Tangled Webs

by Bibiana Krall

  Never in his life would he be fully capable of describing what came next.

  A young woman dressed as a bride glided over the flats, the sinuous fabric was still connected to the skull by a rhinestone and pearl crown.

  The grisly specter picked up the skull, carrying her own head under an arm like a prize.

  She stopped crying while waiting for him to step forward and join her.

  The hand outstretched was covered in smooth, unblemished flesh, but each time the lightning flashed, her tawny skin disappeared and she was a gruesome skeleton wrapped in filthy rags of lace and cream-colored chiffon.

  The distinct scent of lily of the valley tickled his nose when she took the skull and twisted her head back onto her neck with the most grotesque, bone-cracking sound.

  Again she transformed and this time she was beautiful, energized––almost elegant.

  “I waited for you.” She spoke in a calculating way, with a breath in-between for maximum effect.

  “I waited until the snows came. Always thinking… in five more minutes we shall be together. Forever. The flames of autumn, the icy breath of winter on my skin. Spring came and the animals brought their young to drink from the lake. They scattered my bones like matchsticks, as if I had never mattered. Still no word. Still no sign. Love is a lie. The love that you promised me.”

  Speechless, Ethan was spellbound by her eloquent pain. Somehow, he still had his courage and his voice, “What did you do to Seychelle?”

  Laughter. The troubling kind that makes you wonder if any of us are safe, the kind that makes you recognize that logic and reason have left the building.

  It was then that he heard them.

  Bells. A distinct clanging of forged brass, but it wasn’t coming from beyond the valley. The sound came from directly below his feet.

  Thump, thump, brring!

  As if someone knocked from the other side, as if the lakebed was a doorway to another world.

  Then the bells stopped and something powerful sliced through the mud. It threw him back and he choked on fear, desperate to breathe as the ground ripped open and didn’t stop until it arrived.

  “What the?”

  It was rather small as modern churches go. The belfry held a single, bronze bell.

  Covered in slime, the structure glowed with an eerie, emerald light. It was one hundred percent alive.

  Then the bell tipped forward from the belfry once more. Clanging and clanging, until Ethan felt as if he’d lost his mind.

  The ghost bride screeched and flew at him in a terrible rage. Beating his chest and face, while weeping for her loss.

  It was apparent that she thought he had hurt her, and that he was personally responsible for her pain.

  He protected his face, as she scratched and pushed him closer and closer to the double doors that led inside the haunted church.

  “It wasn’t me that disappointed you. You have it all wrong,” he huffed, “Let her go.”

  “Who cares anymore? Liar.” She seemed slightly remorseful, “Does anyone even remember? I am the forgotten. Now you are mine. Always in my sights, but never an honest word.”

  With that despicable statement, the chapel doors flew open and as much as he struggled and tried to loosen her grasp, she was victorious.

  On the steps to enter the haunted church, the waters returned and in an unceremonious tidal wave the tunnels of limestone below them broke open.

  The mist devoured what was left of the grisly spectacle, until the bell tower was all that remained.

  The spire finally retreated below the surface, until all was calm, but definitely not bright.

  Something was wrong.

  Margot wished fervently that she had made it clearer to Seychelle, just how dangerous this haunting was.

  She wished for many things, but she also understood and missed life before all was revealed. Before the clouds and rain spoke directly to her and unsolvable riddles were not important clues to decipher or write down on a pad of paper next to the kitchen phone.

  Margot sipped a cup of Earl Grey, watchful and pensive of the fierce storm from her bedroom window. Hoping that somehow the brave youngsters had defeated the mystery that crept along the edge of the lake and carried nightmares in her fists.

  Ominous mountains and wilderness remained silent until the snows came again.

  Along with the thaw and Dante’s fair warning––Margot vanished like the lake.

  * * *

  Echoes live in the ether.

  Quebec City

  “I don’t do fashion, I am fashion.” –Coco Chanel

  * * *

  Influencer (N): a person, thing, or strategy that has the capacity to have an effect on the character, development, or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.

  Mode de Veuve Noire

  by Veronica Cline Barton

  A New Year brings a fresh season of fashion passion around the world. New York, Paris, London, Milan--for trendy influencers around the globe like myself, this was our time to shine as we told the minions what colors to wear, shoe brands to buy and highlight those all-important, expensive accessories for every waking moment.

  Did I mention that I lived for the freebies too?

  Being the fashionista goddess that I am, I have become accustomed to receiving only the finest of the divine. Check that, I deserve the finer things in life. Time is money and there’s nothing sadder than seeing it go to waste. Or be given to an idiot—but that’s another story.

  Some of my so-called, former friends say that I’ve taken my obsession with the finer things a bit too far. Why, three years ago everyone who was anyone was clamoring at my smartphone begging for a mention. Fledgling designers, celebrity-kid models, real housewives of the month, ‘fauxs and nouveauxs’---everyone craved a frame on my timelines.

  Why, even the merching, not-so-royal-anymore knew who to tag if she needed someone to hashtag the freebies she unloaded for cold, hard cash every month, my split deposited up front, of course. Trusting mortals in this internet, grab-bag world was typically a fatal flaw.

  My web of chancers in the know stretched north-south-east-west to the zip codes of the rich, famous and the wannabes in between. Beverly Hills, Bel Air, Newport, La Jolla, Malibu—if there were gains to be had, I was there, armed with a smartphone that was directly wired to Every-Gram.

  Move over Madame C, Jackie O, Liz, Audrey, Grace… I was the new fashion game in town.

  Paparazzi; loan sharks; chi-chi boutiques; plastic surgeons; rehab centers; repo men; name your clinic (lipo/bypass/fat freeze were the current top three); rent a babe/hunk; lawyers de jour (the worst of the worst); and yes, even the dealers of mind-altering substances were all part of my tightly, tangled web of networks.

  I knew the risks of associating with the darker side of the influencer web, but my thirst for fame and fortune quickly doused any blips of concern that popped up on my ethical radar.

  Month after month I climbed the next step up the influencer chain. The more I dished, the bigger haul of freebies, and most importantly, online endorsements, cha-ching. Restaurants, hotels, limousines, spas, hair salons, airlines—everyone was suddenly interested when my follower list ballooned. I relished the five-star treatment and lapped it up every chance I had—hair extensions, Tres She nails, even a little (okay, not so little) nip-tuck to make my nose, chin, and tummy to the envy of my minions.

  My big break on the influencer chain came the day I was offered a multi-million-dollar deal with the National Tattle. The no-hold-barred tabloid wanted me to produce a column that featured celebs and wannabes in less than flattering attire, double pay if I could show a who-wore-it-best comparison (we do love those it-girl tantrums).

  I was hesitant for about ten nanoseconds. The years of sucking up to anyone who could give me a break were done. Over and out.

  I was a ruthless snollygoster in my influencer tattling position, showing eye-rolling what-not-to-wear outfits that shamed both designer and wearer.
/>
  Soon my smartphone was pinging from everyone in my tangled web network begging me not to show them. Under-the-table payments were frequent and lucrative. Too bad my moral compass had been unplugged. I took their money and made sure their next featured snapshot was even more embarrassing. Hah!

  All was well until that picture with the kid—she was a teen really, a direct descendant of Madame C herself and her spitting image it was said.

  As if it was my fault that the paps chased them and their car crashed. The guardian aunt who was barely scratched from the accident visited me the day her young ward was taken off life support, accompanied by her goth-vibed chauffeur.

  “You are cursed forevermore…” she hissed.

  The two of them looked at me with disgust in their eyes as they turned and left me, her words stinging in my ears. I brushed it off as ramblings of a nutcase.

  Sure, I felt for the kid, but it was just a bad photo.

  I soon learned the auntie might not be so nutty. It seemed, day by day, her curse began to come to fruition. Lawsuits, canceled articles, celebrity blackballing—not even the lowest of the low, the celebrity lawyers, returned my calls. I had overspent and lived beyond my means building up my career, and was now dead broke, about to be homeless, and a pariah in the influencer community.

  One day, my luck seemed to change. An invitation arrived—a first-class trip to Quebec City, all expenses paid, with a fat check and goody bags that included a big bottle of pink pills. I was instructed to take one per day, no exceptions. I was leery, for about a minute, and swallowed one of the magic, pink pills.

  My party supplies had run dry lately and I needed a lift, badly.

  The pill started to work quickly, putting me in a rather nice, fuzzy oblivion. I thought it was a bit strange that my new sponsor preferred to remain anonymous.

  The only signature were the initials, ‘GB’. I racked my brain trying to figure out what brand it could be and scrubbed my contacts to see if I could find a match, all to no avail. Was the curse ended? Could I start fresh, turn a new leaf?

  At this point I didn’t care, I was determined to get back in the game, and I really couldn’t wait until it was time for the next pink pill.

  My anonymous assignment turned out to be in Old Quebec to cover a private VIP shoot of the winter fashions to be modeled at the city’s upcoming Winter Carnival. Supposedly, snow bunnies from around the globe would be watching for the latest, ski-worthy duds—boots, jackets, vests, hats, jumpers, eyewear---the blingier and gaudier the better.

  Okay, it wasn’t NYC, Paris, Milan, or London level by any means from a fashion perspective, but I knew there were plenty of loaded ladies who loved winter wear and spent sleigh loads to have the latest faux fur, puffer monstrosity. I was on a mission to make me their new BFF.

  For accommodations, I was booked at the famous Inn de Glace, the ice palace erected every year that featured carved, ice creations from artists around the world.

  Frankly, I would have preferred the elegant chateau that sat regally on the cliffs overlooking the St. Lawrence River. I didn’t relish sleeping on a slab of ice in a minus five-degree room temp, but these days my options and funds were limited.

  When I arrived in the city on the departure date my freebee airline ticket mandated, I found the winter carnival and ice hotel would be delaying opening its chilly doors to the public for another few days because of a major, ice storm that was moving into the area.

  The final construction of the rooms and installation of the ice artworks were certain to be delayed by the bad weather. This meant the crowds of wealthy minions I thought I would be mingling with were non-existent.

  For a moment, my frustrated ego went into tantrum mode. I thought about having the limo driver turn around and leaving this goosebump gig, but knew I didn’t have a place to go back to.

  My condo was repossessed and friends and family didn’t seem to know who I was any longer. I shook off my tantrum and popped my daily, pink pill. I was determined to have my name back in lights—nothing was going to stop me.

  I exited the limo and pulled my one remaining fur coat that had not been repo’d closed. It was freezing here. The skies were dark gray with imposing clouds. Shards of lightning ripped through a few of them. I had a feeling my sightseeing was going to be curtailed.

  My five-inch-heeled booties were having a hard time getting a grip on the icy floor. It took all I could do to not fall on my behind as I entered the lobby and made (skidded) my way to the reception desk.

  A guy who was dressed like he should be in a gothic horror show looked up at me and gave me the once over, sticking his nose in the air.

  The weird thing was he looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t quite place him.

  “Oui,” he mumbled, not taking his eyes off of the computer screen in front of him.

  Great, I was getting the ol’ let’s-speak-French-to-the-American treatment. Two could play at this game.

  “Monique de Champion,” I announced in my haughtiest of voices. I was so glad I adopted this moniker when I became an influencer. Molly Crump just did not have the same je ne sais quois. In my five-inch heels, I towered over this snooty clerk.

  “Oui?” This time he actually placed both hands out as if to say, ‘so what’.

  I could swear his nose went up in the air another inch too.

  “Monique de Champion. I’m expected.” I pulled out the invite from the notorious ‘GB’ and waved it in front of his face.

  He reluctantly took it from my fluttering hand and looked at it. It seemed an eternity before he handed the paper back to me with a slight eye roll.

  “Oh, you’re with the models,” he taunted.

  “I’m here for the VIP fashion shoots. Don’t you know who I am?” I realized at that second I probably should not have given him that opening.

  To my surprise, he didn’t jump on it. In fact, his goth, go-away attitude almost became welcoming.

  “My mistake, Ms. de Champion. You are on a special register we have for the non-paying guests. As you can see, we have delayed our opening due to the weather. You are the first to arrive. I will take you to your room. You and the models will be staying in our newest quarters.”

  He came from behind the ice counter and grabbed the handles of my two-wheeled suitcases, beckoning me to follow him. We walked (well, I was still skidding) down a dimly lit ice tunnel that led to the rooms. There were no windows and truth tell it looked a bit scary with its snowy, ice-blue glow.

  “Um, you say I’m the first one here? Do you know when the models will be arriving?” The clerk stopped for a moment to let me catch up. I noticed a sly uptick on the corner of his mouth when he saw me slipping and sliding.

  “The models are on their way, Ms. de Champion.” He started walking again (me, sliding) when I reached his side.

  “Can you go a little slower, s’il vous plait? I’m afraid these booties aren’t necessarily made for walking,” I harrumphed. For a moment, his icy demeanor seemed to thaw a degree.

  “Of course, Ms. de Champion.”

  “Can you tell me, who is sponsoring this VIP shoot? My benefactor was a little shy on the details.” The clerk stopped and shook his head.

  “Oh, no, Ms. de Champion. I can give you no details. We pride ourselves in our discretion with our guests. All I know are the rooms where I am to take you and the models.”

  “Are you sure the models are coming? I mean with the storm warning and all…”

  “They will be here, Ms. de Champion, I promise. The VIP shoot will be in the same hall where you’ll be staying. Everything has been provided for you. You won’t even need to leave the premises.” Thunder clapped overhead, causing the dimly lit corridor to become dimmer.

  “I know I’m from southern California, where lightning and thunder are an anomaly, but isn’t it odd to have thunder and lightning this time of year? It’s freezing outside.”

  “Oui, it is strange. Some say it will bring out the crazies.” Another clap of th
under struck, causing the lights to flicker off and on again.

  Great. Here I am stuck in a frozen dungeon. Fashion models are temperamental enough, I didn’t need them turning even more bougie.

  We headed down one more corridor and finally stopped in front of a room. To my dismay, there was no door to the chamber, only a curtain. The clerk moved it to the side and walked in. I followed slowly, not knowing what to expect.

  The room glowed with twinkle lights placed around the perimeter. The bed was indeed a block of ice, but had reindeer skins, heavy quilts and a sleeping bag piled on top to supposedly keep you from freezing to death. To my chagrin, there was no en suite facilities nor closet in the room. The clerk sensed my dismay.

  “The sleeping rooms have no facilities as you can see. The common area is just down the corridor. I will take you there now. You will store your clothes and items in a locker. Showers and sauna are available. There’s a lounge and snacks in the great room. Meals will be served in the dining hall.”

  “Am I really expected to sleep here? I would think for a VIP shoot I would have been given a more glamorous room.”

  “Ms. de Champion, rooms here at the ice hotel are coveted by our guests. It is a unique experience people travel to from all around the world. The rooms in this corridor are not ones we take tourists to view, so you don’t have to worry about anyone coming into your room during the day.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be coming back in this room unless the common area fridge is out of ice. There’s not even a television in here.”

  The clerk shrugged and started down the corridor.

  I huffed and puffed following him as best I could. The only thing that was saving my aching feet now were that they were numb from traversing the iced walkways. I was so putting on the Uggie booties as soon as I had the chance.

  To my relief, the common area was quite chic in a ski-chateau kind of vibe—not the chateau-on-the-cliffside level but nicely appointed. I was assigned a small changing chamber that included a locker for my belongings. The shower and sauna were spa quality and included a makeup counter filled with creams, lotions, and facial products for the guests.