has my soul. I need only deliver it to him.
Oct. 17, 1820
They have called for a priest. Priests. As if they could help me.
Oct. 18, 1820
I cannot rest. I cannot sleep. God has forsaken me. I will never forgive myself. Because of me, she died. I killed my own mother, and I killed the woman I love.
I will never be at peace until I am reunited with her.
Oct. 20, 1820
Claudia. Salva me.
»»•««
“What do you mean, ‘That’s it’?”
“I mean that’s it,” said Margaret as we sat in her office. “Hugh’s journal ends there.”
“But,” I stammered. “What happened next?”
She reached across the desk and grasped my hand. “You already know, dear. Right after the last entry, he took his own life. Hanged himself. A servant found him. He couldn’t handle his grief. Although it’s clear, even from his sparse ramblings at the end, he might have wasted away at any rate.”
I remembered the warm touch of my night lover and the firmness of his skin. To think he might have been driven half-mad, and then to end his life in so violent a fashion, made me want to weep. Yes, he’d driven me to the point of lunacy with his attentions, but I still felt connected to the man he’d been. His story filled me with a sadness I’d only encountered once before.
Despite Malanotte’s clear fault, Hugh blamed himself for Claudia’s death. Could it be this was our connection? Perhaps it had nothing to do with Mozart and sopranos and lust. Was this why my soul cried out for his and why he answered?
“Renata?”
Salva me. He’d ended his life with the same two words he’d uttered to me over and over. Save me.
That meant there was something left to save.
“Are you all right, dear? You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m fine.” I released Margaret’s hand. “Do you believe in curses?”
She inhaled, clearly choosing her words. “It’s probably not important whether or not I believe. Hugh believed. And in a grief-stricken frame of mind, he committed murder and then suicide. If you subscribe to the church’s teachings, you will have learned that such actions can lead a soul to hell. Limbo, at the very least.”
“I don’t believe it. If there is a God, I don’t believe he would punish those who choose to take their lives.”
“Perhaps not and we’ll never know for sure. What we do know is Hugh Dawlish was vulnerable when the count uttered those words of malice. Hugh believed in God and in the devil. In such a state of despondence, I think it’s possible the words of the curse took flight. I believe Malanotte turned Hugh into an incubus to torture him, and I don’t think Hugh was in the right mind to fight back.”
“How could he have such power over him with a few words?”
“Malanotte was involved in the occult. Hugh said so himself. He disliked the man, but more than anything, he feared him.”
“Then he needs my help.”
“Renata, even if it were true, I don’t see what you can do to help him.”
I sat up straighter in my chair, feeling a new sense of purpose. “Neither do I, but I have to try.”
The wrinkles around Margaret’s eyes deepened. “And if it kills you in the end?”
I had no answer for her. I was not certain it wouldn’t kill me.
»»•««
I knew Finn would be mad, but I told him I wanted to visit St. Bartholomew’s Church the next day before rehearsal.
“What on earth for?” he asked, frowning.
I pulled up my jeans and slid into a light V-neck sweater. I checked my reflection in the mirror and caught a glimpse of my faded hickeys. Tired of hiding, I didn’t bother to throw on a scarf. “I want to visit Hugh’s grave.”
Finn stared at me. “Do you really think it’s wise?”
“No.” I walked up to him and grabbed his hands. Standing on tiptoes, I planted a kiss on his nose. “But I’m still going to do it.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
“I know.”
We walked through the village, hand-in-hand and in silence, until we reached the church. Many graves dotted the lawn outside the church, but I had learned from Margaret Hugh’s grave was inside, near the chapel where his mother lay. Following her
direction, I entered and made my way through the quiet building, the steps from my loafers echoing on the marble floor.
Between the filtered light from stained-glass windows and a cloudy sky outside, it seemed dark in the church, darker than I would have expected. Shadows danced in the corners and behind monuments. I kept my gaze trained on my destination, an alcove in the corner, not wanting to look around the eerie space.
Finn remained behind me, a possessive hand on my back. “I don’t like this. What are you hoping to achieve?”
“I’m not sure.”
I made my way to the Dawlish family chapel. For a moment, I just stood still, remembering this was the place where Hugh and Claudia fell in love. Right here, under the stained-glass windows. They’d loved each other so much and it had all been taken away. Two young lives snuffed out by lust and covetousness and evil.
Just as in my dream, Hugh’s grave stood to one side in the chapel, a flat tabletop monument. I read the inscription, ran my fingers over the slightly faded lettering, and imagined the man within. So vibrant in my dreams, and now a pile of dust.
Like my parents.
I gazed at the pale stone, wishing I could see through it, remembering how it opened inward in my nightmare. “You didn’t kill her, Hugh,” I whispered. “He did.”
“He can’t hear you,” Finn said gently.
“How do you know?” I asked, my gaze still following the lines of the stone. “Maybe he can. Maybe he needs to hear from me. Hugh, it wasn’t your fault. The curse doesn’t have to control you anymore. You can go now. You can join Claudia.”
As soon as I uttered the dead soprano’s name, a cold breeze wafted around me. I looked about the church to see if a window was open, but all shut tight. I crossed my arms but the chill seeped into my bones, making me shiver. Within seconds, I felt as cold as if I’d just been doused in ice water. My teeth began to chatter. Goose bumps popped on my skin. In that moment, I felt sure I could have frozen to death.
