Lilian Taft
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I woke up in a state of mourning. A sickening, all-consuming wave of grief had struck me overnight, twisting my insides, pressing down on my ribs and my heart, in an attempt to smother my restless soul as I slept. I had dreamt of Henry.
The dream was strange and likely a grim omen, but it had filled me with such momentary comfort, that I no longer knew what to make of myself in the waking world, unable to differentiate the cursed from the holy.
I had dreamt I was in his arms, but after a moment, I realized I was not only within his arms, but enclosed protectively in his very ribs. I was within him, my limbs intertwined with his, for he had become a skeleton, an entanglement of pale ivory.
I remembered how it felt to cradle his skull, to hold him whole, with his being, his essence, the testament of his very life, within my pale hands. The feel of his sharp bones digging into my chest, as I desperately clung to him, felt viciously real. I could not help but yearn to hold him again, and to keep his bones with me always, as a consolation of his well-being. I could not be at peace without them.
I realized, with my yearning, that the wicked dream made me hungry for the bones of a loved one who was not yet dead. I did not know how to acquire them, and satiate my discontented soul. Unused to being denied my desires, I found myself awake and miserable.
The damp on my face made the midnight air sharp, making me feel raw as a newborn lamb, thrust into the cold, unwelcoming world for the very first time. Shivering and vulnerable, frail in a way I had not felt for a millennia, I stared up at my ceiling. My limbs were tangled into my pile of quilts and blankets and sheets, holding me down with their weight, as though I were being restrained. I yearned for human warmth.
I placed my feet down gently on the cold hardwood floors, slipping them into my brown, teddy-bear slippers. With nothing but my white, cotton nightgown on, hanging down past my knees, I crept out of my room, silent as a ghost.
The holy house was silent. Everybody slept quietly, tucked away into their warm corners. It was I alone that crept about the house, cold and unhappy.
An idea struck me, and with my teddy slippers on, I padded through the eerie hallways, till I reached the wing of the house connected to the old chapel.
The university had left the chapel untouched, in the name of historical preservation, so the wooden pews, the podiums, the mosaic-tiled floors, and the angelic murals on the domed ceilings remained. I had been in it merely once, but knew that the heavy, wooden double doors in the main entrance would groan terribly, making a large disruption in the silence of the night, and would ultimately betray my presence. Instead, I chose a different route—one hidden and tucked away from sight, in one of the upper-level corridors of the house.
I traced my finger along the divots of the wooden walls, searching for a give. I had seen Benny slip out from this hidden entryway during one of the long nights I had been unable to sleep, wandering about the house aimlessly. I watched silently in the shadows, as an intoxicated, careless Benny practically crashed through the walls, entering the main house corridor through a door that had not previously existed. He had not even seen me, as though I were a ghost.
With a satisfying click, I felt part of the wall move, and then gently spring open. I did not know what I expected on the other side of the narrow darkness, but I did not expect soft light. Maybe this was a tunnel to hell. Maybe that was what awaited me on the other side. I steadily treaded forward. Through the dark tunnel, when I finally stepped into the chapel, I was shocked by the lively warmth that filled it.
I was in one of the gothic balcony alcoves above the chapel—one that lined the ceiling above the main podium. I floated forward, observing the grand room through the stone beams, feeling sanctimonious and divine, as I stared down at it beneath me. I expected the chapel to be silent, and dark, but candles were lit, as though worshipers were to flood in at any moment, and fill the room with piety and prayers and God. It was as though they had been lit in anticipation of me. I wondered if the room was haunted.
