The Nightmare Game (6 page)

“But I can’t wear this,” I said nervously, her
words and her tone filling me with dread. I tried to remove the it, but the
clasp, now hard to find, had become hopelessly entangled in my hair. “It isn’t
mine. Taking it would be stealing.”

“It’s not stealing. It was brought here jus’ for
you, for you and you alone to wear. And don’ try to take it off, it don’ want
you to. He don’ want you to.”

“He who?”

She pointed to a portrait hanging on the wall
opposite to the direction in which I’d been facing. I’d been too absorbed in
the woman’s actions and the necklace to notice until now. Unlike everything
else, this portrait was not covered in white sheeting. Blanching, I felt my
legs go weak, as I began to shake. I could feel sweat breaking out on my upper
lip. I heard a small, hushed cry escape my lips.

“You know who that is, don’ you? He’s the rightful
owner of this house, not the witch. He tol’ you to wear it, I know he did, and
he tol’ you never to take it off.”

There he was, my dream lover, in that painting
upon the wall, looking down at me as if he could see me. There he was with his
kind eyes, sporting his witty smile. He was dressed in the same kind of
beautiful old fashioned clothing as he was in my dream. His sleek golden brown
hair curled slightly just below his shoulders as he stood so elegantly, one
hand resting easily upon the back of a chair, the other by his side. So he
wasn’t just a dream, a figment of my imagination, after all. He was real and I
was in his house Studying the portrait, I became mesmerized by it, lost in it,
transported back into my dream world. I felt his arms around me, his breath
upon my neck, his lips upon my own.

 A sharp, angry cry far away in the distance cut
short my daydream. Mad and enraged, it wasn’t the cry of a human nor of any
animal I’d ever heard.

 “What was that?” I asked, but when I turned to
the woman, her eyes were wild with fear.

 “Go! Now!” She grabbed me by the arm, roughly and
tightly, and pulled me bodily out of the room.

 Still towing me by the arm, we raced down the
hall, out the door, down the stairs and into the apartment. She let go of my
arm and slammed the sliding glass door shut.

She turned to me, eyes flashing. “This is real
important, darlin’ for you to pay close attention right now an’ to do as I say.
Real important. Jus’ go about your business an’ act like nothin’ happened until
you hear from one of us again. Act like you never had no dreams and like you
never saw upstairs. You understan’ me? Jus’ go about your business. But don’
you never, ever take off that necklace, you hear? Not when you’re takin’ a bath
or goin’ to sleep or nothin’, Never take it off for no reason. That necklace is
on you now. It’s your only protection. It stays on, always, no matter what.
Always. You hear me?”

I rolled my eyes upward, reluctantly nodding my
head. When I looked back to speak to her, there was no one there. She was gone
and I was all alone.

In shock, I stared at the empty air where, less
than a second ago, the strange woman had stood. The frail shadow of a scream
escaped my lips before I freaked out completely.

“Okay,” I said aloud, “that’s it. I am outta
here!”

I ran back into the bedroom, threw on my shoes,
grabbed my purse and keys and as fast as my legs could take me, left the
apartment, afraid now to stay even a minute longer.

“What the hell was that?” I thought aloud, my
heart pounding as I walked quickly toward the general direction of Jackson
Square. I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure that no one was coming
after me. Not slowing down, I was aware of nothing except putting space between
myself and that apartment, unable to shake the feeling of being followed. When
I hit Royal Street, I turned off of Toulouse, crossed over to the other side of
Royal and ducked into a souvenir shop to think.

Walking to a back corner of the shop, I hid among
the T-shirts, baseball caps, Junior League cookbooks and guides to New Orleans,
afraid that someone or something would come in to drag me out. The scream was
burned into my brain. What sort of unholy shriek was that anyway? It didn’t
sound like a scream of pain, but more like one of extreme frustration and
anger. Murderous frustration and anger. Where on earth had it come from? It
seemed to have come from no place in particular but rather from all around me.
Okay, I reminded myself, that in and of itself wasn’t so unusual; in a densely
populated area like the Quarter, it was often hard to tell specifically where a
sound originated. The bigger questions were, who or what made that horrible
sound and why was that woman so frightened by it that she physically dragged me
out of the main house immediately afterward. And speaking of that woman, where
did she go? She was standing right in front of me one second and the next she
was gone. She’d just vanished. I thought back to Rochere’s warning to me not to
go into the rest of the building. Was it somehow connected with that scream? My
mind searched for answers as to what I should do next. Should I call the
police? And tell them what? That I heard a scream that came from goodness knows
where made by goodness knows whom or what but that it’s okay, officer, the
woman I was with heard it too. You could ask her but she disappeared into thin
air after we got back from trespassing into a part of the building I was
specifically told not to enter. By the way, did I mention to you that it was
all very harrowing as I walked off with this necklace that I just stole?

No, I couldn’t do that. I would do what any
level-headed person would do. I would leave. I would book a room in a hotel,
any hotel, and when I got my nerve back up I would return to the apartment,
quickly retrieve my belongings and move them to said hotel. I would leave this
necklace on the dresser, maybe with a note, and that would be the end of that.
I had stayed at the Royal Sonesta years before; they might have a room there.
Even if they didn’t, perhaps they could refer me to a hotel that did. I wasn’t
too optimistic because it was the weekend just before Halloween and most of the
French Quarter hotels were probably booked, but at least it wasn’t Mardi Gras
so I should be able to find something, even if wasn’t right in the Quarter.
That was it, my mind was made up. I reached into my purse and took out my cell
phone to call directory assistance. It was dead. Shit, I just recharged it last
night. I’d have to make the walk to the Sonesta, then. If they couldn’t help
me, they had a nice lobby and I was sure I could get a phone book and access to
a phone and I could call around to see if anybody else had a vacancy. Maybe
there was a tourist board somewhere that could help me.

Now that I had a plan, I slipped out of the
souvenir shop and on to the street. I couldn’t recall exactly where the Sonesta
was, but I knew it was pretty close. I remembered what it looked like, since it
was quite distinctive, so I’d just head in the general direction and if I got
lost, I’d just duck into a restaurant or a bar and ask directions. I was
determined either to salvage my trip or make my way home. I’d made it up to
Iberville Street when a piece of paper was shoved in my face. I tried to avoid
it but the hand it to which it was attached was persistent.

“Excuse me.” I said, very irritated, brushing the
flyer aside. I was in no mood at all for unsolicited advertising but the flyer
simply found its way back into my face.

“The Crypt, ma’am,” a male Irish accent said.
“It’s the only club in the Quarter that you can’t do without. Take one. Address
is on here. You’ll get in free tonight.”

“Not interested, thank you but no thank you.” I
walked past, barely looking at the thin, almost waif-like youth attached to the
piece of paper so as not to encourage him. He followed me anyway and the flyer
reasserted itself in my face.

Dodging the advert and walking away, I said “Look,
buddy, I’m not interested in clubbing tonight. Leave me alone.”

He grabbed my wrist and shoved a now crumpled
flyer into my hand. He was much stronger than his form suggested.

“Look, jerk, I don’t know what you think you’re
doing…”

 Without letting go of me he stood in front of me
and stared. With an urgent plea in his eyes, he appeared as though life itself
depended upon my following his instructions.

“You want to go here tonight” he said with
intensity. “You really do. The address is on the flyer. Make sure you go.”

What a psycho
, I
thought, looking for a policeman, hoping one was nearby, but I was out of luck.
So just in case this guy got violent, I kept the flyer he’d shoved in my hand
in order to placate him.

“Okay,” I said only to calm him down, with every
intention of throwing the flyer away the minute I got out of his sight, “Maybe
I’ll check it out later.” My tone of voice could not have sounded less
interested.

“No, you
have
to
check it out!”

“What is it with you, buddy?” I said sharply,
really getting irritated now. “Like I said before, leave me alone!”

He pulled up close to me and whispered
conspiratorially in my ear, “I can’t. You have the amulet,” he said, pointing
to the necklace. “You’ve been chosen and there’s nothin’ you can do about it.
There’s been nothin’ you could have done about it since you first set foot in
this city.”

I pushed myself away, “Chosen for what?” I said,
in the most insolent voice I could muster in my alarm. He really was crazy,
wasn’t he? But how did he know about the amulet?

He grabbed my arm again and said, “You’ll find
out.”

“Find out what?” I said.

“Go. This is just the first step. You’ll learn
more later. The Crypt is the place to be.”

“What? Who are you?” I asked, both fearful and
annoyed, yanking my arm away and studying him. He was a slight man with stringy
chin-length dirty blond hair hanging in his face. He was dressed in old-fashioned
baggy white pants with suspenders and a black sweat shirt, neither freshly
laundered, and he sported several tattoos. Going by his looks, I expected him
to emanate a stench, but there was absolutely no odor of any kind about him.

“A friend of Virginia. Your friend now.”

“Who’s Virginia?”

“You met her. She gave you that,” he said,
pointing at the necklace again.

“You know that woman? Who is she? Why – and how –
did she disappear the way she did?”

“Yeah, I know her. She’s a helper, just like me
and now just like you.”

“A helper for what?”

“For ‘who’ is more like it.”

“Okay, a helper then for
whom
?”
I felt so intimidated and frightened that correcting him was my only weak means
of asserting myself.

 “For the one who’s been tryin’ to reach you. I
can tell by that expression on your face that you know who I mean. More, I
can’t tell you right now. You’re bein’ pursued.”

“Who’s pursuing me?” I asked. I was already scared
when I left the apartment, but this guy was sending my fight or flight
instincts right through the roof.

“The witch. The one you hated right off the bat,
and you know who I’m talkin’ about, is huntin’ for you. She’s trying hard to
pin-point you right now, but that,” he pointed to the necklace again, “is the
only thing that’s protectin’ you, it’s the only thing keepin’ you alive. It
makes you harder for her to find. She almost had you before. You were a lot
closer to dyin’ than you realize. If that fella hadn’t come along and saved
you, we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation right now.

“Listen,” he continued. “I don’t have much time. I
know what you’re thinkin’. You want to get outta here, you want to find another
place to stay. They all do. They think they’re safer in a hotel room but
they’re not. Then they all want to get home, think they’ll be safe there, but
they’re not. I can see it on your face, you’d like to go home. Don’t do it.
She’ll find you there too and you won’t have anybody able to help you there.
You want to stay alive? Stay here. Stay put where you are and follow where you’re
led. It’s your only chance to stay alive. You’re in the game now and there’s no
leavin’ it. You play it through to the end or until you’re killed. You’ll
probably end up dead anyway, but it’s the only chance you have. Play and you
just might win. Quit this game now and you’ll be dead for sure in a few days.
Nobody’s ever left and lived.”

“Has anyone ever stayed and lived?” I asked,
having no real idea of what he was talking about.

“Not yet. You’d be the first and you’d be the
last, but you just might live, you just might win. You have a chance. But like
I said, playing this game is the only chance you’ve got. But you’ve got to go
to The Crypt tonight. It’s your next move.

“Jus’ don’t drink anything that comes from there.
Not one drop. An’ speakin’ of drops, brace yourself for the fall.”

I looked around to see if anyone else was witness
to this, but found it odd that none of the passers-by seemed to notice. The
whole situation seemed too outlandish, too much like a scene from an old TV spy
series.

“What fall? What do you mean? And what happens if
I don’t go tonight? Do I just automatically die?” I asked, glancing down at the
paper, but when I looked up, he was gone and I was standing there alone.
Dumbfounded, I staggered back against a wall, now staring at the flyer that had
been stuffed into my hand. Black lettering on red paper, it was now crumpled,
torn and wet with the sweat of my hand. It showed an illustration of a
screaming man’s face with a logo for “The Crypt” along with an address. No
bands were listed. Instead, it simply read, “Attractions of the curious sort.
You can’t sleep until you see this and you won’t sleep if you do.”

“Oh, crap,” I thought, “What have I gotten myself
into?” But I had not gotten myself into anything. This thing, this horrible
game or whatever it was, had instead sought me out and now it seemed that for
some bizarre reason, I no longer had any free choice of my own. I suddenly
regretted all of my earlier displeasure with the course that my life had taken
because now, looking back, the existence I’d been leading with my wonderful
fantasies and my two sweet cats and my dull little job all seemed very nice and
comfortable and cozy and safe. If what these people, with their sudden, bizarre
appearances and disappearances, were telling me was true, my life was getting
ready to come to a premature end very, very soon.

I folded the crumpled flyer as neatly as it would
now allow and stuffed it into the back pocket of my jeans. Crossing the street,
I began to wander down Royal Street away from Canal, away from the Sonesta,
away from any thing that represented any sanity or normalcy that could still be
salvaged in my life. I had been duly warned and it seemed now that I was
obliged to obey. I was being controlled; I was caught up in something that had
robbed me of all free will, of all say in my own life. I was screwed. Somehow
it had been preordained that I was going to die, but not before participating
in some kind of quest, some kind of sick game into which I’d been entered
without my knowledge or permission. I was confused, I was depressed, but most
of all, I was really scared. I continued to walk, not taking notice of
anything, looking down at my feet more than looking around, not knowing what to
think. The enslavement to this obscure task that had been put upon me felt
heavy. Thinking about it only made my confusion worse. Task? What task? All
anyone would tell me was that they didn’t have the time to explain this
monumental thing I was supposed to do and whenever I tried to ask, they just
simply disappeared, quite literally. I shivered, feeling an electric chill go
down my spine; someone, according to the old wives’ tale, had just walked
across my grave. The sensation was so strong that it stopped me in my tracks. I
looked up from my feet and peered about. The shop window to my immediate right
caught my attention. A large eye painted on the window was staring at me. It
was flanked on one side with a right hand and on the other, a left, both palms
up with heavy palmistry lines painted upon them. Against a backdrop of purple
and gold fabric, a narrow display shelf held crystal balls and tea cups with
Runes and Tarot cards fanned out symmetrically on either side.
A fortune teller
, I thought,
maybe she can shed some light on this
. All rationale
had left my mind. Ration just didn’t seem to apply any more. In less drastic
situations I normally thought that fortune telling was silly but right now I
didn’t know where else to turn. My situation was so outside of normal reality
that this made as much sense as anything else that I could think of. So I went
inside the tea room.

It wasn’t a bad place, I supposed, once inside.
I’d half-expected stale, decades’ old incense to hit me in the face while an
old, skinny, overly-tanned bleach-blonde woman named “Madame LaRou”, my last
fortune-telling experience, to pounce on me, sporting exotic-looking shawls and
a voice that was spooky, not from psychic insight but from life-long use of too
much whiskey and too many cigarettes. Instead, while it did smell of incense,
it was a pleasant fragrance and the place was clean, nicely cluttered, but
still clean. A very level-headed looking youngish woman, a light-skinned
African-American with green eyes and dark golden-brown hair in long Rasta
braids came toward me. She looked as though she might have come from the Cayman
Islands, but when she spoke, it was with a light Jamaican accent.