Chapter Ten: The Long Summer Starts

Christine didn't know how long she stayed huddled in that room.

It could have been hours, or days. She sat facing the door with her back to the wall, chin to her knees. She sat until her trembling, hysterical sobs dimmed to jumpy nervousness, and then to a kind of listless apathy. She sat until she could no longer feel her feet, until her hands were stiff with cold, but she didn't notice. For a time she was in shock, that disbelieving bliss of suspended animation where her relentless mind so believed that this couldn't be happening that it took her far away.

Then she fell asleep, and when she woke the shock was gone, replaced by the cruel clarity of her situation, until the sobs started again.

Her heart pounded within her skull, a headache so fierce that it hurt to cry, hurt to breathe. Slowly Christine pushed her sleep-numbed legs away from her body and stretched onto the floor, back against the wall, cheek to the cool polished wood.

She stared at the door.

She tried meditation, but it wouldn't calm the tightly wound coil of muscles. She tried emptying her thoughts, but the headache's pain and a cord of fear kept her from resting.

She could do nothing else, so she stared at the door.

Christine realized belatedly that her weak limbs and the pounding in her head were probably from dehydration and lack of food, but she didn't dare move from her position on the floor. There were monsters out there. If she moved, they might see her. Might get her.

She couldn't move, so she stared at the door.

Once, dimly, she thought she heard her night dream music, but it was beyond the door, and she pushed it so firmly out of her mind that she believed it was no longer there.

She decided to pray as she stared at the door.

She risked movement enough (don't let the monsters see!) to let one hand drift to the gold crucifix around her neck. She moved her dry lips in cracked, almost silent prayer.

"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name."

'Oh please let me wake up.'

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

She stared at the door.

"Give us this day our daily bread."

'I promise to be good.'

"And forgive us our trespasses."

She stared at the door.

"As we forgive those who trespass against us."

'Can you hear me?'

"And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

She stared at the door.

"For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory."

'CAN'T YOU HEAR ME?'

"Forever and ever."

She stared at the door.

"Amen."

'Amen. Amen. AmenAmenAmen. Please help me…'

She stared at the door.

She stared at the door until her eyes grew heavy and she could stare no longer.

Christine's head jerked as she automatically brought her hand up to wipe the drool from her chin. When did she fall asleep? For how long? She couldn't tell if it was night or day. Her headache was still there, throbbing dully in her temples. How long had it been since she last ate?

The thought came to her with sudden, dreadful certainty, and it momentarily took her breath away.

If she didn't leave this room, if she didn't eat or drink, she would die here. Alone.

She slid her aching body into a sitting position and winced as her angry stomach shuddered. Every swallow felt like knives.

'I'm killing myself,' Christine realized. 'If he decides to kill me or not, I'm killing myself. I have to…oh God, I have to leave this room.'

Her eyes swept the shadowed bedroom in desperation, and they fell on a door that she had not seen before. It was partially opened, and through it a long sink and a clear mirror were vaguely visible. Her heart jumped into her throat.

'A bathroom…'

Shakily she rose and stumbled across the wood floor to push the door fully open. Christine stared, briefly taken aback at the sight of a huge sunken bath, her fingers sliding over cool marble.

The sink taps were bright silver, gleaming starkly in the darkness, and her trembling fingers turned them desperately, but no water flowed. She jerked on them, swiveling the knob from hot to cold and back again, but they refused to turn on. She realized, almost intuitively, that it must be by design. That he must have turned the taps off…that he must have cut off her water supply to force her to leave the room. That her last hope had failed.

Christine turned away from the bathroom and eyed the door with stark, utter fear. Her stomach twitched spasmodically.

'Just think,' she told herself firmly. 'I'm an actress. If I can't go through that door, someone else can. Someone stronger.'

She scanned her mind for images, memories, childhood playmates. A wavering, almost-but-never-forgotten image swam before her eyes and she grabbed onto it. Christine had always been a dressy, girly girl, but when she was a small child she had an imaginary friend who was tough and rode skateboards and wore her baseball cap backwards. Her name was Jenny.

'Ok.' She relaxed like she did right before a show, lolling her head back and flexing her fingers, letting her muscles unwind like a spool of string. 'I know this character. I am Jenny. Christine is not tough enough to walk through that door, even to save her own life, but Jenny is, and that is who I have to be. I am tough, and I kick ass, and I'm not afraid to go out there because I always do what needs to be done and I am never, ever afraid.'

Christine nodded, letting her eyes close as she straightened her back. 'I stand like this, chin high. I have a good center of gravity. I think, I reason, I act, and most importantly I survive. If I am tense, I crack my knuckles. I like peanut butter but not jelly. I hate ballet. I like math but I am horrible at it. These sneakers are my favorite pair. I'm a fast runner and I've played sports since I was five years old. I, Jenny, have a mom and a dad waiting for me, so I have to make it out of this. But most of all, I am strong.'

The method acting helped. Christine stood there for several long, still minutes, dragging her character out, fitting into her skin. Jenny was afraid of little spiders but not big ones. She hated fish. She liked to hoola hoop, even though she was too old for it. She wanted to meet the man of her dreams in Africa while on a safari. She didn't like people like Christine.

She didn't like her situation, but she sure as hell wasn't going to let herself die because of it.

Christine raised her head, opened her eyes, and, moving with a lower, firmer center of balance she walked quickly to the door and opened it.

This time his gaunt, foreboding presence met her eyes immediately, and the desire to run back inside the room and never come out, starvation or not, was so strong that for a moment her iron-hard persona faltered. But she forced Jenny to stare out of her eyes, and she regained control.

"I need to eat," she said, the words sounding foreign to her ears. He looked up at her wearily from his position in the deep, comfortable-looking chair that faced the room, and for a moment Christine wondered if he had been sitting there the whole time, waiting.

"Of course."

He rose with an unearthly grace, long limbs unfolding, one white hand spreading elegantly to beckon her to an arched doorway. She followed with mistrust, hovering just outside of the simple kitchen, jutting her chin out in a manner both childish and defiant.

He offered her a glass of water, but she shook her head at it. "I want to do it myself," she muttered warily, and he nodded.

"Of course," he said again, stepping to the side. She skittered around his tall form to shakily fill the cup from the tap. "One must never eat or drink anything given to them in the underworld…in any place of magic. You know that."

She narrowed her eyes, startled that he knew of her longtime fascination with mythology. "How do you know I know that?" she asked. He shrugged, ever graceful.

"I know many things about you."

There was silence for a moment before he continued, his tone almost casual.

"I know, for instance, that you never jut your chin out in the awfully defiant way that you are attempting right now." He paused, studying her. "Ah," he whispered. "Little actress. Could you truly not come out here in your own skin?"

Christine felt her jaw drop. How had he seen through her? A chill passed through her body. Did he know her that well, know her every look, every subtle piece of body language? As this new realization flooded into her mind she clutched the cup to her chest and ran blindly back to her room, door slamming shut with an odd echoing boom.

She emerged several hours later, without pretense or the protection of a character. He was gone. Christine walked hesitatingly through the different rooms of the house, not wanting to be taken by surprise, and for the first time really noticed her surroundings.

The sitting room was sprawling but somber, with thick black couches and several squat, squashy chairs centered around a low, long glass coffee table. The floor was wood, partially covered by a large oriental rug in shades of red and black. Unlovely metal lamps sat on small chests on either side of the mostly barren space. The walls were empty and dark, save for a heavy armoire with wide panes of glass protecting strange and exotic items that she couldn't identify in the half-darkness. Christine made a note to exam it later, when she wasn't about to faint from hunger. It seemed that she would have the time to.

She saw no telephone, no radio, no television, no computer, no connection to the outside world whatsoever. There were no doors to the outside, though on the far side of the room a sliver of light beckoned.

The room beyond was large and barren, with a wooden floor and dark walls, filled only with instruments nestled in thick cases, their polished surfaces glowing dully in the muted light. She scanned the room for the man in black, but no one was there, so she walked through the labyrinth of silent instruments, resisting the urge to run her fingers over their perfection. Oboe, flute, violin, cello, drums, guitar, trumpet, harp, French horn, clarinet, and others; even a few exotics like a mandolin, and in the corner the large dark shadow of a grand piano. The atmosphere was peaceful, almost a little sad, like it had the memory of forgotten symphonies imbedded in the walls; it was chill, a graveyard of silenced instruments, and Christine shuddered.

There were three doors in that room, one closed and almost unnoticeable, one the way she had just come, the last slightly open. She tried the handle of the closed door, but it was locked and she was too afraid to knock. The thought whispered in her mind that it might be the way out, but she dismissed it. Something about it seemed out of place.

Christine paused, thinking. The strange man was the one who played to her at night, though she still did not understand how, and he owned these lovely cold instruments; he would not want his house entered by way of this room that had the feeling of sanctuary. She abandoned the closed door and found her way to the final sliver of light.

Her feet touched carpet; it was plush, a heavy maroon, the only room so far to have carpeting. She studied it for a moment, the way her thin-soled sneakers sunk into the thick softness, before raising her head and gasping.

It was a long room, but abnormally shaped; it seemed to spread out in all directions, with winding little passageways and corridors, oddly angled walls, and a strange filtered light that came from no lamps she could see. It was as if she was standing at the edge of some vast creation that would only make sense when viewed from the sky. But her eyes were drawn to the books, what must have been thousands upon thousands of books, covering the walls, lining the strange jagged staircases that led to upper levels, heaped around small dark chairs and long wheeled ladders, piled despite the size of the room on top of each other, huddled together almost protectively against the torpid deadness of the house.

Christine blinked and took a few steps over the thick carpeting, her hunger momentarily forgotten in her sheer, overwhelming awe. Fear slunk backward into her head. She was alone; she could sense it, though the hint of his presence, some odd, almost dead smell that she couldn't place, still lingered in the stagnant air. Dimly she noticed that none of the rooms had windows.

Her stomach gave a sharp lurch and she drew back into herself with sudden panic. How long had she been entranced, examining this strange house? It was as if the walls themselves held some powerful fascination, enough to quell her fear and aching hunger. If the house was capable of creating such a compelling reaction, what of the man himself? She ran out of the library with the sudden need to be in surroundings she recognized, even if they scared her.

She passed through the music room and into the dark sitting room. Christine shuddered, feeling sick to her stomach, the hunger suddenly overwhelming, and warily entered the kitchen.

To her surprise, the small table was set with fruit and water and cold porridge, the kind Auntie V used to make when she was a child. She stared at it for a moment—was the porridge a coincidence, or did he know that about her as well?— before focusing her attention on the small note carefully folded on a plate. The knotted paper and clumsy handwriting were so familiar that her throat closed momentarily and she had to steady herself before reading it.

Christine,

I hope that you are feeling better, and that you have now come to realize I mean you no harm. I know that you must be hungry, but your body is weak so do not overeat. I am running errands but will be back at 3:00. I ask only that when I return you do not continue to hide in your room. We have many things to discuss. Feel free to explore the house; I am sure you will find it interesting.

Until then.

There was no name, but at the bottom of the page a PS was scrawled.

Do not fear eating my food. Had I wished to drug you I could have done it easily, so do not worry.

She knew that it was intended as a reassurance, but the words seemed oddly threatening. Christine eyed the food apprehensively, then the small clock set on the table. It was 2:45.

Relenting, she sat down to eat.

He appeared in the archway of the kitchen at exactly 3:00, and though she had been waiting she started at the sight of him. She had not heard him enter the house, not a door opening or closing, nor footsteps or even breath. He moved like a ghost, and only the strange sense of his presence in a room let her know that he was there at all.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and she noticed for the first time the strange yellow hue to his eyes. 'Like a cat's,' she thought disconnectedly. 'Like something feral and wild.'

There was silence for such a long time that it started to crush her, but before she could fly into another panic he spoke, that lovely-frightening voice almost soothing as it hung bell-like in the air.

"It is good to see you, Christine. My name is Erik."