Scary Holiday Tales to Make You Scream (24 page)

He left the hotel room in Florida along with two bodies, that of his best friend and his wife, Nadia. He shot Tom Stanford once in the head. He died quickly. Death wasn't so easy for Nadia.

He heard laughter as he closed the door behind him.

He saw the girl with coal-black eyes again at a filling station in Georgia. She glared at him from the window of an old pickup truck.

He never really loved Nadia-not the way he loved Daria. Family money was his motive for marriage, but the idea of her fucking around with another guy outraged him. He didn't like to share what belonged to him.

He had briefly thought about shooting himself afterwards, of ending it. He hadn't murdered some prostitute or a drifter this time. His wife was the daughter of a prominent Jacksonville businessman and Tom was a major player in one of the largest mob families in the South. They'd slaughter him if they caught him.

He changed his mind about death when he opened Tom's briefcase and found a million dollars tied in neat bundles. So he ran, driving away from the pain and bloodshed, believing Bernard Danser could help him. And he thought about Daria. He always thought about her, through two bad marriages and through countless affairs.

In South Carolina he stopped at a used car lot and traded his 1997 Taurus for a black nondescript 1999 Escort. He paid the dealer in cash. In North Carolina he stopped at a Denny's and switched license plates with a Caddie parked out in the back. He'd do it again before he got to Connecticut.

He called Bernard Danser from Virginia and told him about the dilemma. Danser promised him shelter and a room at the Angele' hotel. Marcus shared secrets with his friend, secrets that went deeper than murder and theft. He knew he could trust him. He'd known it since the day he met the magic man.

On a smoky February day, twenty years earlier, the temperature had risen to an unseasonable sixty degrees. He'd played hooky from school, caught the bus from Providence to the bay. He was a fifteen-year-old kid, bored with school. Good grades came easy to him. He didn't need to study, or attend classes regularly. He had skipped several grades and would be graduating within a month.

He never knew his father, and his mother struggled to raise him by working as a seamstress by day and as the local fortuneteller on nights and weekends. People said she was uncanny and her readings always hit the nail right on the head. She told him he was special and that he'd learn the secrets of the universe from a powerful man.

Marcus made extra money by making deliveries for one of Providence's crime bosses. Twice a week he'd walk into a bar on Atwells Avenue. A neat package, wrapped in brown paper, would be waiting for him. He'd stuff it into his denim jacket, catch a bus to Cranston, West Warwick or even to the ritzy section of East Greenwich, hand the goods to some beady-eyed wise guy and then go home to read the books he'd found in his mother's cedar chest; volumes about Aleister Crowley, the Salem witches and strange accounts about the history of Talbot's Bay. He became obsessed with the life and disappearance of the artist Rebecca Farrell. Every chance he had he'd go to Talbot's Bay in search of Farrell's prints or small rare sketches which were exhibited in the galleries on the boardwalk.

On February 14th, 1983 he wandered further along than he'd done on previous visits. Brightly lit shops gave way to older deserted buildings and finally there was only the ocean on his left and vacant lots to his right.

He walked a few blocks further and spotted a secluded shop. Crystals dangled over the door. Stained glass windows reflected sunlight. A man stood in the doorway. At first he looked ancient, humped over. But it must have been the sun's reflection creating an illusion, because on second glance the man looked to be no more than thirty-five or forty. He had dark shoulder-length hair. His eyes were filled with wisdom and something else-something that seemed to damn Marcus as he returned the man's engaging smile.

A poster hung on one of the windows: REBECCA FARRELL'S LOST DRAWINGS.

"Wow. Originals?"

The man's eyes twinkled. "Yes, of course. You have an interest in Farrell?"

"Yes."

"An elderly spinster recently passed away and an entire trunk filled with Farrell's work was found in her attic. I purchased quite a few of them at an auction last weekend. Come inside and look if you'd like."

The shop smelled of incense and candle wax.

A lovely blonde girl, around his age, sat cross-legged amidst scattered prints and drawings. She held a framed charcoal of a Goddess. The girl's expression told him that she was in awe of the artwork.

"I'm Bernard Danser. This is Daria. One of my students and also a fan of Rebecca Farrell."

The girl nodded, then returned her gaze to the drawing.

Daria.

That was the beginning.

That afternoon was a turning point in his life. Bernard Danser knew more about Rebecca Farrell and her work than any book he'd ever read.

"She came from New York to escape the rat race and to learn about magic. She had great power, but misused it. She's now spending eternity in a dark underworld, trapped in a room filled with mirrors where she can view all she's left behind on this earth."

"Is it the same magic you teach, Bernie?" Daria's voice was soft.

"Yes, but you must never abuse my teachings. Never."

The girl blushed.

"And you both must remember that today wasn't an accident. I knew you'd come, Daria and I knew you'd come to me before that, Marcus.

. We three will open doors to new and wonderful worlds."

Later when the sun set over the Atlantic, Marcus walked with Daria on the beach and he kissed her for the first time. A light snow fell and it swirled like a magic cape over the restless ocean.

"Be my Valentine," he whispered.

"I've dreamed of this," she said and kissed him once more.

Each Saturday the three would meet at Bernard's shop. He taught them Astrology, Tarot and about strange magical worlds.

"These are secrets passed down from generation to generation. Those who are chosen to learn these secrets find their teachers when the time is right-just like you've both found me. I've been to other realms and have shared wisdom with the beings who inhabit them. But there's one place I've yet to open the door to. It's the realm of The Angele'. They're dark fairies." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Their magics are among the strongest. We'll work hard so that we can at least bring one of them here to speak with us."

Bernard opened a purple velvet pouch. "I met with a man earlier today. He owed me a favor. He gave me some good mescaline-if you'd like to try it."

Both Marcus and Daria swallowed the pills, anticipating the wonderful and giddy feelings that would follow.

Daria giggled as Bernard drew a chalk circle on the floor and asked them to step inside. "We'll begin by going to the place I'm most familiar with."

He sprinkled a white powder inside the circle and on their shoulders and heads. It began to shimmer within the candlelight.

"I feel so magical," said Daria.

Bernard smiled "You are magical, sweet girl. Now listen." He sprinkled more powder. It turned purple, blue and green. It glowed like sparkling gems. "Lord of the East unseal your gates. Lord of the West lay your golden keys before me. Lord of the North cover us with cloaks of protection. Lord of the South give us the wisdom and courage for all that we encounter."

Soft cat growls filled the air. A gate appeared where a tall bookcase had previously stood. "Come to Talazia, my students."

Marcus and Daria came to know Bernard's alternate world as well as they knew their own.

Before long they also learned that the beings of Talazia often came here to share both magic and mischief. Feline beings transformed into sultry human women when they crossed into our world. And sometimes Bernard would become a black panther, a glorious being with blazing yellow eyes.

Marcus often doubted the things Bernard showed him-the thing he became. Mescaline, LSD and other drugs were abundant and Bernard willingly shared them with Daria and Marcus.

On February 14th of the following year Bernard announced, "We're ready to conjure The Angele'."

He drew the familiar circle, lit red candles and painted their faces with what he called symbols of the Gods. Then he chanted in Latin, calling the elements, asking the wind to open doors to other worlds, for water to wash away the obstacles, for the earth to accept the magic of other worlds and for fire to light the dark tunnels through which all travelers must walk.

Marcus held Daria's hand as wind beat against their faces, lightning streaked across the sky, rain pounded against the windows and the ground quaked.

Smoke filled the room, then slowly dissolved. In the center of their circle sat the dark-eyed being. Dark wings beat. She shrieked, rose up and circled over Bernard. Then she reached down and slashed his face with dagger-like fingernails.

She disappeared.

They tried relentlessly to bring her back, to reach into the world of the Angele'.

A month later blood sacrifices became frequent. Bernard would drive through the city in search of the homeless, prostitutes and others who would climb into a stranger's car for money or the offer of a free meal.

After the killings The Angele' would appear for a moment or two, lick the blood and then quickly fade away. At times he bound and tied together several hookers or homeless drug addicts, cut them and filled a cauldron with their blood, calling The Angele'. It always failed.

"Sex magic is potent. Blood ritual is the ultimate magic. It'll work, we'll perfect it," Bernard would say. "The power one derives from it is unsurpassed." But the sex, or even the blood sacrifices which granted them entry into other realms, failed to satisfy the dark fairies that Bernard thirsted to know.

He never changed, never seemed to age-he said it was magic.

Marcus fell deeper and deeper in love with Daria during those years. In the beginning she told him she belonged to only him, but as time went on and Bernard emphasized that sharing love and sex amongst themselves-and with others- could create rich and dark magic, she became distant, often going off with Bernard alone.

Marcus wanted power and access to all that Bernard offered, but his obsession with Daria was stronger and one day he decided it would be best if he moved on.

"You'll be back, " Bernard said to him after he told him his plans to move South, go back to school and create another life. "Your destiny is here with me."

He returned to the odd beach town after another decade had past. How ironic, on the day he drove away from Talbot's Bay, he'd also left behind dead bodies. But those crimes were buried now, with the bones of the people who had died.

He shook his head, wondered if his old friend still killed in the name of magic. If he still visited the strange alternate world, Talazia, where shape-shifters and the black panther were natural phenomena. He once again wondered if all these visions were the results of Bernard's potent drugs. It didn't matter, Bernard offered him sanctuary-safety and some secrets were best left alone.

He wondered if Daria would be there, if she looked the same-still had feelings for him.

Marcus entered the dark lobby of Hotel Angele'. Behind the registration desk stood a woman, sleepy eyes, blonde hair tied back in satin bow, strands of silver beads hung around her neck and onto her black velvet dress. She smiled at him, lips turning up in what looked like a scowl. "Do you have reservations?" she said, picking up a thick book, flipping through pages.

"Marcus Sands," he said removing a wad of cash from his pocket. "Bernard Danser has a room reserved for me."

Ignoring the money in his hand, she looked at him, tapped pointed red fingernails on the counter. "Oh, yes, we've been waiting." She snapped her fingers. "Beatrice, take Mr. Sands to his room."

A woman, he hadn't noticed before, floated from the shadows. The tall redhead smiled at him. Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she walked towards him. A tight knit dress hugged feminine curves. She smelled of summer flowers. Images of lush gardens and tiny impish faces peering from leaves and vines flashed through his mind. The woman looked at him with jade eyes. "This way...please."

He followed her up three flights of stairs.

"The elevator stopped working months ago," she said nonchalantly.

An annoying inconvenience for the guests, thought Marcus.

"There aren't any guests on this floor," said Beatrice, leading him down a dark corridor. Bizarre paintings lined the walls. They were intricate renderings of fantasy landscapes. Dainty fairies and strange, exotic creatures seemed to move, follow him with their eyes as he passed by.

"The paintings are wonderful. Rebecca Farrell's work," he said, stopping before a large canvas. He was awed by a cluster of tiny creatures with golden wings extended. Their cherub faces looked to the moon, lifelike-fantastic. A larger figure of a woman, with rainbow-colored wings, seemed to be singing to the others. Two brownish dwarfs sat on the ground beside her.

The redhead moved closer to the painting. "The tiny fae are called Daintelias. They're cute and charming, but quite mischievous. The brownish critters are called Swamp Breeds. They're treacherous and demon-like." She sighed, ran her finger over the wings of the large figure-a replica of the dark-eyed girl who had appeared to him recently. "She is one of the most deadly and the most magical. She of The Angele'."

He frowned. "I know."

"The original owner of this hotel was fascinated with fairy lore. He commissioned Farrell to do the paintings and he named the hotel after his favorite clan of fae."

He nodded. "Bernard and I have discussed The Angele'."

She turned, "There's always more to learn. There are books about the legends in the library on the second floor." She unlocked a door and led him into his room.

Marcus opened French doors leading out to the balcony. He hugged himself, feeling icy February wind. The ocean's waves rose, foamy tips seeming to reach to him like phantom fingers.