TOC is…
At the Hotel Monticello
Something Like Mephistopheles
The Beasts of Harrow Point
Share and Share Alike
The Shade
Of Alexandra, Possessed
The Masquerade Ball
Night of the Blood Red Moon
The Dead, Death, and Decay
The back cover blurb reads…
The Hotel Monticello, a little joint at one of many crossroads in time and space. Not many hang out there, but those that do, they’re an odd lot. There’s the old woman who plays a sad crying violin; a time traveling gangster blues pianist and his blues singing whore; a gay couple fresh out of the big house; a mysterious woman who never removes the Venetian Masquerade mask that she wears; a writer being chased across time and space by her own creations; a two-bit hood come to make a buck at the expense of a well known politician; and a small assortment of other down on their luck characters. Then there are the demons that appear from time to time to entertain themselves at the expense of the hotel clientele.
*************************************
Here is an excerpt from my story “The Masquerade Ball” -
…….Baltimore.
…….That’s where Victoria Devon had called home.
…….Poe literature and visits to Poe’s grave had taken hold of Victoria at an early age. Guilty by Poe association, if only in literature, were Collins, James, Radcliffe, Blackwood, Bierce, and others.
…….Victoria had become an avid reader.
…….The term Gothic had quickly entered her vocabulary, and before long, the term Goth in its contemporary sense and lifestyle.
…….Black clothing and black roses became the order of the day.
…….On the date of Poe’s birth, January 19th, she would wait at his grave hoping to meet the mysterious night visitor with three red roses and a bottle of cognac, but never saw him.
…….Alone, in the cold, she would toast the horror master with her own glass of cognac, leave her own three roses, and hurry away to the nearest Goth nightclub.
…….On one such cold and icy January night, she stood at the Godefrey Carriage Gate of the Westminister Burying Ground and made her toast. Then turned and started to walk away.
…….A figure stood on the side walk near the south end of the wall that surrounded the burying ground. A tall woman. Long dark hair framing her face and rolling across her shoulders.
…….A strange woman…
…….Shrouded in shadow.
…….Odd that she appeared to be wearing an ankle length strapped gown with nothing covering her shoulders on this cold January night.
…….Her face seemed to be disfigured and long thin horns sprouted from her forehead.
…….Victoria caught her breath and stared.
…….Something passed between them and then the strange woman turned and walked away.
……. “Wait!” Victoria called out.
…….The woman didn’t.
…….Victoria hurried after her to the corner of Baltimore and Greene, paused, looked in vain for the strange woman. The woman was gone.
…….Across the street in University Square Park walked a misty ghost-like figure in a long gown.
…….The strange woman.
…….Victoria ran after her, but again the woman was gone.
…….Shadows cut across her path, the trees; a light post on the nearest corner. Victoria stopped, sighed, and stared. Disappointed.
…….Then, a soft touch on her shoulder.
…….Victoria turned.
…….The woman was there. Smiling. Staring into Victoria’s eyes.
…….There was a reason for her disfigurement; she wasn’t disfigured at all. She wore a Venetian masquerade mask. Golden with a beak nose, and the horn tips fading to black. The horns exposed her forehead in a V-shape, and the mask road down her cheeks to points.
…….Flowers were attached to the mask above her right ear, real flowers with an overwhelming scent that made Victoria swoon euphoric.
…….The gown she wore was indeed a shoulder strapped affair, her shoulders bare, skin cool to the touch, the gown gossamer with a wave on a slight breeze.
…….Victoria was captivated.
…….There was an aura of mystery about this strange woman, something of the old world, Europe.
…….She closed her eyes, breathed in the scent of the flowers as the strange woman rested a hand on Victoria’s shoulder, and gently stroked her cheek.
……. “Who are…?” Victoria began to say, her eyes still closed.
…….The woman gently touched her lips to Victoria’s lips. Held them there. A brief moment.
…….Victoria’s body rippled.
……. “Be still,” the woman finally said. Voice soft, musical. “I will come to you again.”
…….The touch was gone.
…….The woman’s hot breath on Victoria’s face was gone.
…….The mesmerizing scent of the flowers was gone.
…….Victoria stood, eyes still closed, and held her breath. Wondered. Thought a ragged jigsaw of wanton lust and curiosity.
…….Finally eyelids fluttered and Victoria peered about.
…….The strange woman was gone.
…….It was cold.
…….January.
…….Poe’s birthday.
…….The mysterious night visitor to Poe’s grave hadn’t shown up again this year.
…….It looked like the visitations had ended.
NOTE: The artwork below captivated me and was the inspiration for this story, artist unknown.
