The Nightmare Game (8 page)

Okay, now, who or what was I up against? I had too
little information. The strange guy with the pamphlets had told me “She almost
had you before.” and the fortune teller warned of a dark, vile woman. The only
woman I’d come across in the city that would fit these descriptions was Miss
Rochere, although she wasn’t dark with her fair skin and her white hair. But
the card reader might have used the word dark to mean evil. I thought Rochere
was rude as hell and mean to boot, but what if she were more malicious than
that? What if she were really and truly out to get me, out to kill me? That
would explain why I had hated her so viscerally, practically at first sight.
What kind of powers would she need to have to inflict such a real hallucination
upon me and to scare the leaflet guy and the woman at the apartment away,
literally, into thin air and to terrify the card reader to the extent that she
would kick me out of the shop before getting paid? Going by the fortune
teller’s reading, I’d been running from the wrong people. Both the woman
Virginia and the leaflet guy had spooked me badly by their sudden vanishing
acts, but looking back on it, they both did seem to be trying to help me. The
person that really had it in for me and tried literally to destroy me, if this
scenario were correct, I had thought of as merely ill-mannered and spiteful.
I’d tried to chalk the attack upon me in her office up to an hallucinogenic
allergic reaction, something similar to anaphylaxis, perhaps, most likely from
that atrocious odor that had come and gone so quickly. I liked the allergy
justification. It had made so much sense to me at the time and I was still
hoping it was the right one. But in trying to follow the logic of this
alternate reality, I had to look at it from another angle. Was it just toxic
fumes in Rochere’s office that had made me so ill and delusory? Or was it
Rochere herself? Had the attack been more than some mere hallucination; had it
been a real assault on my life? Had she used some kind of mental power to convince
my mind, and then my body that it was being attacked? Had she tried to kill me
through some sort of hypnotic suggestibility? Even after I left her office,
although I no longer felt as if I were being strangled to death, I still felt
incredibly, overwhelmingly weak until I dozed off for a few minutes in the
apartment.

Speaking of snoozes, I also recognized that there
was something very unusual about that little catnap. In my entire life, no five
to ten minute doze had ever refreshed me that much from such exhaustion in so
little time. Why was that nap different? The attack in Rochere’s office
combined with the traveling I’d done today normally would have worn me out
completely by now, but just those few minutes of sleep had left me with tons of
energy, a lot more, in fact, than I normally received from a whole week of
vacationing at home and getting caught up on my R & R. It had to have been
the dream that refreshed me so much. I was only now realizing this because my
recurring dreams of my gentleman had always previously left me feeling far more
tired than I was before I fell asleep. This sleep deprivation was a major
factor in my depression deepening, a main cause for my need of a vacation in
the first place, in fact. The dream this afternoon had been different, though.
It was the first dream in which he and I had had any physical contact. When he
breathed into me, in the dream I had felt a raw, smooth energy surging inside
me and I realized that energy was still with me now, actually getting stronger
instead of dissipating. So if the energy I received from him was real, and it
was, then the man in my dreams could be real as well. After all, I had seen his
portrait and that in and of itself proved he was more than just a figment of my
overly active imagination. I was assuming that the portrait was recent but even
if it wasn’t, even if it was terribly old, that fact alone didn’t mean
anything. The man in my dreams, who was probably only in his mid-twenties to
his early thirties, could easily be a look-alike great-great grandson of the
man in the painting. The Royal Street fortune teller had told me that he was in
great misery and sorrow and that he needed me to help him. That bothered me.
How could I help him? What could I do? I had no idea of who was, where he was
or what kind of trouble he was in. I didn’t have the slightest idea of where to
start. I’d have to find out.

I felt better. I no longer felt quite as
victimized. At least I had narrowed down my list of theories. The hypothesis
that these events were part of an hallucination was a moot point. If they were,
I’d eventually wake up or come down from it and until then I’d have to play
along anyway. The second option was for me to go to the police with the
believable portions of my story and the necklace. It would be the safest course
for me to take and I was determined to stay on the alert in case this theory
was the one that actually panned out. The factor holding me back from acting on
it immediately was that everything didn’t fall in place, there was too much
left both unexplained and unexplainable. It was the sensible, the logical thing
to do but in my gut it just didn’t seem right. All else being equal, I think
the deciding factor for me was the man in the portrait. If this were an
elaborate scam, if everything else could be explained away by a clever network
of criminals sporting high tech illusions, the portrait of the man in my dreams
was the exception. I’d never described him in such great detail to anyone, not
even Carolyne and the likeness was exact, right down to the tiniest detail. I
would have to be wary, I would have to be very careful, but for the moment I
would travel under the assumption that, as spooky as it seemed, this was real.

Before I could do anything, though, I needed more
input because I had no idea what I was up against. I didn’t have nearly enough
information and I couldn’t see how I could even have a chance of winning this
game or whatever it was without more to go on. I decided that my next step was
to go back to the apartment because that was where everyone who seemed to be on
my side kept telling me I needed to be. With my mind now settled and made up,
my appetite returned. I finished my coffee, now lukewarm, and my beignets, now
cold. Leaving a tip for the waitress on the table and picking up my purse, I
got up and left the café, resolved to do whatever I had to do to help the man
of my dreams. With more courage, energy and clarity of mind than I could ever
remember having in my entire life, I began my walk back to the house on Toulouse
Street.

I made it back to the apartment in record time,
filled with an urgency that as yet had no concrete point assigned to it. The
leaflet guy had just said to be at “The Crypt” tonight. The flyer that he’d
shoved in my hand had the address and today’s date on it but no specific time,
just “after dark”. I didn’t know what The Crypt was, except that I assumed it
was some kind of club. I had no idea what awaited me there. But I knew I needed
to clean up and change clothes before I went out again. While I was still
filled with lots of extra energy from the dream, I felt dirty. “Traveling dust”
always left me in need of a bath or a shower but now that I was no longer
operating in sheer panic, I was embarrassingly aware that the incident in
Rochere’s office had left me feeling unusually grimy, as if I had just sweated
out a fever which had flushed out a layer of filth. It clung to me like a foul
second skin that I couldn’t wash off fast enough. I pulled the leaflet out of
my pants pocket and set it on the table in the dining area. Then I went into
the bedroom, took the yellow pages out of the top drawer of the night table and
opened it to the “hotels” section, just in case. I stuck the “do not disturb”
sign in as a bookmark, closed it and left it out on the other bed. I would go
along with this “game” for the time being, since my curiosity was aroused, but
in case I later changed my mind about leaving, I wanted the hotel section
handy. If I had to leave quickly, I wasn’t above ripping out the whole section
and taking it with me. That done, I undressed and stepped into the shower
because it was quicker than a bath. I showered and washed my hair as fast as I
could, feeling more vulnerable than normal as I stood in the shower naked and
wet; it bothered me that I was unable to hear if anything unusual was happening
outside the bathroom over the running water, especially considering that
“unusual” seemed to be the watchword of the day. Finishing up, I stepped out
onto the mat, dried myself, wrapped a towel around my hair, brushed my teeth
and went into the bedroom to get dressed. Checking myself in the mirror,
something I’d avoided before the shower, I noticed that the sick, scary-looking
version of myself wasn’t staring back at me anymore. I was relieved to see a
healthy and rested reflection. In fact, I actually looked better than I
normally did. It seemed as if, weird or not, this vacation was actually
beginning to agree with me after all.

I pulled out my favorite jeans and put them on.
Halloween was just around the corner and Fall was in the air. While it had been
a little muggy when I’d gotten off the plane, as the day progressed into
evening the air had turned mild and perfect, blissfully devoid of the humidity
for which the Crescent City was famous. I figured it might even get a little
chilly after the sun went down completely, so I opted for a light, long sleeved
t-shirt and took the towel down from around my hair. Even though I was looking
so much healthier now, I thought as examined my face in the mirror, I still
looked frightened. I definitely needed a little makeup; maybe that might help
soften the “frightened animal” expression I couldn’t seem to shake. Grabbing my
blow drier and my makeup bag, I headed back into the bathroom where the lighting
was better. I was still paranoid about not being able to hear over the blow
drier, though, so I dried my hair fast, leaving it more than a little damp.

After rechecking the apartment, I returned to the
bathroom to put on a little makeup, which tonight felt more like war paint.
Silly or not, to a small extent, I felt better primed to face whatever unknown
task that I was being forced to confront tonight. Then I returned to the
bedroom, remembering that I’d almost forgotten to call Carolyne as I’d promised.
I picked up the phone to dial and then put it down again as I heard a noise
coming from the front room. My renewed confidence evaporated even faster than
it had appeared. I remember having locked both the gate and the sliding glass
door behind me. Was it a burglar? Had somebody broken in while I was in the
shower or blow drying my hair and unable hear it? Was there a hiding place I
didn’t know to check earlier? The day had left me jumpy; my heart was in my
throat and I didn’t know what to do. For the second time today, I searched for
something which with to defend myself, but again I didn’t see anything
convenient that I could just grab without making noise and giving myself away.
There was always the handy lamp, but the phone looked heavier, so maybe I could
use that if I had to. Oh, God, what if it was Rochere coming back to finish me
off? She had the keys and could come in at any time. Barefoot, I tip toed up to
the bedroom door, peeking around the doorway with as much stealth as I could
muster.

“What’s the matter, chil’, you look like you seen
a ghost.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. It was the woman who
had presented me with the necklace. Her eyes stared straight at me.

“Have I seen one?” I asked, staring back, studying
her, sizing her up, hoping my gut would tell me whether she was on the level or
not. “You tell me.”

Tall, thin and dignified in appearance, she was an
extremely striking figure of a woman, who, while standing so still, gave the
impression of an ancient obsidian statue rather than a real person. Her
features, more tired than old, seemed carved in stone and when the light shone
upon her skin, it was a rich blue-black in color, a deep ebony that I had never
before seen in an African-American. She continued to stare at me at me as I
continued assess her, but it was not a confrontational gaze. Her eyes were kind
and wise, her expression patient. She seemed to understand that I needed to
know with whom I was dealing.

 “What’s your name?” I asked her. The disappearing
man had told me, but I wanted to hear her say it.

 “Virginia,” she answered.

 Yep, that was it. “Are you the same Virginia that
the guy who practically shoved that leaflet down my throat told me about?”

 “One an’ the same. That was Marcus. He’s a friend
o’ mine, he’s a friend o’ yours now,” she answered. Her velvety smooth voice
was low in pitch for a woman’s. I could not place her soft accent. From what
little I knew of accents, it sounded reminiscent of a cross between some kind
of African and West Indies accent.

“Listen, what is this all about?” I said firmly. I
was determined to get an answer from her this time. “You and that guy Marcus,
who exactly are you people? You should know that it has crossed my mind that
all of this cloak and dagger stuff is baloney, that maybe this whole thing is
just some kind of scam and maybe you guys are just nothing but a couple of con
artists. I’ve thought about this long and hard and that’s the only explanation
that makes any sense to me.” I wasn’t being completely honest with her, but I
needed to see how she would react. “I have to tell you that if I don’t get an
explanation from you, I’m moving into a hotel. There must be at least one
vacancy in the city somewhere.”

Instead of getting defensive, she just looked and
sounded sad and tired, as if she’d heard accusations like this far too many
times before. “It ain’t no scam, don’ you fool yourself into thinking it is.
You’ll die thinking that way.”

“Is that a threat?” I was still being somewhat
unyielding, gauging her reactions.

“No, darlin’,” she said kindly. “I’m tryin’ to
help keep you alive.”

“So what would you say if I called the police
right now? Would you say that would make me a fool?”

“No, it would jus’ make you dead.”

“What do you mean? Explain yourself,” I said. Her
answer left me feeling queasy and weak. I sat down at the dining table, she on
the chair next to me. I studied her face, her expression closely, hoping it
would reveal to me what I should believe and what I shouldn’t. I realized at
first that she was far older than I’d first thought. She was so lean and her
skin was so taut upon her impressive bone structure that I really had to see
her up close in order to notice her age. Her countenance was tired, as if
emotionally rather than physically, she needed to rest badly. Her eyes seemed
to reveal a humble and forgiving nature and her mouth, now drawn and serious,
suggested that the weight that rested upon her shoulders was real. Unless she
was one of the best actresses in the world, she struck me as being both honest
and a person I would definitely want on my side.

“Okay, let’s just say that you’re on the level.” I
said, softening my stance somewhat. “Who are you, really? I mean, what do you
and that guy do exactly?”

“We both of us work for the man in the paintin’
upstairs. Like I tol’ you before. That man’s the rightful owner of this house.”

“What’s his name?” The cynic in me, while
dwindling, still wanted a name attached. With a name, I could always research
her story to find out if it was true.

Her voice got low, and it seemed as if she was
almost afraid to tell me. “I can tell you once an’ once only. So remember it
always and don’ repeat it. His name’s Edmond Montgomery.”

“So who exactly is this man and why can’t I repeat
his name?”

“You know who he is. You been dreaming ‘bout him
for weeks now.”

I was shocked at what she just told me. I had told
no one in New Orleans about my dreams and now this woman, whom I had met only
earlier today was telling me about them.

“How do you know about my dreams?” I replied
accusatorially. It bothered me to hear a complete stranger talking about
something so incredibly personal.

“Because everybody that come to help out has the
dreams.”

“Who all has come to ‘help out’? And what do you
mean by ‘help out’ anyway?”

“Help out, like you have. Like the boy Marcus tol’
you when he gave you that flyer, you’re in the game now. She plays it like a
game, but it ain’t no game at all. It’s a nightmare, as serious as the grave.
Lots o’ folks over the years have been chosen to help.”

“What happened to them?”

“They died. She killed them all.”

“You keep saying ‘she’. Who is ‘she’?”

“The one that you don’ like.”

“You mean Roch---?”

 Virginia quickly put her finger up to her lips
and shook her head. Again, she looked scared.

 She leaned into me once again. Were it not for the
bitter edge to it, her tone of voice would have been one usually reserved for
midnight campfire tall tales. “Don’ say it. She’ll hear you. She’s got her ears
out for us.”

 “You were skittish like this upstairs this
afternoon. Can she hear us in here? Does she have the apartment bugged or
something?” I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she had.

 “No,” she whispered to me eerily. “She don’ use
that stuff. She would if she could, but it’s lucky for us that it don’ work
here. That’s about the only luck we got goin’ for us. But she got powers, that
one. Bad powers. I can only tell you what I tell you now ‘cause she ain’t
listenin’ much right now.”

“You mean maybe she’s lost interest in me?” I
asked, hopeful on the one hand, still a little skeptical on the other.

“Sorry, darlin’, that won’ ever happen. She not
payin’ attention to us now ‘cause she thinks that there’s nothin’ I can tell
you that’ll make any difference. In her mind, she won already. In her mind, you
already joined all the others in death. But even more than that, she not
listenin’ in on us now cause it takes concentration on her part an’ she either
feedin’ or busy with other things right now.”

“Feeding? Other things? What kind of other
things?”

“Bad things, things she got planned for you.”

 A fierce chill ran through me. My worst fears
were being confirmed. That horrid woman Rochere was far worse than I could have
imagined; she was something malignant. Because of my experience in her office
this afternoon, I needed very little convincing that Virginia’s story was true.
I’d never hated anyone as immediately and as strongly as I had her. Whatever my
gut reactions had been trying to tell me all along was making more and more
sense.

 Virginia continued, “But even when she busy with
other things, busy hatchin’ her plans an’ settin’ her traps, she dangerous. The
man in the paintin’ can keep her at bay for awhile, but not if you say her name
or his too much. Specially now at the start when you not strong enough. It sets
her ears to tinglin’. You ever been in a room full of people, all talkin’ at
the same time an’ you can’t make it out much till somebody say your name over
an’ over and then you start listenin’ real close to hear what they sayin’ about
you?”

Enraptured in her story, I nodded my head. “Well
it’s the same way with her. Say her name out loud too many times an’ she’ll
come fast. An’ don’ use my name or the boy’s or the man in the picture upstairs
either unless you really have to. Don’ even use your even own if you can help
it anymore. Those won’ bring her as fast, but if you use ‘em too much, it’ll
bring her just the same.” She spoke of Rochere with such a mix of real hatred,
fear and exhaustion that I was now completely convinced that this woman sitting
across from me was on the level. She shook her head sorrowfully, looking down,
looking so very weary. “She be evil, that one, real evil. I been through a lot
in my life an’ beyond, a whole lot. I done met the meanest, mos’ hateful people
that ever walked the face o’ this earth. But that one, she be the meanest of
‘em all, cause she not just mean, she got the power on top of it, too. Them
others, they brought me so much pain in my life, but I never, never know
anybody could bring me as much pain as she did.”

I was dumbfounded at her story. Silence fell upon
us for a few, long seconds.

“You said that lots of people have come to ‘help
out’ and that she killed them,” I said finally, wanting insight into what could
be my own fate. “How many?”

“Oh, there a few thousand by now.”