Authors: Sarah Langan
Audrey’s Door
Audrey’s Door
For my parents, good eggs,
carrying on the good fight.
Then she goes pale, and her body shrivels up. her glance is sideways and her teeth are black; her nipples drip with poisonous green bile, and venom from her dinner coats her tongue; she only smiles at the sight of another’s grief, nor does she know, disturbed by wakeful cares, the benefits of slumber; when she beholds another’s joy, she falls into decay, and rips down only to be ripped apart, herself the punishment for being her.
Ovid, on Envy,
Metamorphoses
Translation by Charles Martin
W.H. Norton and Company, 2005
The Seduction
The Tenant
Her Black Holes (She Glimpsed Something Better Before It Drifted Out to Sea)
All the Pretty Young Things in the Dark
Going Gently Into That Good Night (Iniquitous Darlings)
The Piano Has Been Drinking
The Walking Wounded
She’s Thirsty Because Her Neck Never Stopped Bleeding
Home Keeps Changing
Everything Old Is New Again (Rats!)
The Business of Grief
You Like Me? You Really Like Me!
This Petty Pace from Day to Day
Girls’ Night Out (Everybody Screws Up, Sometimes)
Humans Raised as Cows!
We Pick Our Own Families
Children’s Hour
Howard Hughes Flew Planes Too, You Know
You Can’t Go Home Again
I’ve Always Lived With You
Sweet Air
Your Black Wings Are Showing
The Hull
Where Do They Go When The Light Leaves Their Eyes?
Icarus’ Wings Burned Black
Madhouses Always Have Broken Teeth
The Spaces in Between (Holes)
Audrey Makes Five!
The Worm Turns
Some People Burn Their Own Wings
Islands Collide
For Whom The Bell Tolls
Lambs Taste Better Than Pigs
I Hate You!
Do Black Sheep Dream?
Baby’s Breath
Bones Break All the Time
Audrey’s Door
The Sound a Trap Makes as It Closes, I: Backward and Forward, the Same Thing Happens
The Sound a Trap Makes as It Closes, II: A Little Insulin Never Killed Anybody!
The Sound a Trap Makes as It Closes, III: Light Through the Keyhole
The Sound a Trap Makes as It Closes, IV: Katabasis
The Sound a Trap Makes as It Closes, V: Build the Door
Vesuvius
Old Scars Protect Against New Ones
The Breviary
Doesn’t Every Generation Inherit Debt?
The Red Ants Will Carry Away Even the Last of Your Line
I Weary of the Sun, and Wish the State of the World Were Now Undone
Let Me In
The Tenants
What You Love Is the Same as What You Hate
Mother
Flight
M
odern haunted-house stories build on a rich tradition. While writing
Audrey’s Door,
I was particularly inspired by Shirley Jackson’s
Haunting of Hill House,
Stephen King’s
The Shining,
Ira Levin’s
Rosemary’s Baby,
Roland Topor’s
The Tenant,
the films of Roman Polanski, and Edward Rob Ellis’
The Epic of New York City: A Narrative History.
I hope I did right by these guys, and by New York, the city that stole my heart.
Sarah Langan
September 18, 2008
The Seduction
October 22, 1861
Delight! At dusk on October 20
th
, the doors to Manhattan’s newest luxury apartment building, The Breviary, opened at last. Coal giant and primary financier Martin Hearst cut the ribbon to riotous applause. The teeming crowd’s cheers resounded across both rivers, and were even heard by this office down in Times Square. Despite The Breviary’s slanting Chaotic Naturalist architecture, independent engineers agree that the stately monolith is sound, and will stand for centuries to come.
The event raised a new standard in both architecture and society balls, which one can only hope Washington Square will answer with verve. After the ribbon cutting, guests reposed their mourning over this terrible war against brothers and waltzed inside the main lobby until dawn. In attendance were the future occupants of the building, its unkempt architect, Edgar Schermerhorn, two Union generals, three senators, and celebrities such as Claire Red-grave, Barry Sullivan, Fanny Price, and Hannibal Hamlin. Libations and decadent hors d’oeuvres
floated on silver trays like river flowers, and the event was crowned by a sunrise marksman’s contest on the building’s roof. The worse for rum, not even Major General Winthrop hit a bull’s-eye, though tragically, one of Hearst’s Negroes took a bullet to the knee. The party broke at dawn. Guests watched the great building from the backs of their carriages. I do not think I was alone in waving it, and that perfect evening, farewell.
The building boasts every amenity imaginable, from water closets to gas-powered lights, and its future residents represent the finest families in America. What’s more, its westward slant and unique design outwit its mundane brownstone cousins, heralding a style all New York’s own. We deserve such a landmark—Manhattan is a Post Road way station between the wealthy South and Boston’s aristocracy no more. We are the ascendant new America—hardworking, intelligent, and free.
From
The New York Herald
The Tenant
F
ate.
Audrey Lucas found the apartment through an online ad in
The Village Voice.
The real-estate section was updated on Tuesday afternoons, and she checked it as soon as three o’clock rolled around, just like she’d checked it last week, and the week before that, too. She’d seen twelve places this month, and not one of them had been fit for a dog. They’d had showers in their kitchens, paint peeling from walls, urine-stained carpets (pets or people?), and, once, the red chalk outline of a fat guy’s body. She’d almost given up and started calling real-estate brokers in Queens when—bingo!—today’s search brought up a match:
Morningside Heights Charmer. Landmark Building. Large, Pre-War 2br. City Views, EIK, $999. Priced to go!!! Call owner: (212) 747–4854. No Brokers, plz.
Her hand hovered over the phone’s receiver. There had to be a catch. $999 was too good to be true. You couldn’t share a fifth-floor walk-up for that price in this city. Still, she grinned:
Prewar, baby!
She dialed the number, and couldn’t believe her luck when a man with an upper-crust British accent got on the line and told her the apartment was still available.
“An architect? What a lovely career. I dabbled in it myself once upon a time. Come straightaway, dear. I’ll arrange a viewing,” he said. His voice sounded old-timey, like a Harold Arlen song (“Let’s Get Crazy; Let’s Fall in Love!”), and she was charmed.
She prairie dogged up from her cubicle to avoid the sightline of her boss, Jill Sidenschwandt, and the rest of the Parkside Plaza team, then ducked out the back stairs to the street and was on her way. The #1 Train was flooded again, so she grabbed a taxi from West Broadway. On the passenger-seat television panel, Liz Smith reported the latest news on Donald Trump’s toupee. Made from mink fur, apparently.
Twenty minutes after leaving SoHo, her cabbie let her out at 110
th
Street, where she wondered if she’d transcribed the wrong address: 510 was too good to be true. Its fifteen stories were sooty limestone brick, each with intricate latticework, curlicues, and gargoyled ledges upon which sky-rat pigeons, and even real birds, cooed. Like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, only less leaning, it slanted west toward the Hudson River. Its green copper roof converged neatly into a tidy spire that scratched a crooked hole through the September sky.
She squinted in disbelief. The building’s details indicated a type of architecture that didn’t exist anymore. Or at least, the textbooks said it didn’t exist. Her grin spread slowly, like dawn, and lit up her entire face: but maybe the textbooks were wrong.
To the right of the main entrance, she found the cornerstone: THE BREVIARY, 1861. The name was familiar—
she’d read about it someplace. Her smile broke into a short laugh, and she pressed her fingers inside the crevices of its limestone skin, just to make sure this building was the real deal.
…And it was.
Holy cow.
Chaotic Naturalism. She’d studied it in graduate school. Daydreamed about it, and in doodles, tried to make it work, not just in theory, but in application. But she’d never imagined she’d see the genuine item.
Back in the 1850s, a whole fleet of Chaotic Naturalist structures were erected, mostly in eastern Europe. Houses, libraries, city halls—from the lithographs she’d seen, they’d all been gorgeous. They’d also been unsound. Their foundations hadn’t stood flush to the ground, so their support beams never settled right, and over time they’d collapsed. At least a hundred people, probably closer to an unreported 250, had died within their crumbling walls. Some instantly, as roofs had caved; others slowly, trapped in basements like miners, hoping their next breath would not be their last.
True to the Chaotic Naturalist philosophy, The Breviary’s floors differed in height from one story to the next, and its walls didn’t intersect at right angles but were either obtuse or acute. The gargoyles weren’t evenly spaced but appeared at random intervals, like flowers on a vine. Inside buildings like this, dropped marbles rolled in all directions, and the furniture warped, so once a couch lived in a particular space for a few years, you couldn’t move it, or it crumbled.
Supposedly, the last of these buildings had been condemned in 1929. And yet, here was The Breviary. Ten thousand tons of cement and steel, and not a single right angle. How on earth had it survived?
Once she got inside the building, her grin spread even wider. The lobby was grand as a ballroom. Cracked Italian mosaics along the floors depicted blackbirds in flight, and a low-hanging crystal chandelier emitted a
sallow glow, like an archeologist’s lantern unearthing a deep-sea relic. Dust specked the air, thick and itchy in her nose. The back of the room was elevated, as if it had once been a stage or pulpit, and behind it were randomly placed, art-deco-era stained-glass windows. This building was neglected; run-down; divine. She leaned into its entrance, cold butterflies cramming her chest, and thought,
I can see now, why there are wars, and people kill for
things.
At the doorman’s post, she found a slender Hispanic man in blue coveralls whose name tag read EDGARDO. He looked about seventy. “You the lady who wants to see apartment?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I’m the super!” he announced, then hobbled with the help of a knobby cane toward the old-fashioned, iron-cage elevator without shaking her hand. She followed, thinking for a second that he had told her he was
super!
They stood in silence while the car ascended. The metal dial slowly ticked the floors: one…two…three. She patted her thighs in three-second intervals, to hurry the thing along. If her boss found out she’d left the office, she’d be up some serious shit creek. At Vesuvius, they worked the first-years hardest. She was lucky most nights to get home before
The Daily Show.
Edgardo smiled through brown, chewing-tobacco-stained teeth, so she smiled back. He smelled a little. Like garlic and tuna fish.
“I working here almost a year,” he said. “I’m only one who takes out garbage and cleans. The rest all lazy. Don’t even flush their own toilets. I fix everything!”
She nodded, hoping the toilet part was an exaggeration. “That’s great.” The cage wobbled as it ascended, like the cable attaching it to the top of the shaft was shredded to a single, thin wire.
“Yes. I fix roof and leaks. Exterminate insects—
roaches, red ants, everywhere! Everything run-down, but I fix. I am super!” he said.
“Wow, that’s fantastic,” she told him. She didn’t intend the sarcasm; it just happened.
Chastened, Edgardo looked down at his penny loafers. He’d sliced the leather wider, to accommodate shiny, matching quarters. There was something inherently tragic about that to her, like watching a Martian try to put on pants both legs at a time: they have no idea.
“No, really,” she said. “What you do is wonderful. Places like The Breviary get torn down every day, and the world gets worse because of it. People have no respect for quality or history. They’d make houses out of Styrofoam and throw them away every week if they could.”
The elevator creaked past the fifth floor, where she spied dirty beige carpet that might once have been white. “Yes! True! What I do is important!” Edgardo announced, then used their newfound connection as an opportunity to check her out. He started at her black ballet flats, moved on to the legs of her loose wool trousers, and worked his way up.
When people first met Audrey Lucas, they were reminded of 1930s Hollywood glamour; lovely and unadorned, with a pointed chin, long, bumped nose, and cheekbones sharp enough to cut rocks. She was pretty but awkward. She kept her arms crossed in conversations to keep people from standing too close, and she tended to shrink in crowds, making herself invisible, because she’d learned from experience that the world was cruel. She’d been working such long hours that the skin under her eyes appeared smeared with charcoal, and her pale cheeks had lost their rosy bloom. Still, the few and brave who took the time to get to know her unearthed their reward. She was smart, and funny, and kind. When she trusted the people around her enough
to smile, the sight was lovely, and just a little heartbreaking.
If her life worked out okay, and she found happiness, the pinched angles of her body would soften. By her forties, she’d blossom into a stunning beauty. If her life worked out badly, those angles would calcify into stone, and she would become small, and bitter, and angry.
Edgardo’s entire neck craned as his eyes grazed the v-neck of Audrey’s loose blouse, her small breasts, hunched shoulders, and at last, her stark, green eyes. When he was done, his gaze settled on her bare, scarred-up fingers. Then he winked, to let her know he liked what he saw.
She frowned. She was thirty-five years old, with a good job and a decent head on her shoulders. Still, when she spotted strangers looking for that ring, she felt…exposed.
The elevator passed the seventh floor. The red hallway carpet was littered with empty champagne flutes and confetti. A Monday night party? Edgardo smiled. She hid her hands in the pockets of her green, army-surplus peacoat, and imagined poking his eyes into pools of goo.
Edgardo shook his head, to let her know she’d gotten the wrong idea. “My daughter looks like you.”
She raised an eyebrow, and he continued. “Really! She does! She’s in Alaska. I visit her in the summer, but the winter”—he mimed being blown down by a gust of wind—“too cold!”
She shrugged. She’d never met a happy family, and wasn’t quite sure she believed in them. They sounded as kosher as Scientology Aliens or leprechauns.
Edgardo waited for her response. She had none. After a few silent seconds, he flinched. The entire wrinkled right side of his face seized like a stroke patient’s, then went smooth again. She realized right then, that he was lying. Maybe he didn’t have a daughter, or else, they
didn’t get along. Maybe he was an ex-con, and had gone to Rikers Island for setting her on fire. Whatever the story, he was lying. She could sympathize. Sometimes you tell people what you think they want to hear, only you’re not so good at figuring people out, so you never get it quite right.
He looked sad, flinching, inflation-shoed Edgardo. She decided to rescue him by letting him know that she was kind of a Martian, too. “Don’t worry. My mom’s in a mental institution in Nebraska. Bipolar disorder. I haven’t seen her in years.”
Edgardo crossed his arms, visibly uncomfortable. She knew she’d blabbed out of turn, and tried to fix it. “Not that I’m suggesting that your daughter belongs in a mental institution, of course.”
Edgardo narrowed his eyes. They were blue, and either booze or hard work had threaded them with red spider veins. A second or two passed before he was certain she wasn’t mocking him, and he chortled. “My Stephanie belong in Bellevue! Don’t you worry.”
They passed the ninth floor, which was stripped of carpet and light fixtures though it didn’t appear to be under construction. The walls were broken in places, and the copper wiring torn out, as if this rich building had been looted for parts. Strange. Perhaps the co-op was late on its payments, and The Breviary was up for sale, but since nobody was buying real estate these days, they’d taken to pillaging their own infrastructure. From an apartment on the floor either below or above, “Dixieland” played. Its bouncing beat echoed through the shaft.
Edgardo continued. “Alaska is no good. My Stephanie won’t write…I told a story. I never visited. She won’t let me. These kids, they blame their Mamis for everything.”
“Maybe some parents deserve to be blamed,” she said. And again, once she spoke, she regretted.
Edgardo pursed his lips and looked genuinely pained by what she’d said. His eyes got watery. “So, what if we deserve it? Don’t you think we had parents, too?”
She couldn’t think of a sensible answer to his question, so they stood there, eyes averted, as the elevator creaked. After a while, he took a few steps away from her. She did the same, until, like boxers, they occupied separate corners.
Finally, excruciatingly, the elevator dial clicked fourteen. They stumbled out, blinking into the light, like caged animals dumbfounded by their freedom.
Once Edgardo keyed open 14B, she forgot the elevator’s awkwardness, and the fact that she’d left work, and even the faulty foundation of this building, which might soon crumble. Everything changed. Everything was wonderful.
“Ha!” she cried. Edgardo caught her enthusiasm and smiled, too. She didn’t wait for him to show her around; she galloped down the long, dark hall and into the den where it mushroomed. Then she ran its expanse like a kid. A stained-glass turret! Central Park views! Built-in bookcases! Original pocket doors! Fifteen-foot ceilings! This place was huge. If she wanted, she could get a friggin’ pool delivered, connect a hose to the tub, and swim laps!
The apartment was run-down, but its bones were solid. Its western slant wasn’t severe enough to warp furniture, and even its curved hall showed a kind of brilliance because it directed the eye toward the focal point of the apartment—the den.
On her way down the hall, she bit her lips and braced herself for the bad news. No way the rent here was $999. Add a zero. But then, something glistened. A crystal chandelier in the master bedroom cast foot-long
rainbows against the walls. Red. Yellow. Blue. Green. Leaping Jesus, it was beautiful!
Her eyes got misty. Her heart pounded, like meeting the love of your life for the first time, and you
just know.
For as long as she could remember, she’d scratched. Everything she’d ever gotten was hard-won. But today, she’d arrived. That guy in the sky was showing some benevolence, and giving her something for nothing. About frickin’ time.
She found Edgardo waiting by the turret in the den. He looked pensive, and she wondered if he was thinking about his daughter. She decided she liked Edgardo, which was unusual, because she never liked anyone unless she’d known them for years.
“This place is crazy. I love it. No catch? It’s really $999 a month?”
Edgardo nodded.
