Ravenword and The House of the Red Death - 1: The Invitation

1

The Invitation

The morning dawns under the outstretched hand of an ancient malevolence lashing the nebulous battalions of dark clouds to stoop low and unleash its vindictiveness upon the waking landscape. The storm had been predicted, but the full-bodied violence of its fury had not. In ages past it would have been recognized as the harbinger of impending misfortune, as nature itself battles of the insidious blight forcing its way into the region. The oldest and strongest of trees bow beneath the dismembering onslaught of the howling squalls this malignant manifestation has set upon the town. Such storms may be known to other regions but, in temperate California, this tempest has wrought a specter of an undefined dread. For there is more to fear in the oppression than damage or calamity, an intent so malicious that not even the angry gales can dislodge it from looming ominously in the heavy atmosphere.

On the wings of this foreboding dawn have come the eight invitations which lured this spiteful animus of an insidious curse from its distant lair to stalk Ravenword, a literary society associated with the local university. Braving the punishing weather, the modest and unsuspecting fellowship has defied the agitation of pernicious Poseidon to pass the morning in the distillation and cotton of their common bond. Their current volley of contentious banter surrounds a creased manuscript fragment in the hands of Vin Singh.

“That’s not Poe.”

From a deep slouch, a greasy-haired twentysomething casts a cold and incredulous gaze on the fragment and then on Vin.

William Jackdaw is better known as Billy by the few who acknowledge him as a friend and by more derogatory terms by most others. He is the most unlikely member of Ravenword, yet even those among his peers who look on him with disdain have come to respect his divergent insights. On this occasion, however, his tone does nothing except annoy them.

“I am aware of that,” Vin rebuts. “It was written by Professor Fichtenberg.”

The sound of jostling dishes leaches from beyond the shelves, crammed with mite-infested books like so many compacted teeth, to sequester them beside a quivering plate-glass window. Within the ring of musty wingbacks, the group exchanges bracing glances by a flash of lightning pressed through the creaky boughs of a sycamore unaware of the looming enmity looming beyond the glass.

“Cool! Where’d you get it?” Julia Nguyen trumpets, moving to examine the parchment.

“I found it in my complete works,” Vin offers, passing her the parchment. “It was folded between the pages of ‘Masque of the Red Death.’”

“It’s from his novel!”

“His novel was crap,” Billy carps as the wind splatters rain against the yawning window as if to punctuate his summation.

“That’s your opinion,” Vin rebuffs.

“Its sales prove me right.”

Another gust rattles the glass.

The members of Ravenword rustle uneasily in the shabby chairs. The only exception is the pristine young woman with her hair pulled back so tightly that her eyebrows hover unnaturally high above her impeccably dressed eyes.

“Let’s move on to this semester’s club charity,” Motisha interjects presumptuously.

The pair of fading goths in chairs pulled closely together look at her with the same tired expression. Well beyond the juvenile affectation of the subculture, their dark aesthetic testifies to their lingering affinity for the somber romance between eternal night and the breath of life.

“We’ve already chosen the Oak Park Youth Program,” Agnot counters after savoring her hot chai. Known until the onset of puberty as Agnes Eleanor Roundhouse, she promptly disfigured her name in favor of her blossoming lesbian identity in the expression of gothic rebellion. Disfigured, by the way, was the adjective used by her mother’s repugnance for the “phase” her daughter was going through. As an adult, however, it is her particular badge of honor, similar to others carried by those who have survived that struggle.

Motisha’s bristle is camouflaged by a practiced smile and manicured disposition. “I was hoping we could revisit that decision.”

The group grumbles in concert with the storm as Parson takes a ginger sip of his latte, looking at the imperious beauty like a nun with a mouthful of lemon. Despite being weary of the ongoing antagonism between Motisha and Agnot, he quells the impulse to mediate. Parson has known many of the struggles endured by both women without, however, nurturing the hostility they’ve somehow construed as a necessity.

Motisha’s hand moves from the armrest of her wingback chair to that of her boyfriend, T. J., and squeezes it firmly. “I would still prefer to pursue something that doesn’t reinforce the stigma on African American youth.”

“Jesus christ, Mo!” Agnot erupts.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“We can’t even consider it?” T. J. interjects.

Agnot’s fervor is tempered by her respect for the collegiate athlete who forsook the glory of sport in deference to the words of his grandmother, which have been riveted to his soul by her love. “Terrence James Elders! The hell your family before you has gone through w’ all be for nothin’ if you throw away the thing that makes you equal as any white man: your brain! Education is the only equalizer, and only a damned fool would spit on that!”

Whereas T. J.’s fellowship in Ravenword is rooted in his grandmother’s admonition, Motisha’s primary motivation for participating in this small society is to offset any vulgar influences the company might impress on him. It is the influence of his gravitas, applied to her argument, that burnishes her countenance with a gratified luster.

Charlie, Agnot’s lover and best friend, issues a weary sigh. “Motisha, you agreed.”

Julia sinks into her chair, hoping to avoid being drawn into another confrontation between Motisha and the lesbians. Behind her, the gusts throw the rain against the gray window angrily.

“Well, I’ve reconsidered,” Motisha rebuffs. “And my father’s firm has stated their preference for another choice as well.”

“They’re pulling their pledge?” Julia gasps, despite herself.

“I can’t believe you!” Billy chides, lurching in his chair.

Vin leans into the circle swiftly with hands sweeping the air. “Okay, okay, this shouldn’t be something we do grudgingly.”

“There are a lot of other charities Ravenword can support,” T. J. interjects.

“But we’ve already done all the legwork for the youth program!” Agnot growls through clenched teeth.

With a fleeting glance at Parson, Vin looks to Motisha. “What about the AIDS Foundation?”

“Why did you look at me when you thought of that?” Parson balks. “HIV/AIDS is not a gay disease. Twenty-eight million straight people are dying from it in Africa alone, and it’s spreading through India and Russia faster than your sister on fleet week.”

Julia giggles at Parson’s gibe as the café lights flicker under the storm.

“And African American women are at the greatest risk in the United States,” Motisha adds quickly in hopes of parlaying acquiescence.

Vin looks from Motisha and T. J. to the rest of the members. “So we’ve decided?”

One by one their reluctant affirmations congeal, and Billy’s eyes narrow as they shift to Vin. “It’s because of Fichtenberg, isn’t it?”

The wind and rain continue to beat against the window as the company falls silent under the grave accusation. Beyond the exchange between glass and gale, however, a crackling yawn is climaxed by a stunning explosion.

Flying from the buttresses of the tiny kitchen, the bewildered proprietor is harrowed by the sight of the stricken sycamore that has devastated café at the hands of the usurping enmity. Dazed and dusted with debris, Ravenword pull themselves out from under the jagged tendrils of blitz-woven branches, shattered books and shelves, and decimated facade. As Vin finds his footing, Parson shakes the glass out of his golden hair. “I’m still in Kansas! How about you Dorothies?”

Julia steadies her trembling uncertainty against a branch and slaps the shards from her quirky ebony pigtails. Tiptoeing across the catastrophe through crunching glass and wind and rain, she makes her way along the downed limb with trepid fascination. Her face rises to the storm to gawk at the tree that has so abruptly ended their discussion.

“Wow!” she calls back to the company as she is quickly drenched. “It’s like lightning struck it or something!”

Billy looks from his bloodied hands to the terrified Motisha, who is wrapped around T. J. “There was no lightning.”

II

Living only blocks from the unfortunate haven of New Halvetia, Vin bundles himself up against the battering elements, leaving the scene of sirens and surveyors to the ruins. Scuttering beneath the ranks of sycamores that line the streets like bullied titans, he passes with a hypervigilant awareness of their careening boughs and a visceral need for the confines of home. An urgency sharpened by the malice camouflaged within the storm raging around him. As he quickens his pace, pulling his collar against the foreboding at the back of his neck, the black and chrome bulk of a 1960 Matador pulls up beside him with Agnot hollering from the driver’s window. “How ’bout a lift, V-spot?”

“It’s not that far,” he calls back without breaking his stride.

“Get in the fucking car!” Charlie yells from shotgun.

Succumbing to his want of shelter, Vin jogs into the street and around the batwing fins just as Billy lumbers up the weather-beaten sidewalk behind him.

“Oh shit,” Agnot moans.

“Hey, can I get a ride?” Billy hails, his voice sailing on the gusts as he shuffles up to the rumbling embodiment of sinister affectation.

Agnot looks at Charlie and then into the rearview mirror to Vin, who leans over and unlocks the door from which Billy falls into the backseat with a gastronomic exclamation.

The lesbians grimace in disgust as Agnot puts the car in gear and pulls away.

“Goddamnit, Billy!”

III

Stalking a row of Victorian conversions, the grimacing old Dodge wades into a large puddle that hugs the curb like a giant leech mottled by the elements before stopping. Vin exits on quick farewells and, rounding the back of the quavering behemoth, hurries to the sidewalk where his eagerness to escape the spiteful atmosphere is tempered by a careful ascent up the glazed and dripping steps. Whereas the porch is usually deep enough to keep him from the weather, the aim of the relentless rain leaves him cowering as he retrieves his keys. As the front door swings open, his swift grab rescues the mail from the box before rushing into the comfort of his living room. A protestation of thunder is muted abruptly as he slams the door and, with a swift turn of the latch, locks himself against the ambiguous menace dogging his senses.

With a renewed appreciation for home and hearth, he crosses the room to the thermostat, rubbing his hands against the interred chill before removing his soggy coat. After placing it on the rack by the front door, he returns to the mail that he had thrown absently on the coffee table. Sorting through flyers and junk mail, he finds the only proper piece of postage is an ivory envelope postmarked from Italy.

Turning it over slowly, Vin prepares to open it when a clamor at his door startles him so abruptly that he jumps.

The ivory post slips from his grasp.

The barrage hammers the door violently and floods him with a rush of fear.

“Who’s there?”

The terrible din subsides, and a low, disembodied moan prickles the hairs on the back of his neck.

The door looms in unsettling stillness.

With eyes peeled dreadfully and pores icing his skin, he leans to peer past the sheers.

“Hello?”

Despite the lingering daylight, he is unable to make out an offender.

“Is somebody there?”

The door erupts again with the terrible clamor, pushing him back, his fingers grappling for the light switch.

The anemic porch lamp sheds what light it can, but he can still see nothing beyond the curtains of the convulsive door.

The tumult subsides again, coaxing his fortitude and challenging his tolerance.

“Get the hell out of here, or I’ll call the cops!”

Mustering his courage, he pulls his phone from his pocket and brings his face to the veiled glass, bracing himself for the reveal.

Nothing.

Vin waits as the reprieve swells into a disconcerting silence. He turns his phone in hand as his fingers find the latch. With senses piqued, he turns the lock slowly. Throwing open the door with affected bravado, he is met only by a dappled porch and gushing eaves.

An uncanny gale shoves past him, yanking the door out of his grasp as it barrels into the house. Papers fly amid flailing curtains and harassed houseplants as Vin, shivering under the invisible influence, steps through the rush to examine the street. It is a desolation, animated only by debris hassled by the storm to impersonate pedestrians in the wind.

Returning to the comfort of his apartment, Vin shuts the door with a bolstering sigh, locking it brusquely. Upon turning off the porch light, his blood curdles.

Past the sheers the reflection of a horrible figure stares back at him from the window.

He spins on his heels.

His rush of fright is, again, met by nothing. His home is as empty as it should be. Glancing back to the pane, he realizes the reflection is merely that of a golden Lakshmi on her ornate throne, surveying the living room from the shelf in the corner above the lamp.

Vin indulges a nervous chuckle.

Another deep breath calms his drumming chest, and he returns to the ivory envelope waiting on the coffee table, strangely unmoved by the gust. Taking the envelope, he pauses and assesses the lamp next to the couch. He does not recall turning it on but assumes that he, like so many do, did so without thinking before being unnerved by the door.

Taking a letter opener, he slides the shiny blade under the lip of the envelope. Without warning, however, he finds himself suddenly in the blunting dimness of the stormy gray dusk.

The lamp has gone out.

He surveys the room. His supposition of a power outage, however, is confounded by the clock on the DVD player glowing according to design.

Vin sits in the darkness with the shiver retracing his neck. He waits, silently applying all of his senses to his surroundings. Slowly he reaches up and turns the spindle.

The bulb bursts to life, washing the littered room with warm yellow light.

Vin grabs the remote and turns on the radio, hoping to shake the lingering ethereum. The new song from Rihanna is just beginning, comforting his nerves and filling the space with a moody, familiar air. Taking up the letter opener again, he cuts the envelope with one swift stroke, and an opulent invitation introduces itself. He draws it out and admires the beauty of its foil embossing and print. Opening it, he reads:

Kulvinder Singh

Ravenword Literary Society

California State University

You and your fellows are cordially invited to be my guests at the Castello Nel Buio in the environs of Northern Italy, wherein the elementals of Poe’s famous work whisper in the marvelous ruins. Please find the invitation details included.

Your literary comrade,

Professor Thomas Fichtenberg

Fichtenberg. The name recalls the controversy that sullied the renowned professor and forced him from his tenure while Vin was still a student. Unfounded accusations, which in turn germinated vile rumors, swirled around the celebrated instructor—murmurs that could only be forgotten with his absence and the passage of time. Now, five years later, the invitation arrives as if the tomb encasing that sullen history were yawning open.

Vin sets the invitation aside and removes the accompanying letter.

IV

“Have a nice night,” Agnot says saccharine-sweetly as Billy swings open the passenger door behind her. “Now get the fuck out of my car.”

Billy smirks. Although tainted with genuine hostility, the sardonic jab is carried on an inclusive familiarity that makes him feel better about begging the ride. Charlie’s farewell, however, is cut short by his characteristically ill-timed slamming of the car door.

As if the lesbians have ceased to exist, he dashes through the downpour and into the courtyard of the small, dated, and seedy complex wherein resides his small, dated, and seedy apartment.

After using several keys in several deadbolts, Billy enters his apartment only to be halted at the threshold by a stunning waft of sour sick. His senses expand swiftly, as if his brain were keen to record every detail. The wind and rancor of the deepening evening spill in from behind him. The lights of the grimy apartment are all on, and Rihanna’s smoky intonations weep from the radio. On the floor, a stain has been added to the multitude inflicted upon the worn and filthy carpet. Affixed to the rancid blight, his roommate lies blue-faced and rigid, surrounded by beer cans and half-eaten bags of stale chips.

The question of foul play insinuates.

Maybe he was poisoned.

Billy’s fanciful imaginations are short-lived, however, as knowledge of the dead man’s habits usurp any plot-worthy devices. Assessing the grim scene, he surmises that his unfortunate roommate had overdosed on something handy and choked on his own vomit. Regardless of the cause, he is most certainly dead.

Unmoved, Billy remains in the doorway, examining the scene with a morbid fascination purer than that of a rubbernecker, until his attention is drawn to an ivory envelope in the dead man’s hand. He steps into the room, tossing the door shut behind him, and leans over the corpse. A draft of fetid feces slaps his nostrils, pushing him away from the body, but not before taking the letter from the lifeless hand. Flipping it over, he is surprised to find that it is a letter addressed to him from Italy.

V

The vintage Matador lumbers into a deserted parking lot with headlights sweeping the unyielding deluge to cast a stark glaze on the checkerboard of tarnished postboxes beyond the plate glass. Charlie leaps out of the rumbling smog monster and dashes into the lobby.

A single ivory envelope waits inside the postbox like a spider in its hole as Charlie turns the key to open the diminutive door of number 2003. As she reaches in to withdraw the post, the wash of headlights revealing the face of the envelope is interrupted.

Italy.

Charlie turns, expecting to meet the source of the crossing shadow, only to find the lobby empty. Beyond the glare, she can see nothing.

***

Agnot’s brow furrows as she watches Charlie stare into the light. She turns down the volume on Rihanna seducing the speakers with smoke and fire when a bludgeoning crash claps her senses.

The world shatters.

Darkness smothers.

Just as her senses clear, the terror twisting Charlie’s face freezes Agnot’s soul as the Matador lunges through a curtain of exploding glass.

Charlie’s screaming body tumbles over the hood.

Agnot’s own howl fills her senses, only to be drowned by the bay of the building’s alarm. Shoving frantically against the unyielding door, Agnot slams her elbow through the granulated glass and scrambles out the window with no thought of the jagged frame.

Raking the ruination wildly, Agnot finds Charlie crouched and sobbing behind a tumbled kiosk. Falling over her in untamed relief, Agnot’s urgent cries are unintelligible even to her. As the two clutch each other madly, their dazed attentions are drawn to the groan of metal.

A fat urban cowboy slides out of the driver’s side of the gnarled full-size pickup that has just launched the classic beast into the post office. His forehead is gashed grotesquely, and he falls to the asphalt with a bottle of Wild Turkey.

Meteoric raindrops dance on his back, sending blood into the rolling currents.

Again, sirens swell in the wet streets.

VI

T. J. makes his way through the dark hallway of a hospital. Every ten feet an auxiliary light pours meager illumination over his path. Ahead, Motisha sits erect on a gurney near the nurses’ station. Her rigid expression does not wane with his approach.

“Did you call my parents?”

“Your mother is on her way,” T. J. answers carefully. “You father is still in San Francisco.”

“Is he coming?”

“Well…he asked me if you were hurt—”

“I am hurt! Would I be in a hospital if I weren’t?”

“Minor lacerations and a bruised right femur,” the physician reports as she steps out of a nearby doorway. She turns to the nurse and hands him Motisha’s chart.

“Any news on when we’ll get city power?” she asks as if Motisha were not stewing within striking distance.

“No, doctor,” the nurse answers before returning to his duties.

“You’ll be tender for a while but ambulatory,” the physician states with finality.

Motisha’s face blossoms with her practiced and patient and polite smile but for her eyes, which burrow into the physician. “It doesn’t feel bruised. It feels broken.”

The doctor glances at T. J. with sympathetic resignation that turns to irritation when her eyes meet Motisha’s. “Have you ever had a broken bone?”

“I needn’t be a mechanic to know when my car is broken,” Motisha counters defiantly.

“Maybe there’s something you can give her that will help,” T. J. suggests, taking Motisha’s hand.

“I’m sure there is, but I think a prescription will do for now,” the physician quips before retreating.

Motisha crosses her arms petulantly as the hairs on the back of T. J.’s neck prickle in concert with the cold swell in the core of his chest.

“What is that?” he hisses.

Motisha follows his strange and hawkish gaze into the dark hallway behind her.

There, in the islands of darkness between the utilitarian lighting, a stygian shadow slowly slides upward from the floor to the wall.

T. J. and Motisha stare wide-eyed.

Both can feel their stare returned with umbrage from within the inky depth of the queer blot and they shiver.

The blackness seeps into the dark crook between wall and the ceiling. Squeezing past the light, it creeps closer.

“Nurse,” T. J. calls hoarsely.

There is no response.

The vitality of their surroundings is drained, as if there were suddenly no other living soul in the building.

The chilling bane creeps closer still.

“Nurse!” Motisha repeats in a voice only slightly louder than T. J.’s.

The nurse arrives at their side, puzzled by their transfixed expressions. He waves a cautious hand in front of T. J.’s face.

T. J. starts violently and looks at him with a face drawn with horrible fascination. “Do you see it?” he whispers, his eyes leading into the darkness.

The nurse knits his brow and peers into the hallway.

Following their gaze, he moves into the corridor.

Motisha grabs T. J., pulling him close.

The nurse turns and looks at the two. “I don’t see anything.”

Behind him, the shadow yawns, as if unfurling black enveloping wings to devour the hapless man.

Motisha screams.

T. J. rushes him.

The auxiliary lights fail.

The nurse shouts.

Motisha presses her hands over her ears as T. J. screams.

The lights flicker to life.

Motisha forces herself to open her eyes.

T. J. is clutching the nurse and the hallway is empty.

“Jesus christ! What the hell is the matter with you!” the nurse roars, shaking off T. J. and rushing away.

T. J. stands in a silent stupor, staring at Motisha.

“We did not imagine that!”

The physician emerges from around the corner with prescription samples in hand to find Motisha and T. J. glazed in cold sweat.

“What the hell is going on?”

VII

Julia sits on her purple velvet sofa, engrossed in the images flashing from the television set that haunt the lush décor of her dark studio apartment with a blue cast. The two days since the incident at the café have remained tumultuous, as if the storm were reluctant to move into the Sierra Mountains to the east. Experience has taught that it is best to stay in during inclement weather, as most people forget how to drive when water is falling from the sky, and the ongoing coverage of “Storm Watch!” on the local news only seems to aggravate the reckless tendencies of the population. This, coupled with the destruction of New Helvetia, has kept Julia settled snugly on her sofa, occupying her time with video voyeurism.

On the screen, a news reporter rambles on the shoulder of Interstate 80 at the gateway to the deep mountains, bundled in a hooded ski jacket against the elements as headlights trail past him.

The uniformity of those streaming lights breaks, and the picture is blinded by the swelling glare.

The feed becomes a jumble of chaos.

Screeching tires and shouting blast from the audio, exploding into a roar of gravel and crashing metal.

The scene quickly cuts to the stunned and ashen faces of the studio reporters.

Julia jolts on the sofa with the chiming of her cell phone, which startles her so abruptly that she can’t help but giggle at the betrayal. Snatching the phone from the coffee table with one hand and the remote with the other, she turns down the TV as the opened invitation from Italy falls to the carpet in neglected abandon.

“Hey, Parson!”

She stands, fixated on the television. “I’m watching the news!

“No, no! They had what’s-his-name up at Blue Canyon like they always do, and I think he just got wiped out by a car! …I’m serious! …Channel ten.

“Yeah, it looks like you missed the good stuff.” She points the remote at the TV, a finger on mute, before stepping into her pantry-size kitchen and flipping on the light absently.

“I know!” she pipes, opening a cheery cupboard and pulling out a package of popcorn. “She loved that car more than Warcraft! There’s a bad moon somewhere…”

As she tears the cellophane with her teeth, her eyes grow wide.

“No! Right there in the middle of the living room? Gross!”

Julia puts the popcorn in the microwave and flattens the envelope on the glass plate, riveted to her cell phone. “Okay, I’m sorry, but even Billy had to be freaked out by that!”

She taps the Popcorn button on the microwave and leans against the counter.

“Oh, spare me her drama. I don’t know how T. J. puts up with her,” Julia drones, rolling her eyes, as the microwave’s oven light surges. “The one good thing about Charlie and Agnot is they’ll have the money to go to Italy now.”

She surveys the bowls smiling from the cupboards deliberately as Parson buzzes in her ear.

“I have no idea. It’s not like I can ask my parents.” Julia’s eyes dart to the television screen, and she jumps up straight.

“Oh! I think they’re going to show what happened to what’s-his-name!” she squeals, rushing into the living room.

Behind her the microwave explodes, sending her to the floor and shrapnel into the walls.