“No. He gave me his card and left. I have it downstairs. It’s just his name and a phone number. Want me to get it?”
“That’s okay. Just…tell me if you see him again. Okay? He shouldn’t be approaching you so late at night. Especially not here.”
“Is he dangerous? Should I be worried?”
She stares at me for a moment, and from the angle of the light, her eyes look like they’re reflecting crescent moons. Then it’s gone. She smiles. “He’s just a weirdo. I’m sure it’s all fine.”
Weirdo, huh? Very comforting.
The sound of footsteps up the stairs breaks the strange vibe in the room, and then the door swings open, my father laden down with several reusable canvas bags from a range of retailers, gorgeous crimson roses peeking out the top.
“Lenore!” he cries out happily. My father is never not happy to see me. I don’t think he’s ever been mad at me, not even when I broke a priceless Egyptian artifact when I was five. Now that it’s my line of study, I know I would personally be furious.
“How’s my girl?” he says, plunking all the bags on the counter, zucchini and asparagus spilling out. He grabs the roses and hands one bunch to me. “These are for you.” Then he notices the Alexander McQueen box and shoots my mother a scandalous look. “What’s been going on here, Elaine?”
My mother shrugs, smiling brightly. “I figured we could give it to her early. Why not?”
He looks at me, a wry grin on his face nearly buried by his beard. “You working your magic on your mother?”
I protest. “It was her idea.” But now I’m watching my mother. When my father’s back is to her, her smile abruptly fades. I can tell she’s still stuck on the Poe thing. So am I.
“Sure, sure,” my father says with a sigh. “Okay then, let’s do this. Do you want to open it now?”
“Yes, please,” I tell him. I’ve never had much patience, and the purse would be a good distraction.
He hands me the box. “We should have at least wrapped it,” he says, glancing over at my mother who is staring off into nothing, biting her lip. “Are you okay?”
“What?” she says absently, then runs a hand over her head. “Yes. Just drifted off there.”
I contemplate bringing up Atlas Poe to my father to see if he recognizes the name at all, to see if their stories differ, but I don’t want to ruin a good moment.
So I open the box and see the gorgeous purse, all silver hardware and quilted black lambskin leather with the skulls and stone over a metal knuckle. I slip my hand through the knuckle and admire it, like I’m wearing extra rings. I’m pretty sure the stone isn’t a protection stone, but it’s still nice.
All girls need protection, Lenore.
My mother’s words flit through my head for a moment. Then I bring my focus back to the bag, hug the both of them, gush over it appropriately. I don’t want that to steal this moment, especially when this purse means a lot to my parents, I can tell that much.
I then help my father put his groceries away, have another coffee, and chat for a bit with him about his morning before I head down to my apartment with the box under my arm, roses in my hand.
I take out my favorite vase (a knock off of a find from the 18th Egyptian Dynasty), fill it with fresh water, then cut off the ends of the roses before sticking them in. They look gorgeous on the kitchen table, the petals like velvet. I always try to have fresh flowers in the apartment as it really brightens the place up.
Then I go into my bedroom and take the purse back out of the box, displaying it on the dresser beside my metal figurine of Pazuzu, a demon god from the first millennium B.C., who matches a tattoo I have on my hip. Pazuzu was a feared demon, but he had the power of repelling other worse demons, so in a way he’s about protection too. I admire them together for a moment, then slide the box under my bed (it will be a great place to stick mementos), grab a banana from the kitchen, and go to my desk in the living room, the pile of books beside it ready to go.
I fire up my laptop and start studying.
Lenore.
Someone whispers my name.
I wake up slowly, like I’ve been drugged. Lift my head up off the textbook, the paper sticking to my cheek.
What the hell?
I must have fallen asleep.
I carefully look around, my head feeling heavy.
What time is it?
It’s pitch black inside the apartment, except for the light coming down the hall from the kitchen. I could have sworn I had my reading lamp on before, but it’s off now.
I grab my phone from beside me and tap it on, the light illuminating the space around me. It’s one in the morning. I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep for. I’d pretty much been studying all day, taking a couple breaks before having dinner upstairs with my parents. After that, I took a glass of wine from them and went right back to studying. Maybe the pasta coma had delayed onset or something, because the last thing I remember was reading my notes on the Austrian archaeologist Manfred Bietak and that was it.
Well, I guess there’s always tomorrow. Normally I’d push through and pull an all-nighter, but I’m still tired enough to go right back to sleep. Might as well take advantage of it.
I’m just about to get out of my chair when I hear a creak in the kitchen, then the sound of a door closing.
I fucking freeze.
My skin prickles in fear.
That sounded like my bedroom door.
And there’s no breeze in here at all, no reason for a door to close by itself.
Shit, shit, shit.
My heart is crammed in my throat, blood pounding in my head, my limbs ice-cold, like the temperature in the room is dropping, dropping, dropping.
Am I freaking out for no reason? I heard that door close, and now I have the terrible feeling that I’m not alone in my apartment. I pick up my phone and contemplate texting my mom. She won’t be up though. They sleep with their ‘do not disturb’ on. And the keys to their place are in the kitchen.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
I hope I’m freaking out over nothing.
Though honestly the room does feel like an icebox, goosebumps erupting all over my skin, fear spreading through my veins like ink.
Okay, just get up and go into the kitchen, get the keys, and run out.
I manage to get out of the chair. Shaking. With one foot in front of the other, moving like the carpet turned to quicksand, I somehow convince my legs to move until I’m crossing the living room and stepping out into the hallway. The light in the kitchen illuminates the keys hanging below it.
They’re right there.
Just get them and go.
Moving fast now, I head over to the keys, looking over at my bedroom door as I do so.
Only to see it wide open.
I stop, stare.
Okay, now I’m really confused. Did I imagine hearing it close? I try and think back. Maybe I was still half asleep and the sound came from my dream. That’s happened to me before.
That must have been it.
I’m being paranoid again.
I walk over to the bedroom and cautiously poke my head in.
It’s dark in here too.
Pitch black.
Unnaturally so.
And yet…I have the same feeling I had behind The Cloister. Like the room is no longer a room, but a long, cavernous void where nothing can escape, and standing between me and that eternal darkness is someone.