Brides Of The Impaler (11 page)

“Gracious. What’s this world coming to?” Next, Bruno opened a small briefcase right on the linen-covered table. “And now here’s what I want you both to see: the first promo fliers for
Evil Church Creepies
…” Bruno’s hooded eyes glittered in excitement as he withdrew a stack of glossy fliers and passed one to Cristina and Paul.

“Wow,” Paul said.

Cristina’s voice lowered to a hush. “Bruno, it’s beautiful…”

The flier showed half-sized color photos of the first four figurines above stylized promotional text. A small picture and bio of Cristina occupied the lower corner. The most stunning accommodation of the figures themselves were the weaving black, green, and red lines that composed the background.

“The ad department used your idea about the background,” Bruno went on, “and I think it turned out great.”

“The colors really make everything jump off the page,” Paul said.

“Um-hmm, and that’s exactly what we want.” Bruno
appraised the flier with an obvious pride. “Yes, those lines really add dimension.” He looked to Cristina. “Didn’t you say you got the idea from a dream?”

For a split second, the dream flashed across the scape of her mind: the furious, waving lines behind the nude nun showing the fanged grin. Cristina took a breath. “That’s right. And the Noxious Nun herself. It all came to me several months ago when I saw our house.”

“Really?” Paul seemed surprised. “You never told me that.”

“Got the entire idea in one day.”

“The lightning bolt strikes!” Bruno exclaimed. He turned to flag the waitress again. “Miss? This is a special occasion. How about a bottle of Krug, Clos du Mesnil—the 1990 if you have it.”

Paul’s brow rose along with the waitress’s. “Certainly, sir.”

Cristina didn’t quite know how to phrase it. “Paul and I weren’t really planning to drink tonight, Bruno.”

“Nonsense,” the rotund man replied. “This is a celebration, my dear. You see, it’s not just the fliers I’ve brought…”

“Huh?”

Bruno, if a bit too dramatically, reached back into the briefcase and slowly extracted a black, shiny cardboard box, five or six inches high with a cellophane window in front. “Hot off the molds, my dear.”

Cristina’s hand came to her chest.
I don’t believe it
…

The decorative box contained the Noxious Nun.

She held it in her hand as though it were fragile as eggshells. The clarity of detail was greater than she could’ve ever expected: the delineated white fangs over the grin, the genuine black fabric that comprised the nun’s habit and wimple, the tiny three-gemmed bowl and the way a clear scarlet resin sufficed for blood. Cristina gingerly took the figure out of the box and set it on the table.

“That is one creepy doll,” Paul acknowledged.

Bruno held up a finger. “Creepy and cute—it’s that juxtaposition that makes them so attractive…
and
marketable.”

Cristina wiped a delighted tear. “I don’t know what to say, Bruno. I would never have thought it could look this good.”

“Don’t thank me. The molds were made to your specifications. And I’m glad we didn’t outsource this one to the Chinese. Our new manufacturer costs a bit more but the added detail makes it worth it. The first run was delivered to the ware house this morning, ahead of schedule.”

Some of the diners at surrounding tables kept eyeing the vivid curio, and when the waitress brought the champagne and ice stand, she said, “Oh, how cute! My daughter collects dolls like that.”

“In that case, miss, have a flier,” Bruno said and handed her one. “This one will be in the store on Friday.”

“How cool! Thank you.”

Bruno poured the champagne into three crystal flutes, then dispensed them. He raised his glass.

“A toast. To Cristina Nichols, and the Noxious Nun!”

“Cheers,” Paul and Cristina said in unison.

Their glasses clinked.

What a wonderful night
…

Cristina smiled in the darkness as the foyer clock struck one
A.M
. She sat up in bed, gazing out the window. Just a rim of moon could be seen edging over the next building.
My celebration
, she thought. The Noxious Nun sat like a goofy chess piece on the dresser.

At the restaurant they’d all gotten fairly drunk—something Cristina never did—but it was the occasion, not the champagne buzz, that left her elated and scintillant. By the time the cab had dropped her and Paul off, Cristina’s newfound arousal had her in a dither; all she
could think about was getting inside and making love to Paul. Paul tended to get cynical when he was drunk but there was none of that to night, and this only made him even more attractive to her. The eve ning’s only regrettable defect was the misfire on Paul’s part; the alcohol had thwarted his ability to perform.

Oh, well
, Cristina thought. She looked at him asleep beside her.
It was STILL a great night
…

She got up, still woozy. If anything the champagne seemed to possess a delayed effect; she felt even drunker now. She giggled as she stumbled once in the dark, then slipped naked out of the room.

Ultimately, her happiness over the fliers and the first figure overrode the aggravation over their failed lovemaking attempt.
So what?
She’d masturbated after Paul had dozed off, and that seemed to take the edge off.

She padded to the kitchen where only the light over the stove remained on. More light fell into the room when she opened the refrigerator and found herself drinking orange juice right from the bottle. Again, she almost stumbled, nearly dropping the bottle.
God! I really AM drunk!
She had to concentrate on putting the bottle back inside.

She caught herself next peeking out the wooden blinds of the front window. The church across the street stood like a silent hulk. She wasn’t certain but she thought she saw a light on in an upper window but when she yawned it snapped out. Perhaps it had never been on in the first place.

Drunk as she was, she felt too keyed up to sleep. She wandered the first floor, musing over the soon-to-bereleased line.
I can’t wait. The Noxious Nun looks super
. The influence of its creation—the inexplicable dream—had now lost all its negative power. Now it was just a novelty toy that would be purchased mostly by goth kids and collectors. She felt tempted to go back in the bedroom to look at it again but didn’t want to risk stumbling and waking Paul.

She walked down the back hall, actually sliding against the wall to brace herself. A side door stood closed, and it occurred to her that she’d never opened that one.

The basement door
…

She pushed it open, steadying herself. The basement, she knew, had only been structurally bolstered, not refinished.
But I’ve never seen it
, she realized. But why now, of all times, would she want to go down?

Pretty stupid
, she told herself.
You’re drunk, you could fall
, but her better judgment sidled away. When she hit the wall switch at the top of the stairs, only a single, unshaded bulb came on, and it didn’t look to be more than forty watts.
Yeah, REALLY stupid
…

She grabbed the rail and very slowly descended.

At once an unpleasant shiver rippled her skin. The old moldy smell reminded her of the basement at the foster house, where the execrable Andre and Helga Goldfarb had regularly locked her, Britt, and their foster brother after drugging them.
Don’t think about it
, she warned herself.
Remember what Britt said, the past is just junk that can’t
hurt me
.

The warning sufficed; when she made it to the bottom of the stairs, the basement’s clutter, cobwebs, and wide brick walls made her forget about the reminiscent odor.
Pretty
big
, she detected even in the wan light. She couldn’t find any more switches. The only other light edging the long room came from the sodium lights in the alley, which filtered in through the low windows. The security bars drew black slats across the floor.

But there must be another light somewhere.

She waded deeper through the murk. Old rounded cobblestones formed the floor; she could feel the border of each stone on the bottoms of her feet. They felt warm, almost glossy; however—

She stopped. The rounded squares had changed to something wide and rough.
What
—

She looked down but could barely see.
Damn it. What IS
that?
She could only make out a perimeter that seemed lighter than the rest of the floor and not composed of stones at all. She steadied herself again, then slowly got down on her knees, though she couldn’t imagine why.

Now, however, she could discern the mysterious perimeter’s dimensions just as her stomach clenched.

An
oblong
perimeter, about the same size of a coffin lid.

Don’t be ridiculous
. Of course, she was overreacting, and all that alcohol in her blood didn’t help.
It’s not a grave, for
God’s sake. Probably just some patchwork on the floor
…

She pressed her palms down and, indeed, found just a plane of rough cement. It seemed cooler than the cobblestones.
A pipe probably broke fifty years ago so they dug here to
fix it
, she speculated.

But…why should she care?

Then she tried to rise but couldn’t.

It must be the champagne, packing its final wallop, but for a stricken moment she had the oddest impression: that it was the cement patch that was drawing her down.

Stupid
…

She attempted to rise again but this time got so dizzy, her knees thunked back down hard and she fell over on her side.
Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m this crocked
…The dizziness distilled; she decided to lay back and rest for a little while. She took deep breaths, hoping to clear her head but then…

Had she been in bed, it would have been the bed that was spinning, but in this case?

It was the floor.

She seemed to be revolving, the queasiness in her belly compounding to outright nausea. With little warning from her metabolism, she quickly turned her head and vomited. She huffed, breaking out into a sweat.
I don’t think I’ve been
this sick ever
. Her vantage point continued to revolve as if she lay on a bearing’d platform; the dizziness thickened.
When she pressed her hand out to try to sit up, she felt something against her palm. A stick, maybe, or a pen. Her heart lurched a moment before she passed out, when at the furthest fringe of her vision, she thought she saw a figure standing in the corner.

“Singele lui traieste,”
she hears, lying prone and nude and
seemingly paralyzed. But she’s not in the basement, she’s in the
grotto of her nightmare, the furious backdrop of black, green,
and red ribbons weaving back and forth and the sound of water
dripping and a dog barking and excited chatter that seems female
but not in any language she’s familiar with. In fact, she’s
not even familiar with her own name
…

Soft hands smooth up and down her glistening skin, drawing
sensations that are as erotic as they are inexplicable
.

The whispers of other voices seem to halo about her head:
“Kanesae
…”

Hands cosset her flesh more fervently. Six? Eight? A dozen
hands? She senses that they’re the hands of women, judging by
the knowing way they touch her. Her muscles flex at the forbidden
plea sure being kindled in this dark place. Several of the
hands slide around between her legs now, and
—

Her back arches; she sighs through gritted teeth
.

—
a hot, wet mouth finds each nipple
.

The impossible light in the room deepens: black, green, and
red. Now a desperate tongue licks up the slope of her neck, and
she turns her head as the plea sure keeps mounting, and she
sees
…

What?

A man lying prone on a stone slab?

She’s not sure. The cryptic mouths and hands squirm over
her skin like a living gown; she’s so distracted, so tempted to give
in even though she knows this is all wrong
.

But that’s what she thinks she sees, if only for a moment, in
the weird dices of light
…

Yes
.

A man lying prone on a stone slab. At the top of the slab
sits…an object. She thinks first of a dark-
glassed vase, then a
wine decanter. A mongrel dog with matted fur snuffles bored
about the slab
…

When one mouth finds her sex, she shrieks and orgasms simultaneously,
and then her head whips over to the other side.
Her eyes go wide because, now, she sees her
.

The nun
.

“Kanesae, Kanesae, Kanesae,”
a tiny chant rises
.

The nun stands naked save for her white wimple and black
hood, the perfect breasts jutting as her back bows to raise the
bowl. Then she looks down, and grins
.

The pair of long thin fangs seems to sparkle
.

Then the nun dons her black habit and retreats into the
shadows
.

“Oise pla’cute,”
one voice flutters
.

Then another,
“Oise pla’cute…”

And one more,
“Oise pla’cute…”

“
Pleasant dreams,” someone else says beyond her impassioned
paralysis. A round of giggles disperse above her, like bats
.

And the mouths descend on her again, finding every private
place. One climax after the next racks her body until she fears
she might die, and then the final voice issues the disquieted
words she’s heard before
…

“Singele lui traieste.”

Father Rollin couldn’t sleep; he tossed in his upper bed chamber, sheets entwined about his legs like a serpent. When his eyes came into focus, a shadow seemed to be splayed on the moonlit wall.