The elevator pinged and the doors opened. Immediately Allison’s tension began to subside. The penthouse apartment was markedly different to the rest of the building; a sleek, modern fit out of brushed chrome and marble floors and minimalist furnishings.
"Miss White?"
Allison turned in the direction of the voice. Mr. Amberson was strode confidently toward her, hand outstretched.
"Hello!" she said, putting on her best stock cheery voice. "It’s very nice to meet you."
She shook his hand, noting with a sense of growing excitement that Mr. Amberson was, by any standard, a very handsome man. With his slim face, chiseled features and strong chin, he bore a passing resemblance to a German actor she had seen in a movie recently whose name she couldn’t remember. His hair was a light sandy brown swept casually to the side, his eyes blue and playful. His tailored black suit sat perfectly on his slim, almost athletic frame, and when he smiled he showed all his teeth, in a way that was cheerful and welcoming. Allison was immediately relieved. Even if he was a weirdo, he was a rich weirdo, and any sexual advances, she would be ashamed to admit, wouldn’t entirely be unwelcome.
"Please. Take a seat."
"Thank you."
Allison followed Amberson to the leather sofas, sat down next to a plush black velvet cushion. She placed her bag on the floor and looked around.
"You have such a beautiful apartment."
"Thank you."
"How long have you lived in this building?"
"Since it was built."
It must be one of those newer brownstones made to look old, Allison thought. The exterior and the lobby were definitely turn-of-the-century style architecture.
"Well, it’s gorgeous," Allison gushed. "You must have a lot of famous neighbors in the building"
"Actually, I don’t have any neighbors."
Allison looked at him quizzically. He folded his hands, looking uncomfortable.
"I, uh, own the whole building," he said modestly.
"Oh."
"I plan to get other tenants soon, but for the moment I like the privacy."
Allison detected a hint of a British accent.
"Are you from England?"
"Originally, yes."
"I’ve always wanted to go to England. My favorite writer is Shakespeare."
"Oh?"
Allison blushed. What a stupid, common thing to say. Shakespeare, indeed. Mr. Amberson rescued her from her embarrassment.
"Do you have a copy of your resume with you?"
"Yes, of course."
Allison bent over and removed a blue folder from her bag. She handed it to Amberson, who flicked through it casually then deposited it on the coffee table between them without a second glance.
"Harold has already told me much about your background."
"Harold?" Allison asked, confused. "You mean the doorman?"
Amberson laughed. "Harold is more than a doorman. He’s been with me for a very long time. He helps me attend to matters such as this."
"Oh." Allison understood completely. Bennett Amberson was obviously from a wealthy family, one that Harold had worked with all his life. It wasn’t uncommon among the rich to have servants who had been with them their entire lives. He might have to look for a new servant soon though, Allison thought. Harold was getting on in years.
"I was very impressed with your credentials," he continued. "Los Angeles is a perilous place. I do not like to travel there too often if I can help it, but unfortunately my business requires that I be there from time to time."
"It certainly is weird," Allison said with a laugh. "I much prefer the East Coast. The people here are much more hospitable."
Amberson grinned. "Yes. Quite. So, tell me about you, Allison White. Apart from the credentials, which are quite in order. What are your interests? Your hobbies?"
"Well, I’m a writer," she offered sheepishly. He raised an eyebrow.
"A writer? Well, that is interesting. Would I know any of your work?"
"Probably not. I write short stories, mainly."
"Ah. Are you well known?" he asked, a hint of concern creeping into his voice. Allison shook her head vehemently.
"Oh no. I did have a story published in Cosmopolitan magazine last year, but nothing recently. I’m actually taking a break from writing to focus on my career. So don’t worry – you won’t find any thinly veiled tales about a highly accomplished man living on the Upper West Side with a charming manner."
She blushed, embarrassed by her overt display of flattery. She wondered if it was too much, but Amberson smiled.
"Well, that is a disappointment," he said flirtatiously. "So what do you write about, Allison? The futility of existence? Man’s inhumanity towards man?"
Allison cleared her throat clumsily. "Um, no, I write about ... well, love, I guess."
"Love?"
Immediately Allison felt foolish. "Well, love in contemporary society," she added, attempting to add heft to the topic.
"As admirable a theme as any other," Amberson said. "Perhaps the most admirable. For what are we without love?"
What indeed, Allison thought with a small quiver of excitement.
"Well, down to business," Amberson said, slapping his knees for emphasis. "What I am looking for is someone who can be part of a very important project. Someone who could be part of the very lifeblood that sustains me. It is not your usual assignment, but it is also not without its rewards, in my opinion anyway. I hope that you would have an open mind in these matters."
"Absolutely," Allison said without hesitation. She was used to accommodating strange requests. There was the actor who asked her to procure an escort for the evening and an Eight-ball of coke. She had reminded him gently that she was a personal assistant, not a pimp, and had been unceremoniously dismissed while the actor was in a drunken stupor. Then there was the studio executive who sent her to the Hustler store on Sunset Boulevard to purchase a month’s supply of his favorite lubricant, which happened to be cherry flavored. But she wasn’t about to tell Mr. Amberson that story. Discretion was part of her duty to her employer. Their secrets were hers until the grave.
"I’m so sorry," Amberson said, suddenly standing. "I’ve been terribly rude. Can I get you something to drink? Some water? Wine perhaps?"
"Water would be fine."
Amberson disappeared into the kitchen. Allison picked up a copy of The New York Times Review of Books from the coffee table, attempted to flick through it nonchalantly; her mind was racing. She wasn’t normally one to entertain flights of fancy, but her head filled with fantasies of spending an eternity with Mr. Amberson, living a luxurious lifestyle as his friend, confidant, perhaps even as his wife, just like in a movie. For the first time in her life she would be truly indispensible. She would make sure of it this time.
"There we are."
Amberson placed a tall glass of water on the coaster in front of her. Allison picked up the glass, took a small sip, then placed it back down.
"Thank you."
"So, Allison, let me ask you a question. What was it that attracted you to this position?"
Allison had been asked this question many times. It was a standard query in the employer arsenal. She began to recite her well-rehearsed answer.
"Well, I think of myself as a career assistant. I enjoy being an integral component of a person’s life, helping them to achieve their goals."
"Uh huh, and what about your own goals? Your own dreams?"
Allison paused. She had never been asked this before.
"My dreams?"
"Yes."
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
"Um, well, I guess I would like to keep writing, maybe work on some more short stories."
"You guess?"
Allison shrank back. Something in Mr. Amberson’s tone had inexplicably changed. There was a hardness there now, an edge she hadn’t previously detected. She knew that tone well. It was judgment.
Oh God, he thinks I’m pathetic.
I am. I AM pathetic.
Allison pulled nervously at her cuticles, a habit she had long tried to kick and was now showing itself at the worst possible time. Amberson’s gaze didn’t waver. He leaned forward, clutching his hands in front of him, dark eyes fixed on Allison’s.
"You see, Allison, it strikes me that the reason you are here today is not because you want to help other’s fulfill their goals and achieve their dreams and blah blah blah and all that other stuff you spout. The truth is that you are here to hide."
"I am?"
Mr. Amberson nodded.
"You see, in my experience, of which there is plenty, people like you function under the misguided notion that you are fulfilling a noble, honorable role, helping others in their quest to achieve a successful, abundant life experience. But really all you are doing is robbing yourselves. You deny yourself the right to this life of achievement because, quite simply, you are scared. Scared that if you were to attempt to create this life for yourself you would fail miserably. You are also, might I add, lecherous."
"Excuse me?" Allison rankled, her voice filling with anger. Mr. Amberson persisted, undeterred.
"You, Allison White, are, for want of a better word, a leech. You grab on to the achievements of others and think that if you assisted in any way, albeit even a small one, you can call those achievements your own. You hide in the shadows of great people and believe this imbues your own life with a sense of purpose. But it does not. Your life has no purpose, there is no meaning to it, and quite simply, any dreams of literary greatness are all for naught because you do not have the strength or willpower to go after what your heart truly desires. I, however, suffer from none of these afflictions. I am very astute at getting what I want."
Allison made a move to stand but found that she could not. Her arms flopped ineffectively to her sides, her legs splayed. She gazed blurrily at the glass filled with water on the table.
She tried to speak. Her mouth felt slack and numb.
"I, I..."
Amberson leaned forward, cocking an ear compassionately towards her.
"Yes, my dear? You wanted to say something?"
Allison’s head fell down. She struggled to keep it upright, like a baby trying to lift its head for the first time.
"I... I..."
"Yes, Allison. Tell me. Tell me what you truly want."
Allison mustered as much energy as she could, as if she were taking her last dying breath.
"I want..."
"Yes?"
The word tumbled from her lips. "Love."
Amberson smiled. He reached out and stroked her face gently.
"And I shall give it to you, Allison. In spades."
Suddenly he was over her, arms reaching down. Gently he plucked Allison from the sofa as if she weighed little more than a bag of feathers, and carried her across the room.
"You’re tired, Allison. You work too hard."
"I do," Allison murmured. It was true. Even though she was only thirty-five she felt a hundred years old.
"You need to rest. Believe me, I have much experience in this. I have had many assistants."
Allison gazed helplessly at the ceiling as she felt herself being carried to some other place. She attempted to speak, her eye still firmly fixed on the prize, the thing she needed most in the world.
"Do I ... have the job?" she enquired sleepily.
"Oh, yes. Absolutely."
Allison smiled. "When do I start?"
"Now."
Allison buried her face into Amberson’s chest, could hear his heart beating against her ear. Suddenly everything became dark. They were in another room now, one without windows. It was cold in here, too cold, like a freezer. Allison shivered.
She looked up. It was a freezer. Large slabs of meat hung on hooks all around her. She squinted, her eyes adjusting to the lack of light, and in the darkness she started to see faces, but they weren’t animals. They were people.
Everything she had known had been trivial, compared to this. She knew this innately. She knew this when she felt the sharp, tingling sensation on her arm, like a bee sting. This would be her most important job yet. If anyone needed her, it was Mr. Amberson. His very life depended on it.
"There, there, Allison White. The struggle is over for you now."
"Thank you," she murmured, and Amberson heaved her up high, hoisting her against the wall as if she were no heavier than a rag doll. She looked into the eyes of the boy on the wall next to her, a young man in his twenties, his face pale white, his eyes blackened sockets, and when he looked at her he smiled.
Allison smiled too. In the darkness of the room she felt a beautiful softness envelop her, every ambition she had ever held seeping from her body like blood from an open wound, and when the hook slid into Allison’s back, splitting her flesh as easily as tearing a piece of paper, she barely even noticed.
The boy beside her twitched, an involuntary spasm. College graduate, she thought. This is his first job. From his bare arms ran two long tubes, red with his blood. She felt a pang of jealousy. He had found his true purpose so early in life. He would be spared the indignities of the working world.
"Harold..."
He was standing in front of her, needle in hand. Mr. Amberson had gone, retreated to some private part of the apartment, the seduction complete. Now it was down to business. Harold swiftly approached her, no longer the doddering old man she had encountered downstairs. With one quick movement he inserted the needle, as he had at least a hundred times before, perhaps a thousand. She watched with curiosity as the blood spilled out, running down the length of the tube to fill an IV bag that had been wheeled into place beside her.
"Thank you Harold," she said.
"My pleasure, miss. Oh, and congratulations. Welcome to the company."
"Thank you."
Harold busied himself with checking the IV, securing the needle in place with a bandage. It seemed like a good job, Allison thought. Sure, she was part of the rank and file now, but Amberson had taken a special liking to her, she was sure of that. Maybe one day, if she was good and diligent and always did as she was told, maybe one day Harold’s job would be hers.
Ambition is a hard thing to kill.
Kathy Charles is the author of 'John Belushi is Dead' (Simon & Schuster). You can find her at Goodreads.
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Blood or Black Tears
by Jennifer Loring; published October 11, 2013
Second Place Award, October 2013 Horror Contest
"Why won’t you talk to me, Marcela? Don’t you like me anymore?" Soledad said.
"Nothin’ to say you don’t already know."
A large, red egg of flesh had swelled over Marcela’s left eyebrow. Probably her mother’s work. Soledad had visited Marcela in half a dozen shelters all over the city, and every time there was a fresh injury somewhere on her little body. The girl crossed her arms over her chest, her knees pulled up as far as she could manage. A defensive, protective pose. The children trusted no one but each other, and even that trust had an expiration date once they exhibited symptoms of adolescence. Most didn’t expect to live that long when so many things could go wrong for them on the street.
"She hit you again."
Marcela tugged at her fingers until her gaze fell upon Soledad’s own hands. "You’re marked."
"Marked? What does that mean?" Soledad followed the girl’s stare. Crimson ridges where she must have scratched herself in the night rose from her skin. "Oh, I wake up with them sometimes. Need to trim my fingernails, I guess." Soledad smiled, but Marcela was having none of it.
"You know the secret stories. You pretend like you don’t remember, but you made yourself forget."
"And ... how do you know this?"
She shrugged. "My cousin Solana tells me."
"Do I know your cousin? Have I talked to her in one of the shelters?"
"Don’t think so." Marcela examined the job fair bulletin tacked to a corkboard, then studied the win
dows, anything to avoid Soledad’s eyes. "Been dead a year now. She was a teacher. Somebody stuck her when she tried to break up a fight." For all the emotion she expressed, Marcela might have been talking about the ham sandwich she had for lunch. Pain was easy to control when you pretended it didn’t hurt.
"Marcela, I’m very sorry about your cousin. But you said she tells you things. How is that possible?"
"She just learned to talk to me. Spirits don’t know how to talk to the living at first. I could see her lips moving, but I couldn’t hear her voice. Now I can." Marcela frowned. "You know how it works."
Ice-tipped needles pricked at Soledad’s arms. "What does she say to you?"
Marcela squirmed in her seat. Still she refused to meet Soledad’s gaze. "It ain’t over for you. You should know the Weeping Woman don’t keep her end of the bargain. And you ain’t kept yours."
Soledad’s limbs trembled with an atavistic fear, though she did not know why a child’s words should affect her. She’d seen similar defense mechanisms in other kids a hundred times. Marcela’s world was a room without doors, permanently barring adult entry.
"Tell your cousin I appreciate the warning. I’ll see you again in a couple of weeks, okay?"
"Grown-ups never believe." Marcela’s voice was as bitter as a January wind. "But you did once. You will again."
~~~~~
She stands by the window, her cornflower skin illuminated by moonlight. Her eyes are as endless as the ocean from which she comes. She brings a gift of flowers, so many flowers of white, pink, and gold that they drip like sun-dappled water from her arms. Curtains of dark hair flow around her as if she is still beneath the sea, every part of her rippling and glistening.
Please believe in yourself as I believe in you, she sings, and it is wrong, all wrong, because she never speaks to adults. She is the savior of the children alone.
Say my true name. Say my name and I can help them.
I don’t know your name, Soledad replies, but she would not say it aloud even if she did. This is not the angel. This is not the Blue Lady.
Her beautiful face turns as white as a drained corpse. Her eyes melt in their sockets like candies and dribble down her cheeks. Blood tears from the empty black cavities spatter onto her skin. Ay, mis hijos! she wails, her fingers curled into claws. The talons find the scarlet rosary around her neck and she swings it, seeking young flesh to strike. Mis hijos! Mis hijos! She swings again, and Soledad lifts her hands to shield her face; the rosary cuts into her skin—