+1+
Fierro
No
No. No. No.
No Name
No Mother
No Father
No Family
No Friends
No Home
No Surname
Then,
No, sir
No, ma’am
No crying
No Sin
No Lying
No Sloth
No leaving
No going to town
No books
No days off
No rest
No talking
No celebrating the end of an ungodly war
No more of that Lucie Mills-Pepperidge
No more of that silly library
No more of that Jezebel
No. College isn’t for you
No. hospitals. Ungodly
No, you can handle the work
No, you don’t need a break
No, you don’t need help
No. stop being ungrateful
No. Not yet
No. Not yet, Addison.
No, it’s not that I don’t love you Addy
No rain.
No. . . . Money.
No crops
No animals
No more farm
No more work
No money
No choice
No more of this factory, please God.
No.
No, she’s not yours
No, it is not yours, Addy
No, she’s
mine, Fierro
No, Roger. Don’t.
No, Roger. Please
No life
No death
No peace
No joy
No change
Then
No. . . she's here
No longer alone
No longer alone
No--
No. Lucie. Don't
No longer a husband
No longer anything. . . truly.
No, it can't be. . .
No. Not Lucie ? Ms. DeLune ? Clara-
No life
No death
No sense of. . .
No time.
No, you’re married.
No she’s not Lucie.
No, she's practically your-. No, she’s not.
No, she’s his granddaughter.
No, she’s his daughter.
No, she’s a DeLune.
No. No. No
A lifetime of No.
Two life times of no
No, Addison
Sit keep quite. Work and Pray. Pray then work harder.
No, you don’t belong
No, you’ll never belong
No
No
No
NO
NO
NO
NO—
+++
There screaming woman clawing her way out of my fireplace startles me awake. I close my eyes and peer back at the desk. When I look up the woman in the fireplace is still there
She is always here
Not all the time, of course.
Just for 78 seconds every day at 3:24 am.
Her screams force me from my troubled sleep and I sit up at the study desk in my bedroom. He skin under my eyes is unnervingly damp. The woman in my fireplace is dressed like a court jester, fit for King Louis XVI court. The jester wearing a soft white masque with a thin red mustache and a jester’s hat. Her face is covered but her long dark red hair and screams are distinctly feminine. I think she has an accent but it’s hard to tell around the screams as the fire burns her flesh and pulls her in.
The first time I’d witnessed this woman emerge from the inferno, my first inclination had been to save her, my second had been . . . that is goddamn impossible. The woman was gone before I could save her, but the next day at 3:24 am she was back and I realized she was in need of a different kind of saving.
It wasn’t even the oddest thing about the ostentatious fireplace in my bedroom. The strange things was the fire in the hearth from which she emerged never went out.
Ever
The fireplace was almost obscene in its height and detail. It burned dramatically right in the middle of an unusually warm French summer. It burned and roared in the way a good fire should. Granted I hadn’t even the finest recollection of starting the fire . . . but I remembered washing the soot from my hands my first night here.
For weeks I’d attempted to smother embers with ashes to no avail. I’d tried everything from water to a fire extinguisher. There had been steam and smoke but given enough time the gentle fire would roar back to life. It was one of the more tolerable quirks of the house.
One of many tolerable quirks I could no longer ignore.
Much in the same vain, I’d also very recently become aware of the cold spot in the corner of the bedroom. I had taken pains to avoid it, I foolishly hoped that it would go away. That is was a trick of the pipes. Needless to say ignoring the truth had never worked out well for me before.
I thought these things were peculiar and ominous. Bothersome. But not dangerous. At least not until recently. Not until it became clear that these strange phenomena wanted something from us. They wanted us to throw a party.
There were books and studies I could reference to account for the cold spots. I could account for the strange apparition in my fire place. I couldn’t account for the party, a masquerade, I couldn’t account for what this was all about.
Perhaps it was better to leave the house, to run. But Rose had known. She must have known and she’d wanted to live here. So I’d began to experiment, I started by leaving an oversized pillar candle in the usually cool corner the room. Nothing happened and I went about my days researching without giving it much thought.
Until now
Now the candle was lit.
From somewhere in the distance I could still hear a sing-song voice
“Vous l'avez fait’’
“I want to help”, I said quietly to the voice,” Judging by the show in the fireplace I’d say something terrible happened here. I want to help you find peace.”
I want to help. Such a dangerous phrase around such creatures-- Specters perhaps, but they were old and very strong. Very secretive. Perhaps it was inadvisable to hide inexplicable proof of such . . . guest . . . from the one you intend to marry, but I . . .
Felt for the creatures.
I should have been one of them.
I could have been one of them.
Locked in a fate no one just barley comprehends. The woman in the fireplace was clearly a remainder of something. But she was still . . . something. She was here for a reason. I want to help her. I need to for my own soul. Or lack thereof
“What do you want?”
The flame on the candle stilled. Like it was listening
What should I ask next?
Why are you here?
What are you doing?
Will you leave us be, if we extend the same?
Can I help you?
Can we help you?
What are you planning?
Why can’t I bring myself to leave?
What did you do?
What do you want?
Leave my daughter out of this.
Yes, that is a good place to start.
“Whatever you want. Whatever this is . . . Please leave my daughter and Clara out of it. They’ve done nothi-“
The flame goes out. A coincidence or simply the modern magic of central air
“Vous l'avez fait”
The voice was coming from the hallway. I hear scratching on the other side of my door and force myself from behind the desk and to the door. In the hall the voice became louder and more distinct. More familiar
“Clara?”
Clara was in the hall scribbling madly with one of my fountain pens. Her fingers appearing to be bent at a painful angle moving faster than it seemed possible. More importantly Ms. DeLunes eyes are closed, she is very much asleep. Her movements are unnatural, she is pulled like a ragdoll. She stabs the pen into the wall and collapses onto the floor. She’d spelled out a curious phrase.
Vous l'avez fait
Each word written in three distinct and different handwritings.
I approached the wall, the ink had dried instantly and there was nothing that could be done about it tonight. Ms. DeLune woke with a gasp. In the dim light of the sconces the glossy whites of her eyes shined.
“Clara—“, her eyes rolled and her dark black pupils focused on me, “Clara?”
“Oh”, she said swallowing hard and shaking her head, “Oh my God . . . I just. I had a terrible dream that. . . I couldn’t breathe. It was dark and I couldn’t. . .”
Her eyes
focused behind me to the message in ink on the walls. Her hand found the light
dimmer on the wall and the sconce’s sprang to full capacity. In the harsh light
there was something startling about how young she always appeared on the rare occasion
she was without make up, her hair piled up with a jeweled hairpin that looked
familiar. It had been Lucie’s and I didn’t care for the memories it bought up. Or Perhaps I cared to much for them.
“. . . You did this?” she asked looking at the wall.
“No”, I answer because maybe I could protect her from this, “Ms. DeLune—“
“No”, she said, “That’s what it says. Vous l'avez fait. You did this. . . Oh, no. Rose did this didn’t she? Didn’t she take those calligraphy classes and . . . I just don’t know what her problem is. I think she might need help. You know she hates this house and she’s probably trying to make us leave by pulling stunts.”
What was it she’d said about Ellie Caldwell? She had a way of making up her own narrative?
“You think this is Roses’ doing.” I said more to myself.
“Of course. God . . . this is so weird. I don’t know what we are going to do with her. If I order the paint today I should be able to cover this before the party next week. Not that anyone will be upstairs but you never know.”
She touched the ink again and sighed “What time is it?”
I peered at my watch but it had the uncanny ability to always be set at 3:24 am. I’d been awoken by the apparition’s screams so it was at least past three.
“Past three”, I said staring at the stopped watch
“That can’t be right. I could have sworn it was just 11pm”, she looked around, “I was messing around with my hair and I … Why are you still dressed? Do you ever sleep?” she asked.
“Late night. Reading”
“More history?”
“A few old studies on anomalous phenomenon”
She thought about this and reached for her hair but then remembered it was up.
“Ghost
stories”, she whispered with a slight smile.
“I wouldn’t quiet say that.”
Clara dimmed the hall lights
“Please get some sleep.”
She stood on her toes reaching up to kiss my cheek and then, just barley, my lips. She tasted like dry sparkling wine.
“You don’t need a special occasion for Champagne.”
It was something Lucie used to say. Something she’d clearly passed on to her granddaughter. She always knew how to enjoy the little things in life--
I felt the warmth of her hands around my neck and the press of her mouth, her eyes were closed and I kissed her back. She pulled away and slowly opened her eyes. I noticed too late that she was pushing open my bedroom door. I turned in time to see the masqued apparition was still there trying to escape the fireplace in its cruel Sisyphean tasks. I nearly shut the door on Clara’s fingers and she startles
“Was that—“
“Clara I can—“
“What? Is that”
“Clara, it’s—“, Forgetting her promises about boundaries she opens the door, she quickly surveys the sparse room. The fireplace roars in the background. There is no jester apparition coming from it. No screams.
“Casablanca? I’ve never seen the end of this” she says. Her eyes are not on the fireplace, but on the projector I’d forgotten I had running, “Is that why you almost slammed a door on my hand.”
“No”, I began the truth almost there, “I just didn’t—“
“I know”, she says twisting her fingers and intensely watching the captions on the silent projection. She sighs, “Boundaries. Do you mind I watch? Casablanca was my Grandparents fav—I mean... As Time Goes By was one of the first songs I learned to play by ear… do you mind if I watch?”
Against my better judgement I opened the door and let her in. She noticed the candle on the floor (now unlit) but didn’t remark on it.
I took the books from the study table and neatly returned them to the small shelf in the corner. There were full of information and theories on Specters, but still didn’t offer much on solutions. With nowhere so sit Clara made herself comfortable on my bed.
“It’s freezing in here”, she said yawning. I offered her a blanket, “Are you sure that fireplace is working ?”
“It’s working”, I said looking into the flames.
Decisively I excused myself to shower, the pages and pages of useless texts running through my mind. I shaved and re-dressed for the day. The mirror reflecting the sleeplessness in my eyes. There just wasn’t time for it. For weeks I’d tried to quietly make sense of the strange fireplace, eerie apparition and the feeling of being watched. With this masquerade being only five days away, it felt like something more sinister was coming. I waited several moments before stepping out. Clara was predictably asleep she slept comfortable in the center most likely out of habit.
I take a
note card from my desk and write a very short, very direct note. Despite the
early hour I slide the note card underneath her door.
+2+
My footsteps are the only sound in the house as I head down the staircase. In the kitchen I remove a few items from the kitchen and step outside into the cool dawn air and walk the ½ mile to the glasshouse at the end of the property. The darkened structure lights up as the doors slid open. It was peacefully silent inside. The air is thick with the scent of roses though the flowers are hidden beneath the green foliage. The water in the industrial sink can reach scalding if not boiling temperatures, I let enough water run into the French press to make enough coffee to last until sunrise, I take my time filling the kitsch yellow coffee cup that bought back memories form another life. Never mind I found it in an antique store.
I take a few clippings from the newly bloomed vibrant red roses. Maybe it was something about the French air but the roses did remarkably well here. They thrived in a way I’d hoped the other things in my life would. The sun eventually comes up but I miss it. Just as I pour a third cup of coffee the sliding doors open hard before snapping shut on their own accord.
Rosalie quietly steps in. She is clutching her school bag and sketchbook. In her other had is a pink and copperThermos with her mother’s name engraved on it. It seemed with everything she does she always needs just a moment to get her bearings. The world isn’t quiet patient enough for that, but she never needs to know that.
“Good
morning, Papa", she says settling on a chair.
“Rose. Did you get my message?”
She places the note card down.
No more secrets, young lady.
“Not a very nice card”, she says while carefully taking the lid off the Thermos and pouring her tea.
“Well Rose, things are getting quiet out of hand. The day I bought you to the house you said it was quiet and you lied. Why would you lie about such a thing? Something terrible happened here. You knew that before we moved in, didn’t you.”
“They
needed help.” She said blinking fiercely. Her metal cup had begun to
rattle and I picked it up. Perhaps I'd been to hard on her.
“Who,
sweetheart”, I ask quietly, setting a folded handkerchief next to her.
“I don’t know who they are”, She started carefully flipping through her sketchbook, “When you brought me here the first time I heard them. They were trapped here… they needed help. I could hear them calling, it was so faint I thought they were harmless. But then but it’s gotten louder. I wanted to help them. I thought I could help them rest”
“Rose, you should have told me.”
She sat up straight and folded her hands,“I thought I could do it myself. That if I helped them I could help all of them. That if I did a good thing it would make up for the bad thing I did. When I made the treehouse fall down.”
Rose studied her hands. We’d never spoken about the treehouse that had fallen and killed the husband of Clara’s former boss. Physically it was impossible for it to fall the way it had, but it had happened. Because Rose was afraid.
“Rose--”
“It’s just”, Rose said sounding very much like Clara, “Lucie always said I had to embrace what made me special. That if I can hear them I should help them. And I wanted too, Papa.”
“What do they want, Rose? Who are they? Tell me everything you know.”
She continued flipping through her notebook.
“I don’t know. I think there are three of them. They speak French so it’s very confusing.”
Three?
For Godsakes.
“Rose do you know what you’ve done? You should have told me before we moved in. Before your Uncle came.”
She opened up her notebook to a page where she’d drawn a woman in a period gown. On the other side of the page was the same woman except this time she was wearing a white, blue and gold mask. A feeling of déjà vu washes over me. Surely I had seen her before.
“I think she’s the strongest one”, Rose said studying her drawing,” I’ve seen her. .. We call her The Cake Lady”
“We?”
“Yes. Well, Clarence has been helping—“
“Rose, you shouldn’t have gotten him involve.”
“He thought he was seeing things. He doesn’t know anything, honest.” She went on, “She was the first one I saw. Usually in the drawing room. This dress she’s wearing and the masque are in the Louvre. It’s so very odd because everyone says this dress is from a time period before the house was built.”
“Who is everyone?”
“Oh . . . just the librarian and Mrs. Lancaster.”
“Rose, you called Mrs. Lancaster?”
“I didn’t want you to worry, she was very accommodating and asked after you.”
“What else, Rose”, I said deftly changing the subject.
She turned the page and there she was. The woman from the fireplace. Drawn in relief in my daughter’s notebook, half her body engulfed in the fireplace. The masque askew over face, the Jester’s hat on her hair. The next drawing was of a man in a light blue jacket, breeches and stockings with noose tight around his neck and a bright gray masque at his feet.
“I’ve only seen these two in my dreams. Only once. I don’t think they are as strong but they are trapped here to.” Rose said.
“These aren’t dreams, these are nightmares sweetheart.”
Rose looked at the images, frustrated that she couldn’t seem to tell the difference.
“Rose, did you send out those invitations?”
“No. . . You and Mommy did while you were sleeping. I think the Cake Lady made you do it. I don’t want to throw this party . . . she does”, she whispered.
“We aren’t going to let that happen.”
“I can fix it. I can make them go away. I just have to learn their names and ask them to leave. That’s all. Mother will never know, she’ll be very mad at me for lying. She’ll leave if she finds out”
“Sweetheart, you are usually far more sensible than this. Your mother isn’t going anywhere.”
Rose, who was admittedly very observant didn’t seem to think so.
“She will one day. I’m trying to be normal, Papa. But I can’t be. The voices get louder and I can’t hold it in sometimes. They are everywhere. People who can’t rest. They never shut up. They never shut up. I can’t stop feeling and doing the things I’m not supposed to. I know Mommy wants a new normal daughter. I can feel it. Mommy is so sad and it’s all my fault. She hates me.”
One of the glass panels to my right audibly cracks, but it doesn’t shatter
“Rose, that’s not true.” She shakes her head and another panel cracks. I sort everything she says out in my mind while Rose breaks down and starts to cry into her tea, if she was younger I’d pick her up, instead I pull her to me. She is shaking and the French press and coffee cup shatter into pieces. Rose jumps at the sound but I don't let her go.
“Rosalie. Your mother loves you. I love you and I’ll fix everything. You just need to stay out of trouble and keep Clarence safe. I’m going to fix this, sweetheart. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir”,
she says, I have her look me in the eye when she says it and I know she is lying.
“Rose, if you notice anything else out of the ordinary you have to tell me.”
“Does that mean you have to do the same?” she asks.
I thought about the wailing woman in my fireplace, about the mysterious message Clara had written on the walls. You did this. I thought about the countless hour I’d spent pouring over the blueprint of the house trying to figure out how the fireplace worked. I hadn’t found anything of note about it. All I’d noticed is that the blueprints weren’t . . . quite right.
“No”, Rose I said because after all she was still my little girl, “You’re just going to have to trust me.”
+++
I
