The Shadow in the Dark (Part Seventeen)

“You’re looking good, Elijah. You haven’t changed a bit in all the years since I last saw you.” 

 

Elijah smiled again. “You flatter me, Ashlee. But I could say the same for you. Have you been dipping yourself in the Fountain of Youth? What’s your secret? Do tell?”

 

I smiled back. It was true that I had yet to see any signs of encroaching age. My skin was as clear and wrinkle free as when I had been at college. I’m just lucky, I guess. “You live here?” I asked, as I gazed around the book lined study. 

 

“I do.” Elijah’s smile never wavered. 

 

“I suppose I should ask whether you’ve actually read all these books?”

 

“Hardly. This library belonged to Joseph Curwen. He bought the house in the 1970s. You’ve heard of him?

“Curwen. Yes. I read his case file in Quantico as one of my many assignments. I’m FBI these days. I bet that surprises you, Elijah? Me – FBI?”

 

“Nothing surprises me,” said Elijah as he leaned back in his leather armchair. “Tell me about Joseph Curwen.”

 

“A famous black magician – a scandalous figure who achieved some notoriety on the fringes of the hippy counter culture in the late sixties. Made all manner of lurid claims of occult power and established a cult movement in Puwtuxet, Providence, called The Soldiers of Ipqu-Aya.”

 

“The soldiers of Ipqu-Aya.” Elijah’s eyes seemed to gleam at the mention of the name. “Fascinating.”

 

“Fast forward, big shoot out, everyone dies. The end.”

 

“Everyone?” Elijah raised a curious eyebrow.

 

“Yes, everyone,” I said. “Just another whack job consigned to the footnotes of the National Enquirer.”

 

“He was a great man, Joseph Curwen was. His light will forever shine brightly.”

 

Oh-kayyy…

 

“So, you’ve drunk the cool-aid, have you, Elijah? What is all this? I’m told you’re running a cult?”

 

“Tch.” Elijah seemed disappointed by that. “Cult is such a petty word, Ashlee. Shame on you. Did you learn nothing back at Mount Holyoke?”

 

“I see you’re calling yourself Conchis now. Quite the affectation on your part.”

 

“Is it?” Elijah’s eyes followed me about the room as I paced slowly from bookcase to bookcase. I paused briefly before a large oil painting, slightly faded from the passing centuries, that seemed to depict a Biblical city. 

 

“You were always obsessed by THAT book.”

 

“Many people are obsessed by the Bible or the Quran.”

 

“Not quite the same thing, though, is it?” I suggested. 

 

“You’re looking at on old painting of the city of Nineveh in 612 BC,” said Elijah, noting my interest. “I think it was painted by some eccentric Victorian Englishman who drove himself mad drinking too much laudanum, as the Victorian English tended to do at the time.”

 

“Nineveh?” I turned round, my expression one of curiosity.

 

“The home of Ipqu-Aya, a pioneer in the world of magic, and a man profoundly obsessed with finding a method of extending life beyond the three score and ten, or whatever the number was in ancient Babylon." 

 

“Probably one score and ten,” I said. “Life was hard back then.”

 

“Indeed. There’s a tiny figure of Ipqu-Aya in the market crowd scene in the centre of the painting. The figure in the red robe. He’s the only figure who seems to be peering directly out of the painting, looking directly at you, as if he can see into your soul. It’s a remarkable series of brushstrokes.”

 

I shivered a little as I spotted the imposing figure, small, but dominating the centre of the painting once you looked for him.

 

“Ipqu-Aya performed what was known as the ‘Nineveh Working’ and made contact with alien beings of immense power from far beyond the stars. Beings able to bend time and space to their will.”

 

“You really have drunk the cool-aid, Elijah.”

 

“Immense power,” he added, again. “They preserved his life, or would have done, had the ignorant, superstitious people of Nineveh not lynched him a year later. It happens. But the knowledge of the Nineveh Working – the tried and tested method by which an Initiate could summon these alien beings - that was preserved and passed down through generations. Fascinating, don’t you think?”

 

“No, not really.” I turned my back on the old oil painting and regarded Elijah again. “What day is it?”

 

“Why, what an interesting question, Ashlee. Today is October the fifth. Do you want to know the time as well?”

 

“You’re lying to me. Everyone is lying to me.”

 

“Ooh, little bit of paranoia there, Ashlee?” He held up his forefinger and thumb and made a rubbing motion of something small.  

 

“I’ve been here for three days. Three days!”

 

Elijah said nothing. He simply raised an eyebrow in a patronising manner.

 

“I’m not mad!”

 

“Can I offer you a drink, Ashlee? I think you could use a drink? Tea? I have some very expensive teas.”

 

“Of course you do.” it wasn’t worded as a compliment. 

 

“FBI, hmm? Well, you always were the dark horse. And how are you, Ashlee? Is life good? Lots of job satisfaction now that you’re an important FBI girl, flashing your badge around? Do you have a boyfriend?”

 

“I do actually. It’s early days, but I like him.”

 

“How lovely. What’s his name?”

 

“Martin Bastable.”

 

“I’d love to see a picture of him.”

 

“I, uh, don’t have a picture of him.”

 

“Now why doesn’t that surprise me,” said Elijah.

 

“What do you mean by that?” 

 

“Because he probably doesn’t exist, Ashlee. Just another of your vivid delusions. Just like your FBI badge, that I suppose you can’t show me for some convenient reason?”

 

I snapped back, angrily. “What the fuck are you talking about, Elijah?”

 

“Language, young Lady! I’m going to ring for some tea, Ashlee. I really think you could use a cup of good tea. Darjeeling or Lapsang Souchong? Tell you what, I think we’re in the mood for Darjeeling.” Elijah rang a small silver bell that stood on a pedestal table beside his armchair. Moments later the door opened and the French Maid stepped back inside the study.

 

“Tea please, Eris. Two cups. Black as sin, for me, but Ashlee may like a little honey or lemon. She’s sweet like that.”

 

“I don’t want any tea,” I said, firmly.

 

“You do want some tea, Ashlee Ellis. Sit down, Ashlee Ellis.” He gestured to the armchair opposite him.

 

I blinked and found myself suddenly seated in the armchair. How had that happened? A small porcelain cup of tea stood beside my armchair on a similar pedestal. Beside it was a dab of honey on a floral plate that I could stir into the black tea if I chose to do so.

 

“I…” I found myself momentarily lost for words. I glanced at Elijah and saw him sipping from a small tea cup. 

 

“Mmm, you can’t go wrong with a really good cup of Darjeeling tea in the afternoon, now can you?”

 

I picked up my own cup and sipped it. The tea was delicate, floral with a muscatel grape-like flavour to it. 

 

“Tell me,” asked Elijah. “Does Doctor Thredson know you are here? He’s been trying so hard to help you, but you keep running away.”

 

I felt a shock again as I heard Elijah mention that name. “I don’t know a Doctor Thredson.”

 

“Well that’s not quite true, is it? I think Ashlee Ellis is telling little fibs.” 

 

“I don’t know a Doctor Thredson.” I seemed to grow more agitated, my voice sounded strained.

 

“All right, all right,” said Elijah as he saw my discomfort. “Ashlee Ellis doesn’t know Doctor Thredson. I don’t have a problem with that.”

 

“Stop patronising me! Why are you doing this? What are you doing?”

 

“You called on me. Unexpectedly, I might add. We haven’t seen each other for, oh, nine months?”

 

“We haven’t seen each other for many years,” I said. “Since our graduation at Mount Holyoke. That was the last time we met.”

 

“Oh, Ashlee, this makes me so sad,” said Elijah. “We saw each other nine months ago.” He paused, considering his words, not wanting to provoke me further. “At Briarcliff.”

 

“I’ve never been to Briarcliff!” I stood up and felt breath coming hard through my lungs. “I HAVE NEVER BEEN TO BRIARCLIFF!”

 

“Helen Corbin is very worried about you,” said Elijah. “She’s afraid you’ll hurt yourself, running around, making up stories. Pretending to be an FBI agent. Have you been trying to reach her husband again? You know you’re not allowed to. Your obsession with her husband is really beginning to scare her now.”

 

I felt a rising tide of panic. I was having difficulty breathing again. It was a panic attack, I felt sure of it.

 

-------------------------------

 

I dreamt I stood on the wooden floor of an old house, naked, except for a ribbon in my hair. A steel collar had been locked around my throat, and from it a long leather leash descended, terminating at one end in the fist like grip of one of the French Maids. My wrists were fastened securely behind my back in some sort of slim handcuffs, and I was crying piteously.

 

“No! I’m wearing the wrong ribbon! You must listen to me! It’s the wrong ribbon! I haven’t been spoiled! It should be a white ribbon! White! Please, just listen to me! There’s been a terrible mistake!”

 

I felt a tug on the leash, forcing me forwards to the stairwell that descended down into the darkness, down into the basement of the house where I heard the clank of iron bars and weeping of other women.

 

“Slut!” said the maid. “Filthy little red silk slut!”

 

“It should be white!” I screamed again. “I’m wearing the wrong ribbon! The wrong ribbon!”

 

----------------------------

 

 

I woke slowly to a warm shaft of sunlight streaming through the dormer window, teasing my face.

 

It was one of those lazy mornings when I sensed instinctively that I’d enjoyed a really good night’s sleep, with vivid dreams that faded the moment I left the lands of Morpheus. Above me, pinned to the sloping sides of the attic roof, a poster of Elsa from Frozen looked down at me. There was a quote on the poster that read:

 

‘Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show.’ 

 

For some reason the quote stirred a momentary pang of frustration as I lay on my back gazing up at it. 

 

Don’t let it show.

 

I mustn’t ever let it show.

 

The thought came unbidden into my head, and just as quickly vanished.

 

I became aware I was lying under a Frozen bedspread that I’d partly kicked away as I’d tossed and turned in my deep sleep. And continuing the Frozen theme, I wore a silky bedtime slip with Elsa printed on the front. From where I lay in the single bed I could see other pictures from Frozen pinned to the walls, often with motivational quotes from the cartoon film. My eyes focussed on one of them:

 

‘The best way to get what you want is to just be who you are.’

 

And there on the attic door was Elsa imploring me to ‘let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back anymore.’

 

My left hand strayed to the silky slip where it settled against my breasts. It wasn’t real silk, of course – just some synthetic silky material, but it felt strangely nice. I didn’t normally wear such things to bed, so it was a new sensation. 

 

My fingers brushed the silk that lay against my left nipple and that felt nice, too. I smiled a guilty smile as I lay there and began to stroke both my nipples through the silk-like slip. I felt content, good with myself, happy in my body as I lay there, waking up slowly.

 

With the arrival of bright daylight, all the fears and anxieties and the stress from last night were gone. I didn’t know what time it was for there wasn’t a clock in the tiny attic dormer bedroom, but I allowed myself the luxury of stroking and fondling my nipples for a while through the slip. This wasn’t something I normally did, but this morning it felt comforting. I thought of myself dancing before men, dressed in nothing more than a thin wisp of sheer silk, bells locked on my ankles, dancing on a flagstone floor to some erotic sounding primaeval music. I couldn’t help myself – I had to dance, and dance to the best of my ability, for men held whips and they would demand the very best from me. I belonged to one of them. How natural it would be to be a man’s possession, to be truly owned by him. To be his property. 

 

I could…

 

I could always…

 

I sat up abruptly in the bed, my mind suddenly focussed on where I was.

 

I was lying in the bed in the dormer bedroom belonging to Rosemary’s Frozen obsessed daughter. I was wearing the silk-like Frozen slip again, as I had done last night, and the night before, and the night before that. Everything was as it had been earlier this morning.

 

I let out a loud and piercing scream. .