Incubi

“Sorry for what!”

He began again, thrusting much harder. That’s better she thought. Suddenly he felt snug in her, his penis like a stout plug in her sex, stretching her. He was getting her close now.

“You are very true.”

Shut up shut up! She closed her eyes, closing out his shadow, to concentrate.

“But not true enough,” he finished.

Ginny didn’t hear him, too busy summoning her orgasm. Hence, she didn’t see him either. She didn’t see his shadow and how drastically it had changed. The widened shoulders and arching back. Then a large angulated head, and the twin protuberances like horns.

* * *

When Veronica woke, the first thing she saw was the painting. Now that she’d finished, her fatigue caught up with her; she’d slept all afternoon into the night. The clock read 9:30; her window framed full dark glittered with stars. She leaned up and stared at the painting, but remembered that she’d been dreaming of Jack. The images didn’t mix. Her dream had just been pieces of them when they’d been together. She knew she should call him, at least to let him know everything was okay. But he was too reactionary, and jealous to the point of despair. Why reconnect herself to that? Stewie was another matter; he was business. She’d simply become too lost in everything — her work, her development, Khoronos — to remember to call him. He probably had all sorts of things lined up for her. Yes, she must call him, but…

Now that she thought of it, she could not remember seeing a telephone anywhere in the house.

When she’d originally called the number on her invitation, a woman transferred the call. It seemed a little funny.

A sense of emptiness followed her downstairs. Where did everyone disappear to so often? Downstairs was dark. She looked around the entire first floor but found no phone. I’ll ask tomorrow, she concluded, and went outside.

The big pool lay still in the moonlight. She noticed the gate in the back fence open and decided a walk in the woods would be relaxing. You couldn’t do this in the city; you couldn’t go for a nice, quiet walk in the woods because there was no woods. Just throngs of people, traffic jams, and smog. Since coming here, Veronica had never felt so purged of the world.

But where will I go now? She strayed along the moonlit path. Back home, to reality. How long would Khoronos want them around? The estate was just a playground. Sooner or later she’d have to get back to her profession.

What would it be like when she saw Jack again? She hoped he wasn’t moping over the end of their relationship. Ginny said that denial was actually assertion. But was it? Veronica felt convinced that getting back together with Jack would be a mistake. But—

I miss him, she realized.

The path opened into the little dell in which stood the white kiosk. She could just sit here and think, in the moonlight. She needed to think about things now that her work here was done. Yeah, just think, just think about things. She stepped into the kiosk—

— and froze.

The image seemed unreal. I’m still dreaming, she thought very slowly, and then the details of what she saw came quickly into focus. Veronica’s throat shivered shut. Her eyes darted frantically, each revelation striking them like a blow to the head.

It was a corpse that lay sprawled upon the kiosk floor: a nude woman besmirched with blood. In the moonlight, the blood looked utterly black. A tremendous stain spread from the apex of the corpse’s legs. The navel and sunken nipples looked like sockets, and the face…the face…

Veronica turned and ran.

— the face had been eaten off.

* * *

Her terror propelled her back down the path. Suddenly the woods seemed labyrinthine, insolvable. She thought in primal one-word bursts. Murder. Help. Phone. Police. She ran manic back to the house. Who was it? The corpse, bereft of a face, defied identification.

Up the wooden steps, across the deck. In the kitchen she stopped. What! What! “Somebody! Help!” she yelled, but the plea only echoed. She sprinted up the steps and burst into Amy Vandersteen’s room. The room’s tenant was not within. Veronica was about to run back out, but something locked her gaze. A lone sheaf of papers lay on Amy’s writing desk.

Amy obviously had accomplished little of her project, too distracted by drugs. The pages were an attempt at some sort of an outline, a scene from a projected screenplay.

VOICE: All the truth that you can bear…is yours.

PROTAGONIST: What truth! Tell me!

VOICE: Look into the mirror. What do you see?

[Protagonist squints.

Cut to a mirror, two o’clock angle.]

PROTAGONIST: Nothing.

VOICE: You’re not looking closely enough.

[Cut to protagonist’s face,

then back to mirror. Mirror is empty.]

VOICE: Look closely and you will see the truth. Tell me what you see.

[Close-up protagonist’s eyes. Zoom into pupils.]

PROTAGONIST: I…see…a man.

VOICE: Yes!

[Show flames in pupils.]

PROTAGONIST: I see a man made of flames.

A man made of flames? The similarity urged Veronica away from the desk. She dashed next to Ginny’s room, not surprised that Ginny wasn’t there. The manuscript, stacked neatly atop the typewriter bore the title “The Passionist.” She flipped to the last page and scanned the last paragraph of Ginny Theils’ taut, clipped prose:

…touched her, and in that touch she saw all the love in the world. Flesh made perfect, all flaws purged by the fire. “I am risen,” said the voice, but it was no human voice at all. The voice, like midnight, like truth, was incalculable. “Be risen with me.”

“But I’m not worthy!” she pleaded. “I’ve sinned.”

“And I now absolve you, with fire.”

She openly wept before the flow of love. I am risen, she thought. Trembling, she reached out. His hand closed over hers.

“Come away with me and my dream,” said the man made of flames.

Veronica’s heart wrenched in her chest. It was impossible. They’d all had the same vision in their dreams. The Fire-Lover. The man made of flames.

She was too confused to sort her thoughts. Then the words, behind her, rose in the air like a palpable shape.

“All the truth that you can bear, Veronica, is yours.”

She shivered as she turned. Gilles blocked the doorway. “What have you people done?” were the only words she could summon.

“There’s so much that you don’t understand, but you were not made to understand. You’ll see it all, though. In time.”

“You’re murderers,” her voice whispered. She stepped back, and Gilles stepped forward. His muscles flexed beneath his tight, tanned skin as he moved.