Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub
Maybe if I keep saying that, I’ll start believing that there’s nothing strange about this place. That it’s just my own stupid paranoia getting the best of me . . . again.
“You’re right,” Liza says abruptly, standing and stifling another yawn. “I’m really tired . . .”
There’s nothing for Jennie to do but stand and say, “Me, too. I’m going back to my room.”
Even though she isn’t tired.
Even though she knows she won’t sleep a wink tonight.
“Okay. G’night,” Liza says, stretching. Her eyelids already seem droopy.
“Night.” Jennie pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “If you . . . you know, want to talk or anything, you can knock on my door.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
Jennie nods and slips out into the hall, then freezes when she hears another creak from above. She glances at the stairway that leads to the third floor, wondering what’s up there. For a moment, she contemplates finding out.
The wind suddenly picks up outside, slamming into the house with a high-pitched howl, and Jennie shivers.
No, there’s no way she’s going to go sneaking around this place, taking a chance of bumping into Jasper Hammel . . . or someone else.
Instead, she hurries down the hall to her room.
She locks the door firmly behind her.
There. You’re perfectly safe now.
But somehow, she can’t quite convince herself of that.
“I
t fits perfectly, doesn’t it?” Stephen croons, staring at Sandy as though he’s mesmerized.
She’s trembling uncontrollably as she stands before him in the white wedding dress, the veil perched precariously on her head so that a layer of illusion falls over her face.
She hopes that he can’t see how frightened she is, can’t see the tears that keep rolling down her cheeks to land on the white silk gown.
“It’s not too tight in the waist, is it, Sandy?”
She shakes her head mutely.
“Is it?” he bites out, and she cringes.
“No,” she says in a small voice, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.
“Good. Because you’re fat, and I’d hate to have that pot belly of yours bursting through the dress. I paid a lot of money to have it made just for you.”
“Th-thank you.”
“I have shoes for you, too. Here you go.” He holds up a pair of rhinestone-encrusted, white-satin slippers. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
She nods.
“Just like Cinderella,” he says, crouching before her and helping her slide her stockinged feet into the shoes. The heels are impossibly high. “A perfect fit. Just like Cinderella,” he repeats, standing again and looking at her, “and I’m your prince.”
“Yes, you are.”
Just keep talking to him,
she tells herself, trying to ward off the panic that threatens to overtake her.
Just act as though this is normal.
As though you aren’t the least bit alarmed at having been kidnapped by a psycho from your past.
As though you didn’t mind undressing while he stood there leering at you.
As though you don’t think he’s out of his mind, forcing you to put on this wedding gown and veil.
As though you aren’t terrified of what he’s going to do next.
“This,” Stephen says gallantly, presenting a bouquet with a sweep of his arm, “is for you. I know how you love roses. Red roses . . . the color of blood,” he adds in a faraway voice.
“Th-thank you,” she whispers raggedly, taking the flowers in her trembling hands.
“Now it’s time, Sandy,” he says, taking her arm firmly and leading her to the end of the white runner on wobbling ankles, her skirt rustling along the floor as she moves. “I’m going to walk to the front of the room and wait, and I want you to come down the aisle when your music starts.”
Bile rises in her throat, gagging her, and she forces it back, unable to speak.
“You know which music I mean, Sandy, don’t you?”
She shakes her head, her mind whirling.
I have to get away. I have to get out of here before he . . .
Before he hurts me.
Or worse.
“The wedding march, of course. You know . . .
Here comes the bride . . . dum dum da dum,
” he sings cheerfully. “You’ll recognize it. It’s coming up next. Now,” he adds, letting go of her arm and giving it a pat, “don’t start walking until your music starts.”
“I won’t,” she promises, and braces herself.
It’s now or never,
she thinks as he turns his back and starts walking up the aisle, careful to step on the floor at the edge of the runner.
When Stephen is almost at the first row of seats, Sandy tosses the bouquet aside, kicks off the satin pumps, grabs her skirt, and runs.
Back through the French doors and into the parlor, then the foyer, and then, because she knows the front door is locked, up the stairs.
Up the stairs? What are you doing?
she screams at herself frantically as she reaches the second-floor hall.
How are you supposed to escape now? There’s no way out!
She hears him cursing and chasing after her, approaching the bottom of the stairs. After a split-second pause, she turns and runs down the long hall. She has to hide someplace . . .
In one of the bedrooms.
And then what?
He’ll find you!
her mind shrieks.
It’s only a matter of time before he’ll find you!
Blindly, she throws a door open at the end of the hall and finds herself in a study. She closes the door behind her, then flattens her back against it and tries to catch her breath without making a sound.
His running footsteps have come to an abrupt halt, and she hears him coming down the hall. “Lorraine? Where are you?”
Lorraine? Whom is he talking to?
“Come on out, sweetheart. I won’t hurt you,” he says plaintively. “I’ll never hurt you again. Why did you run away? You were going to be my bride, Lorraine. We were going to get married and live happily ever after. Come out, Lorraine. Please.”
He’s sobbing now, and Sandy holds her breath, praying that he’ll just go away.
But Sandy hears him opening doors along the hallway, looking into the rooms, trying to find her.
He thinks I’m someone else . . .
“Please don’t leave me, Lorraine. I’ll give you anything. . . . I’ll give you everything. Everything you want. Please stay. Don’t leave like the others . . .”
He’s insane.
Sandy closes her eyes briefly, then opens them again. Though the room is shadowy, she can make out the silhouettes of familiar objects. A chair . . . a desk . . .
Her gaze falls on something that’s sitting on top of the desk. Swiftly and silently, she moves across the room to it.
Picking up the telephone receiver, she prays for a dial tone.
Yes!
She forces her fingers to stop shaking as she punches out 9-1-1 and waits for the emergency operator to answer.
But there’s nothing but a tone, and then a recording that begins, “We’re sorry. There is no 9-1-1 emergency service in this location. To reach your local police or fire officials, dial—”
Sandy depresses the button on the phone. Her mind races.
Outside the door, she hears the footsteps stop. The doorknob jiggles.
“Lorraine, I know you’re in there. But I’m going to get you out.”
Panicking, Sandy clutches the receiver and stares, wide-eyed at the door. She hears a dull thump, as though Stephen has thrown his shoulder against it.
“Lorraine, open this door. Right now. I mean it. If you open it, everything will be fine. If you don’t . . . I’ll get it open myself. And trust me, Lorraine, you’ll wish you had done as I asked.”
There’s another thump, and a grunt.
And then another thump.
Sobbing now, Sandy starts dialing the phone again, automatically punching in the first number that comes to mind, knowing there’s nothing anyone can do to help her . . .
But praying for a miracle anyway.
“O
h, terrific.” Danny Cavelli groans and looks down at his wife, who’s lying beneath him on the bed. “Why does that damn thing always have to ring when we’re right in the middle of something?”
“Better get it,” Cheryl says, untangling her fingers from his hair. “It could be important.”
“It’s probably Tony, telling me another branch fell into his gutter. Or Pop, wanting me to come over and jump start his truck for the fiftieth time this week. We never should have bought a house this close to my family.”
The phone rings shrilly again.
“Danny . . .” Cheryl lifts her head from the pillow to look at it on the nightstand. Her eyes are wide, fearful. “It might be my mother. What if Daddy’s . . .”
She trails off, and Danny nods. Cheryl’s father has been in the hospital for over a month now, suffering terribly from the last stages of lung cancer.
“Okay, I’ll get it, babe,” Danny says, rolling off her and reaching for the receiver. “Hello?”
For a moment, he doesn’t hear anything, just heavy breathing.
Scowling, he turns to Cheryl and is about to tell her it’s just an obscene phone call when he hears a voice.
“Danny . . .”
It’s nothing more than a faint whisper, but he recognizes it, and his blood runs cold.
“Sandy?” He clutches the receiver. “Where are you? What’s going on?”
“Danny, help . . .”
“Sandy, I can barely hear you. Speak up.”
“I can’t . . . oh my God, Danny . . .” Her voice trails off.
“Jesus . . . Sandy? Sandy, where are you?”
Behind him on the bed, Cheryl sits up and leans toward him, brushing his wrist with her fingers. “Danny, what’s wrong?”
There’s a sudden crashing sound on the other end of the line, the sound of a male voice, ranting something that sounds like “Open the door!”
Sandy lets out a blood-curdling scream.
“Sandy?” Danny shouts. “Sandy!”
But the line has already gone dead.
“H
ow dare you?” Holding the butcher knife high above his head in his left hand, he throws the phone against the wall with his right. It crashes to the floor with a jangling thud. “Did you try to make a
phone call?”
“I tried, but I couldn’t—”
“Speak up when you talk to me!” he thunders.
“Please . . .” she whimpers, shrinking back, then trying to scurry across the floor like a cockroach.
“You’re pathetic.” He reaches down and closes his fingers over her ankle, then pulls her toward him. Her heavy body slides across the polished wooden floor with a rustle of silk even as she claws the air with her arms, trying to take hold of something.
He grabs her arm and turns her toward him, then leans down and lifts her chin roughly, forcing her to look up at him.
“I told you, Lorraine . . .” He trails off, gaping. “You’re not Lorraine.”
“No . . . please, Stephen, don’t hurt me.”
Befuddled, he stares into her round face. “Where is she?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Lorraine . . .” Confused, he closes his eyes and tries to remember. What happened to Lorraine?
Images flash in his memory—a red-and-white blur.
Roses and baby’s breath . . .
Full lips and ivory skin . . .
Blood on silk . . .
Lorraine’s blood, spilling over the wedding dress she wears as she lies crumpled on the floor of her suite.
Now it’s coming back to him. Leaving the brownstone through the back door in a frenzy while two hundred guests and the minister mill around wondering what happened to his bride and speculating on where he’s going.
When he reached the door of her suite, she had opened it quickly, saying, “You can take the bags that are—”
Then she’d seen that it was he. “Stephen,” she’d said growing pale. “I thought you were the bellman. . . .”
“Where the hell are you going?” he’d asked, taking in her jeans and jacket, the luggage stacked by the door, including the trunk he’d bought her for their honeymoon. It was empty, he knew. She was planning to fill it with the lovely things he would buy for her as they traveled around the world.
You’ll have the finest Scottish wool, Lorraine, and silks from the Orient and the latest dresses from Paris . . .
He remembered, as he faced her in the hotel suite, how his promises had made her clap her hands together in glee, like a child getting excited about the prospect of an ice-cream cone on a sweltering August day.
“Lorraine,” he’d said softening, “you’re not going anywhere without me, are you? We’re going together, remember? Just as soon as we’re married, we’re leaving for Europe. Tonight, Lorraine. Just a few more hours. Now come on, let’s go back home. The minister is waiting, and all of our guests, and—”
“No, Stephen, I can’t. I just can’t marry you. I changed my—”
“Stop it! Don’t say it, Lorraine! You love me. You told me that you love me. You said you want to marry me. Now do it!”
“I can’t. . . . I-I have to go, Stephen,” she’d told him, sounding as though she were on the verge of tears. “Please . . .”
“Please . . .” sobs the woman who cowers at his feet now. “Let me go.”
“Shut up!” he barks, squeezing his eyes closed, seeing only Lorraine.
Lorraine had backed away from him as he stood there in the doorway, as though she couldn’t stand to be near him. She’d averted her eyes, as though she couldn’t stand looking at him.
And he’d snapped.
Stepped into the hotel room and slammed the door closed behind him, sliding the bolt and fastening the chain. The first thing he saw was the white-silk confection of a dress that hung in the corner of the room, perfectly pressed and hooded in clear plastic. A wedding dress, waiting for the bride to step into it.
“Why aren’t you wearing that?” he had demanded.
“Because I’m not going to marry you,” Lorraine had replied, lifting her chin, suddenly defiant.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not, Stephen. I’m leaving town. Going back home to Chicago for a while, until I figure out—”
He’d slapped her then, hard, across the face, leaving a harsh red handprint on her white cheek.