Feathered fronds of frost creep across the windows of my room as I watch for a car. The expectancy of seeing a vehicle at any time is unusual. The number traversing the driveway leading to this cottage each month, I can normally count on the fingers of one hand. A half mile stretch from the main road leads no where other than my home and several derelict farm buildings.

This is Christmas Eve. A few powdery, white flakes of snow fall from the darkened sky, to glitter and twinkle in the light escaping from the open doorway of the porch. For the past five years I have spent Christmas alone. Living in this remote part of France was my choice. The desolate cottage, surrounded by dank forest, is the perfect setting for a writer of macabre stories intended to invoke terror in a reader.

This year, I must admit to being excited, having been invited to a party. Such a thing has never before occurred. Three days ago, I answered a late evening, gentle knocking at the door. Concern as to the identity of a caller after dark delayed my immediate response, but the knocking was persistent.

A woman, I guessed, in her early twenties stood in the glare of a car’s headlights. She wore a blue-grey skirt and matching jacket. The most striking thing about her was the waves of almost blue-black hair that cascaded around her shoulders.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting,” I said, “but your knock was so gentle, and I so rarely have visitors, I thought it might be my imagination.”

Her mouth edged into a smile to show a glimpse of pearl-white teeth. “I understand, and I apologise that my visit is at such a late hour.” Her voice was soft, husky, and she spoke with an accent I was unable to recognise.

She continued, “We will be hosting a small festive celebration on the evening of the twenty-fourth, to which, we would be honoured if you could attend.” Her eyes, a vivid shade of green, held mine with an imploring gaze.

There was something familiar about the woman’s appearance. I am certain I met her or saw her somewhere, but still cannot remember where.

She obviously knew me, she continued,“A wonderful writer, like you, we would be thrilled to entertain. Please say you will come.”

Certain of never having visited her home, I felt confident to ask, “Where is the celebration being held?”

“At the château. But have no concern of finding the place. I will send someone to pick you up and bring you back.”

That made sense. It would also give me the opportunity to have a few drinks without risking my life on the way home. “Thank you,” I said. “I would be pleased to come.”

She turned to leave. “Christmas Eve at eight then,” she called over her shoulder before the car door closed.

The time is now five minutes before the hour. Unsure if she meant I was to be at her place at eight, or whether the car would arrive at that time, I have been ready since seven. Another three minutes pass before I see the glow of approaching lights through the trees. I am already at the door as the vehicle, a large, black Citroen from the 1980s, pulls up in front of the house. I close and lock the front door leaving the outside lamp on for when I return.

A man in a dark suit and wearing a peaked cap has the rear door of the car open. “Monsieur Read? Please…” He indicates with an open hand that I am to enter.

Unable to see his face clearly, I mutter my thanks, and relax on the supple leather upholstery. The door closes with a sound that makes me think of plush velvet.

“How long will the journey take?” I ask as he slides behind the wheel.

“Some of the roads are icy, so a little longer than usual sir.”

His answer gives me no indication of our destination. We travel for twenty-five minutes along roads unknown to me. From the steep inclines and sharp bends, I believe we are heading into the mountains. There is no moon – snow-bearing clouds mask Luna’s chariot from sight. I see little of the scenery other than black trunks of trees standing like sentinels at the side of the road.

Veering off the road, we pass between two huge, cast iron gates and into a gravelled crescent before the façade of a house I can only describe as a mansion. I stare at the row of brightly lighted, arched windows, the flight of steps leading up between Gothic pillars, the double front door of dark stained wood. A gust of icy air reminds me we have arrived. My chauffeur holds the door while flakes of snow tumble on his cap and shoulders.

As I alight from the vehicle, the doors to the château are thrown wide, and the lady who delivered my invitation waits at the entrance. She is resplendent in a turquoise-blue evening dress.

On the top step, I stamp my feet to shake the loose snow from my shoes. “Bon soir madame.”I hold out my hand in greeting.

She ignores the hand, placing her arms around me and kissing each cheek in traditional French greeting. “Monsieur Read. I am so glad you are here. May I call you Rob? Please, come inside. Let me take your coat.”

I mumble my thanks as the jacket slips from my shoulders. I want to ask by what name I should call her, but have no chance to voice the question as she turns to lead the way into a large hall, still talking.

Her hair is bunched at the back of the neck, falling in swathes between her shoulders – the bare skin, smooth, and almost the colour of milky coffee. She moves with the elegance of a gazelle, while the scent of Channel drifts in the air behind her.

Half turning her head, the bright lights glint a flash of brilliance from two diamond studs in her ear. “Will you have a drink? But of course you will.” She answers the question herself. “Monique, bring a glass of champagne for our guest of honour.”

The girl to whom the command must be addressed turns from her conversation with two men. She sees me and displays a dazzling smile. Taking a filled glass flute from a low table she approaches.

I believe her age can be no more than seventeen years. She wears a black dress with a skirt shorter than decency should allow me to, even, fantasize. The tops of her black, fish-net stockings and an inch or two of milk-white skin are visible below the hem. She moves like a flamingo on burgundy-red, stiletto heeled shoes. She has garish make-up with blue eye-shadow and blood-red lips that almost match her shoes. Her blond hair is permed into a style reminiscent of the 70s.

I turn to the hostess, but she has moved away, and is already at the far end of the hall with a group of guests in eighteenth century costume. I had not noticed her departure above the chatter of many voices. Somewhere, the muffled throb of heavily distorted rock music reverberates through the floor.

“So, you are the writer.” The sound of the voice above the background noise startles me for a moment. She speaks in French, “I’ve been dying to meet you.”

I turn to face the girl who hands me the champagne. I am surprised to see she has one too, and wonder if she is of an age to legally consume alcohol. She raises her glass to clink against mine. “Saluté.h

“Saluté,h I respond.

Her dress is cut low at the front giving me ample view of cleavage and clings tightly to her body. I feel embarrassed at her blatant sexual posture. She makes me think of the prostitutes that waited in doorways and street corners of Paris.

We drink. This champagne tastes expensive, sliding smoothly over my palate.

“And you are Monique?”

She confirms my question with a dimpled grin and nod of her head.

“Then I must tell you how much of a coincidence this is. I recently had a story published where the lead female character had that name. She would have have been about your age too.”

She looks bemused. “Why would it be a coincidence?”

I had to think for a moment. “I’ve never met anyone in real life called Monique, but I guess you are right. There must be many girls in France with that name.”

“But only one in your story.”

Her statement amuses me. “You speak as though you know.”

“Why do you laugh? That is the reason I am here,”

“Then… You’ve read the story?” I am amazed. The story was published in an American magazine which I believed was unavailable on this side of the Atlantic.

She looks confused. “I don’t understand why you should think…”

I too feel confused, now suspecting my limited knowledge of the French language is adding to the confusion. Her reasons are not important; I change the subject.

“I did not know this was to be a fancy-dress party.” The realization comes to me suddenly. It would explain why this girl, Monique, should be dressed like a street hooker. I gesture with my free hand toward the group in conversation with the hostess, who returns a petite wave. She speaks to a couple and the three move toward me.

I hear Monique saying something about it not being fancy dress, but my attention is focussed on the approaching group. The couple are, I guess, in their forties. Their costumes are less opulent than the six or seven revellers they were with. The entire group reminds me of eighteenth century French aristocrats in powdered wigs and flamboyant splendour.

“I am sure you remember André and Maria.” The hostess presents her friends to me.

“So good to meet you at last, Monsieur Read. My wife and I have only dreamed of this moment” André bows to me and Maria curtsies.

I feel that I should know them, but have no memory from when or where. I am experiencing a sense of surreality in the evening as he continues, “I hope you will do me the honour of allowing me to present to you my master and mistress, the Prince and Princess.” He waves his hand in the direction from where he had just come.

I am about to accept his request when we are interrupted by a plump fellow with a red face and deeply receding hairline. “Hey man, good to see you.”

Surprised to hear him speaking in English, and with an accent that indicates he is from the north-western corner of the country, I look up to meet his eye. He bustles across the floor with his hand outstretched. “Really, really chipper to see you at last.” his voice has a high pitched cadence that sounds effeminate. He is panting from exertion and I hear his chest wheezing as he breathes.

I take the hand he offers, but look at him with raised eyebrows. “I’m sorry, I don’t think… do I know you?”

“You remember. Berkley. Berkley C. James.”

I am certain my mouth falls open as I stare at him like an idiot.

He continues, “You must remember. You’ve already met Serilla.”

“Serilla?” I can only repeat him like a parrot.

“Serilla Cassajian.” The woman in the turquoise dress interrupts. “Did you not recognise me?”

“But…” I am even more confused. “But Berkley C. James and Serilla Cassajian are characters from a short story I wrote last year.” The surreal feeling intensifies. I struggle for a grip on reality. Of course… This must be an elaborate joke at my expense. Perhaps I should make an effort to play along with them.

“Now I understand.” I make a knowing wink with my eye toward Monique. To Berkley, I add, “And did you bring the crystal mask with you? After all, that was the subject of my story.”

“I believe Serilla has it.” He turns to her. “May I…?”

“”You may. You know where it is. Meanwhile, Rob, you must come and meet our friends.” Serilla takes me by the arm and together with André and Maria, we walk past walls adorned with paintings and tapestries to the group in costume.

André makes the introductions with sweeping gestures of his hand. “May I present his Royal Highness, Prince Eugene of the House of Bourbon, and his fiancée, Princess Analaise of Austria.”

This feels wrong. A real prince and princess? Etiquette dictates that André should be presenting me, a commoner, to their royal personages, not them to me.

The Prince bows low, and the Princess, whose face looks disturbingly equine, gazes at the floor as she curtsies.

I grab the Prince’s gloved hand and pump it vigorously. “Let’s not stand on ceremony. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He looks at the hand disdainfully as I release it, and mumbles a few words in a French dialect I am unable to comprehend.

André continues, “and I am certain you remember only too well, the Lady Tamaneshca.

A girl, probably a year or two older than Monique, steps in front of the Prince. Before she can curtsy, I grasp her by the shoulders and hug her. “My dear, you look as beautiful as I always imagined.” Her raven black hair brushes against my shoulder.

She steps back as I release her. Almond shaped eyes, black as the night sky glisten, moist. “How often I have felt I wanted to kill you Monsieur.” She spits the words at me as if they were gravel. “Kill you for killing the man I loved more than life itself. The man for whom I sold my soul to Satan, that we would be wed.”

“Ah… Prince Louis Artheos,” I answer, impressed by her acting ability. “Is he not here?” I gaze around the smiling faces expectantly.

“You mock me. You know he lies in the crypt beneath the chapel with a hole in the back of his head from a musket ball.”

I sense the anger and hate in her voice. “A musket fired by one of her henchmen.” I point an accusing finger at Princess Annalais.

“But only because you, like some god, decreed such an action!” Tamaneshca’s voice rises hysterically, forcing me to step back.

The lights in the room noticeably dim, shrouding her face with shadow. The face seems to be changing, her jaw and nose protruding, while eyes and brow recede. Her ears appear from the mane of black hair, erect, pointed like a dog… or wolf.

The chatter of voices ceases and I hear gasps of inhaled breath from people near me. She opens her mouth showing vicious fangs that drip and drool with thick saliva. Foetid air rakes my face as she snarls and raises hands, now covered in thick, black hair, with fingers extending into hooked claws. She slashes them at my face. I raise a hand to my cheek, feeling the lacerated skin and dripping blood.

A small figure pushes through the throng. Her skin is pallid, anaemic looking. The face, narrow, pinched, elfin, has huge eyes that glow red. Those eyes are reptilian, like a lizard. She opens her mouth to reveal four pointed fangs and a black forked tongue.

She crouches as if about to spring at me when a young man, thrusting Tamaneshca aside, screams, “No Sorin!” He grabs the creature by the shoulders, and his eyes meet mine. “Sorry,” he says. “Vampires, they see a drop of blood and go berserk. I’d shake your hand, but if I let her go… well, all hell would break loose. Glen McKenzie. Pleased to meet you.”

“Ugh… likewise, I’m sure.” I glance nervously between werewolf and vampire, trying to decide which is the bigger threat.

“Hey man. Here’s the mask.”

I turn to see Berkley holding an exquisitely carved piece of crystal. Narrow metal strips, like veins, run across the cheeks beneath eyes, which are large and circular like goggles. Before I can stop him, he places the mask over my face.

Momentarily, every person in the room snaps into sharp focus. I think I scream, for I know the demons this mask can conjure up. The lights in the room flicker, flaring, blinding, then fading. Dark shadows with snake-like heads and writhing, winged bodies materialise through the walls. Squirming tentacles dripping with primaeval slime rise from the floor.

“This is not real!” I call out the words as loudly as I can to make them heard above the howling wind that has sprung up from nowhere. “You do not exist! I created you, all of you, in my imagination!”

There is a vivid flash of blue-white light and a roar like thunder, then darkness. I feel myself falling to my knees. The darkness subsides and grey shadows solidify into trees. Dim light reflects from water. I am on the shore of a lake. Falling snow drifts aimlessly over piles of rock. There is no sign of the château. The weather is cold… so cold. I shiver. Where am I? How did I get here? Where is the coat I wore?

My watch indicates the time as being past midnight. I have no idea where my home is or how to get back. I am freezing. Even my imminent death feels more inviting than this cold.

Author’s notes:

Sorin and Glen McKenzie – Eyes That Haunt Me published in Vicious Bites by Key Publications Network.

© Copyright 2011 Robert A. Read
2990 words