The Brownstone, page 33
“Say, if you ain’t going to call, how about letting me pour you a cup of our fine coffee?”
Justin let the change slip through his fingers and dashed quickly from the store.
“Hey, what did I say?”
It took time for Chandal to maneuver all the mannequins onto the fairly narrow stairway leading to the second and third floors. But she was pleased at how nicely they looked, sitting, standing, leaning there in the darkness.
Now she lit the match.
There was a great burst of flames; she stepped back into the basement to watch and applaud.
Justin slipped his key into the front door; it wouldn’t open even after he unlocked it. He looked around quickly. He would have to go into the next building, out the back, and over the wall. By the time he reached the back door of the brownstone, flames shot out from the second-story window. He saw Elizabeth fasten her shawl around her shoulders as if to embrace the flames.
Trembling, he threw open the back door and entered the kitchen. He heard Magdalen begin to scream. He raced to the front stairs leading to the second floor—they had already been engulfed in flames. He moved back into the kitchen and down the cellar stairs as the screaming continued. Choking from the smoke and ducking the flames, for the basement was on fire by the time he reached it, he screamed, “Magdalen!”
The entire basement was thick with smoke and flames shot from the small door like a volcano. He fought fiercely to enter the stairwell; it was impossible. Magdalen’s distant cry dwindled away under the roar of the fire. A large beam fell from the ceiling, nearly crushing him. He jumped back, turned, and started up the stairs leading to the kitchen when he saw Chandal huddled in the far corner, a sad smile wiped across her lips. “Chandal?” He moved closer. “Chandal, is that you?”
Chandal laughed. Someone laughed. She felt the air leave her lungs, throat, stomach; someone laughed. Her? No, someone was laughing for her.
“No, I’m Elizabeth,” she said softly.
Justin knew in an instant that something was wrong. Magdalen and he had been betrayed by Ahriman.
Chandal lunged forward, catching Justin off guard.
Justin screamed, frozen against Chandal’s shawl because it moved now in fast, sharp stabs, stomach level, and the knife cut into his flesh easily above his velvet cummerbund, ripped his middle wide open. Justin screamed and fell to the ground, drew back on his knees, and saw, over his shoulder, the knife coming down again, over and over again, into the back of his neck, into his shoulders.
“It’s Valentine Day! Happy Valentine!” screamed Chandal, sending the knife into the center of his back. Groaning, he tried to rise; the knife ripped his face, his throat; he thought he was crying as the blood poured from his eyes; he thought, he thought—
Chandal stood over his limp body and smiled. The sound of the front door of the brownstone being broken down brought her to the realization that she was saved. That someone had finally come to save her.
Out on the street, she lifted her thin white face to the heat of the flames and smiled. What a pretty fire. Oranges and reds and white-hot heat. She laughed out loud, staring up toward the second-floor window, laughed for joy to think of the two hag skeletons lying in that raging furnace. Eyes oozing from their sockets like broken eggs. Limbs and torsos melting like wax. Let them burn. Let their wrinkled flesh melt from their bones, let their blood run like a river until it boiled dry.
In a flash, the fire jumped upward, a living, blazing weed running along the pitched roof, across the entire face of the building. Billows of black smoke curled through the air; the whole world was red and black and Chandal watched the sparks, like stars, raise toward the heavens, watched Elizabeth lurch against the third-story window with a fixed, grinning agony pressed across her lips. Through the crackling and hissing of the fire, Chandal could hear Elizabeth screaming, but remotely, a sound almost lost to her ears.
In a few moments, it would be impossible to see anything; the building would be drowned in a sudden, final outburst of flaming timber and brick. Chandal’s wish would soon be granted. The Krispin sisters would be no more.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE DETAILS OF THE ROOM NOW SHOWN CLEARLY in the merciless morning snow-light. No shadows, no twisted shapes in half-darkness, but only the bed with its clean white sheets, clean white pillowcase, whitewashed walls, Moorish style. And inside, lights, bright, burning day and night, so that the attendants could see any change of expression, any contradiction in attitude, but Chandal knew that she would beat them at their little game.
They had asked her questions; she had told them whatever came into her head, jokes and delightfully amusing stories. She knew that they had held it against her; that’s why she was almost always alone. Where has everyone gone? she wondered. What if they’ve forgotten me, forgotten that I exist? She paused at the edge of the bed; the thought frightened her. It’s happened before, she muttered in her mind. What will become of me?
Suddenly, she thought that she saw someone at the window. She rose, crossed, brushed the palm of her hand across the barred window. Shadows, I guess, she whispered to herself. Vague shadows, they frighten me. Something is happening to me, something I can’t control. Half of me feels different from the other, an invisible line has drawn itself through my body; I am now divided into two people.
Chandal moved away from the window. She could still remember the horror of that filthy little room—the footsteps at night blundering up the stairs, the whispering, and the smothered laughter screeching beyond the flowered paper on the wall. And the smell of the two old women. And one thought remained, that perhaps they were right. Perhaps she was a bit unsettled. Perhaps she should remain there, as they suggested.
Initial Intake Note: February 19, 1980
This twenty-six-year-old Caucasian female appears to be suffering from delusions. Physical examination reveals an average, thin, normally developed twenty-six-year-old.
Psychiatric Examination: patient shows evidence of hallucinating phenomena. Her memory is vague. I.Q. is extremely high. Patient enters interview situations and psychological testing in complete terror. Patient is seclusive. There is, however, some willingness to speak of less emotional subjects—i.e., she loves to relate children’s stories, jokes, speak of flowers, friends, and weather.
She continues in her need for cleanliness, neatness. A specific obsession involves loss of body control. She spends many hours reassuring herself that her body still belongs to her. There is much basic anxiety, poor identification, self-hate. In any case, we have a very fragile, sensitive young girl.
Recommendation: patient must be allowed as much freedom as possible and will be seen in psychotherapy three times a week with Dr. I. Luther.
Six-Month-Interval Note: August 20, 1980
Patient continues to spend most of her time in her room alone. Refuses to attend all sessions with Dr. Luther. All regularly scheduled sessions have been canceled.
Recommendation: continued institutionalization. It must be remembered that patient is still terror-ridden and is many months away from the time when she will face her fears.
On September 5, 1980, Chandal Knight left her room of her own free will, paused, and started the long walk down the brightly fit corridor to Dr. I. Luther’s office.
That’s right, dear. Smile, the voice inside of Chandal whispered. Remember, they called Sarah Bernhardt “The Divine Sarah” We must make this our best performance ever. I’ve always wanted to be an actress. Did you know that? In my day, it was considered risque. But today, one can do anything. It’s so nice to be young today. Smile dear, we’re very happy.
“Because I have seen what I have seen,
Because I have been where I have been,
Because I have communed with those who know...
I am who I am.”
Ken Eulo, The Brownstone
