The Abyssal Pt. 01

'I'm not staying here, Nancy. I reserved a motel room in town.'

Nancy's eyes widened for a moment, enough so Violetta thought they might pop out. Her lips took on that pursed look that she remembered from her childhood. Nancy had always been a sweet woman, a loving woman, but Violetta knew when her face took on that look, it was time to run. Nancy had been a trusted friend of the family, which meant she had free reign to beat a little girl's behind if the need arose.

Of course, she was no longer a little girl anymore, was she? Being back in the old house, she continued to have to remind herself of that. Nancy apparently had to remind herself of that, too, because her face softened. Not easily, though.

'Now why'd you go and do a foolish thing like that, Miss Letti?'

'I can't—I can't stay here, Nancy. All the memories.'

'Memories are what keep us humble, little girl. You might could use some of that yourself. I know you're a big shot in the movie business and all, but maybe being home might remind you a little of who you were.'

'But the changes. I mean, a bed and breakfast? Whose harebrained idea was that? Change this beautiful old house into nothing more than a halfway house.'

Nancy's great chest rose and fell with an impatient sigh. 'Ain't nobody done no such goddamn thing,' Nancy said, lapsing into the thick southern drawl that only came out when she was upset, 'and I'm goin' to forget you said it.' She sucked a deep breath back in and seemed to gather herself. 'You've been away a long time, Miss. You don't know how things have been, pardon me for saying it. This is much more than a halfway house, as you put it. Your sister's worked damn hard to keep this place beautiful and turn it into a welcome place for folks who need one. Like that young man outside, the one painting. Folks who need to bring the creative back into their lives. Some folks who just need a breath of fresh air. I love you, Miss Letti, but I won't hear you say a word against what's been done here. I love this place just as much as I did when it was just a house, maybe more. So much positive energy has been brought in here at a time when we needed it most.'

'I'm sorry, Nancy. I guess I understand what you mean, but the other thing... certified hauntings? It seems so cheesy.'

Nancy barked a deep laugh. 'Well now, the hauntings, sure. This place has always been haunted, even when you were here. Some people are just better at ignoring it.'

Violetta looked around at the interior of the house, not much different than it had been years ago. The same deep, rich wood furnishings, the kind of décor that could last another century if properly cared for, which it appeared to be. The house had always had a certain antique character to it, but haunted? Violetta, in twenty years of living here, had never thought so. Sure, the Eastman house had its quirks the way any old house did, but certainly not ghosts, not the literal kind of spooks that Violetta was sure the sign outside was advertising.

Nancy took her by the arm and led her back to the front door.

'Now, now, Miss Letti, don't be too judgmental. Few years back, Miss Maddy called in one of them paranormal research groups, small one operating out of Massachusetts or Rhode Island or some damn place. They came up here with their cameras and microphones and all other funny gadgets and spent the night here. Well, they came back within a few days, all aflutter over the stuff they had seen. Eastman Inn even ended up on a television show. I can't believe you never saw it.'

'I don't watch much television,' Letti said.

'Out there in Los Angeles? Thought you all had tv's in every room of the house out there. Well, anyway, after that business pretty much started jumping and ain't stopped since. Folks these days don't look down on a place that's haunted, and they don't run away from them. I think most folks hope they can learn a little more about themselves by getting closer to the things that scare them. Maybe get an idea of where we're going and what the purpose of us being here is.

'Anyhow, Miss, we'll have plenty of time to talk. For now I'd like you to head back to your car and get your things so I can put you up in one of the empty rooms, and we'll—'

'I can't stay here, Nancy.'

'Sure you can, Violetta. Sure you can.' Nancy voice was reserved, but insistent. And when she used Violetta's full name, Violetta knew the woman was not backing down. 'You can stay in your old home, especially if it's just a couple of nights. Your home is always home, no matter what's happened in the years between. It's safer for you here.'

Violetta did not know what Nancy meant by that, but decided not to ask.

The second viewing began at five o'clock in the evening, so Violetta had a few hours to make herself comfortable and dread the thought of seeing her sister and her deceased mother. Nancy placed her in one of the rooms upstairs, which was at one time her mother's old drawing room. The room, small but cozy, was slightly musty when she first entered it, and Violetta assumed it had not been occupied by a guest for some time. It was now sparsely furnished with a large canopy bed, a large wall mirror, a dresser and a small desk in the corner. On one wall was a door that led into a small bathroom, which had been converted from a walk-in closet. The bathroom adjoined her room with another room, but Violetta did not bother to open the other door and find out if the room was occupied, and meet whoever she might be sharing a bathroom with.

She put her small travel bags on top of the dresser. One contained her makeup and bathroom necessities, while the other held only three days worth of clothing. She was not the kind of woman to bring the proverbial kitchen sink with her when she traveled, nor was she the kind of woman to deviate from her original plans. Three days worth of clothes would suit her just fine. She opened the clothing bag and removed a simple black suit that she brought for the wake and the funeral, then she unfolded it and spread it out neatly on one side of the bed, flattening it gently with her palms. When that was done, she removed her travel clothes, folded them carefully, and placed them in her bag.

Now only in her bra and panties, Violetta stood before the long mirror. She felt old, but she did not look it. Her body, untouched by the relentless West Coast plastic surgery trend, was still in fine natural shape. In the final years of their marriage, she and Roger had only had sex a handful of times, but she was able to tell herself that it was not because of her body going south. The lack of sex could be attributed to many things, but a lack of confidence in herself was certainly not one of them. She sighed loudly, ran a hand down her belly, the skin still taut, the muscles still existent. She was, when it came down to it, a beautiful old divorced woman. Her eyes looked tired. Perhaps, she thought, she would go ahead and let her body go, complete the package.

There was a nasty little voice inside her that wondered if Maddy still looked this good, and secretly hoped that she did not. It was a kind of sisterly voice that riled up the natural sibling rivalry inside her. That voice had grown louder since they had been estranged, but there was another voice, a much quieter voice that Violetta forced herself to ignore more often than not. This other voice, a soft voice with no anger in it at all, hoped that Maddy still looked as good as she remembered. That voice, in spite of all the years that it had not spoken, still had a sharp twinge of lust in it.

Violetta forced herself to look away from the mirror, away from the body and the face that—a long time ago, at least—looked just like that of her sister. There were memories and feelings coming back now that she wanted to keep away. In her mind, she attempted to put up a brick wall, a trick she had learned a long time ago from watching a cheesy horror flick called Children Of The Damned. In it, the hero attempted to thwart the plans of world domination by a pack of psychotic and telepathic children by doing the same. A brick wall, she told herself over and over, think about a brick wall. The technique had allowed the protagonist of the movie to waltz into a room full of the little monsters and keep them out of his head. Violetta hoped it would do the same for her, to allow her to come into this old house and shield her feelings and her thoughts from whomever or whatever might be interested.

She laid down, being careful not to wrinkle the clothes next to her. Her eyes moved down to the foot of the bed, to the wall where the mirror stood. There she was, the beautiful old divorced woman. Long black hair spread out on her pillow, even longer legs shifting slightly open. She allowed her hand to slide back to her belly, a slender finger finding its way into the waistband of her panties. The brick wall exercise had not worked this time, she had already let the memories back in. Now she needed to release them again. If it had to be this way, it had to be.

Her finger expertly explored her body, though she had not done this for herself in a long time. The shallow touch made her wet in moments, then it pressed a button once, twice, and her thighs clenched together around her hand as her jaw tightened against the moan that escaped her lips. The third time, she watched herself closely in the mirror, the face looking surprised and elated by the pleasure, the face of a beautiful old divorced woman. Her hips rose slightly, and she enjoyed watching the way the muscles in her legs rippled slightly. The way her calves clenched as she pointed her toes. Watching herself that way made her orgasm again.

The first three came easy, but by the time she worked herself into the fourth, she could feel her eyes growing heavy. Hard, sharp, satisfied gasps coming from her. Still watching herself in the mirror slipping away, only not seeing herself. Seeing the other that looked like her.

Maddalena.

Violetta woke up to the sound of light scratching, like a cat trying to get through a closed door. She held her arm up and looked at her watch, which said it was almost forty-thirty. She was glad for the noise that woke her; without it she may have slept all afternoon and well into evening and missed the wake. She slid her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, her legs feeling weak and her privates throbbing gently from her afternoon masturbation. The sensation was not unpleasant, and she felt some of the tension in her body had been relieved. While she was not thrilled at the thought of seeing her sister again, she was no longer dreading it.

The noise continued as she removed a silk robe from her bag. She slipped off her bra and panties and put the robe on, then tied her hair up in a sloppy bun. The sound seemed to be coming from the bathroom, light and without any sort of pattern. Violetta approached the door and opened it. At almost the same time, the door from the other suite flew open, making Violetta jump.

'Jesus Christ,' she hissed.

'Oh, for—I'm sorry.' It was the artist.

Violetta leaned back against the doorframe for a moment, closing her eyes and releasing a deep sigh.

'I thought I heard something in here,' he said.

'So you just open the door and scare the living shit out of it?'

The young man seemed both flustered and frustrated at the same time, and given his short history with her, Violetta could imagine why. She had not been exactly nice to him when they had met. It was only that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time on both occasions, and she had ground him into hamburger for it. She decided to make peace.

'I'm very sorry,' she said, 'you just startled me. I guess we startled each other.'

'Yeah, I was expecting a cat or something in here. Instead it was you.' He said this with a tone that was not exactly thrilled.

'I ought to apologize to you,' Violetta said, 'I really bit your head off this afternoon.'

'You really did,' he said with a dour expression, 'so let's hear it.'

Violetta paused and looked at him. She had seen before that he was young and handsome, but up close like this she could see just how young and handsome he really was. Very.

'What?'

He crossed his arms, leaned on the doorframe just like her, looked at her like a patient parent scolding a child.

'You said you ought to apologize. So go ahead.'

She did not know how long she looked at him stupidly before she realized that he was teasing her. But when she did realize it, she could not help but smile. A clever, Cheshire Cat-like grin spread on his face.

'Well I won't do it now,' she said, 'because you're making fun of me.'

'I'm not making fun of you, you were just very, very mean to me and I want you to be sorry for it.' And then he laughed, an easy laugh that made her smile even wider.

'I'm sorry then.'

'Good. I'll let you do whatever you were doing then. Skulking around in the bathroom.'

'I do not skulk.'

'Whatever.' He turned to close the door, then turned back. 'I'm Jason Porter, by the way. Since we're going to be sharing a bathroom.'

'Just for a couple of days. Violetta... Eastman.' She could not bring herself to use the name Vincent, the married name she had once so cherished.

He gave her a puzzled look that made him appear even younger. 'I thought you said you weren't an Eastman.'

'Not for a long time. Maybe I am again.'

The puzzled look did not leave his face. 'Well, whatever you are, Violetta, I'll see you around.' Then he left and closed the door behind him, leaving her to shower and think about Jason Porter the Artist.

Chapter 3

It had been a little over twenty years since Violetta had seen her twin sister, and as she drove to the funeral home, she could feel a knot growing in her stomach again. Violetta could not put her finger on exactly where the fear came from, perhaps just from the anxiety of seeing an estranged family member again. An estranged friend. An estranged lover. She tried to remind herself that it was Maddy's face she herself saw in the mirror every day, but that did not help her. Twenty years was a long time, and a lot could have changed in the span of it. A lot already had changed.

She pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home, seeing that it was mostly empty. It was only a few minutes before five, but she figured that very few people actually showed up early to a wake. Excitement and anxiety roiled inside her as she stepped out of the car. She gave in to it, reaching into her purse for a pack of cigarettes she kept hidden in there. Within recent years, even with the divorce, she had been able to stretch a pack out over the course of an entire week. She lit the smoke, a Nat Sherman, and inhaled it deeply. There were a few heart pounding seconds when the nicotine kicked in and she thought there was no way she would be able to walk into the building, to bear the sight of her sister and her dead mother in the same room. Then her pulse and her mood evened out.

The worst that could happen, she thought, was that things would go badly and she'd walk away. Again. And never see Maddalena again. It had already happened once, and she had lived through it. She had thrived as a matter of fact. Her marriage to Roger Vincent had, at least until the end, been a good one. It had been when Roger realized that they would never have children that things had gone downhill, and Violetta attributed that more to him than to herself. It was her body that was medically unable to have children, but why did they need children anyway? They had had a good life together, but sometimes things simply did not work out. She was disappointed, heartbroken even, but she would live on, like she always did. That was the way she was built. She was a survivor, and she would survive this day, too.

She took one last drag of the cigarette, then crushed it on the pavement. She entered the funeral home and saw the sign directing her to the proper room. A farewell to our mother and our friend, Rachel Braden Eastman.

When Violetta entered the room, it seemed to tunnel out before her, growing three times its length in a dizzying second. There at the end of it was the casket, where she could see only a pale hint of her mother's face. Standing before it, back to Violetta, was a tall, graceful form in a black dress. The nerves all came back to her in a moment, all converging in her knees, which she thought might buckle right there and then. She kept her composure and made her way across the room, which had mercifully shrunk back to regular size again.

She stepped up to the casket, beside her sister, and looked at her mother. Violetta's first reaction almost made her want to laugh. She thought her mother looked healthy. Except for being dead, that was.

'Hi, Letti.'

'Hey, Maddy.'

'She looks good, doesn't she?'

'I was thinking the same thing.'

Violetta glanced at her sister, only a short glance. It was, as she suspected, like glancing at herself. Her hair was shorter, shoulder length, and straight, not like her own long, wavy hair. But that seemed to be the only difference, even after twenty years. The only real surprise was a shock of stark white hair that ran down Maddy's brow, framing the right side of her face. Violetta had no gray hair at all, which she was thankful for, but that white hair made Maddy only look more dignified somehow. It added a kind of elegance that Violetta could only hope for.

'How do I look?' Maddy asked.

'Old.'

'You too.'

'Thanks.'

'I'm sorry to hear about Roger.'

Violetta turned to her to see if this was genuine. Maddy's face was grim and tired and not marked by any vindictiveness or sarcasm whatsoever. Her face, Violetta thought, was still beautiful.

'Thank you,' Violetta said.

'What happened?'

'I was... I can't have children.'

'Of course you can't, you're forty-two.'

This made Violetta chuckle slightly, and her laugh made Maddy laugh. Here they were, Violetta thought, the two estranged twin sisters, laughing in front of their mother's coffin.

'No, of course I can't now, but I couldn't years ago when we tried. My body was the barren wasteland every woman dreads. What about you?'

Maddy only shook her head, and Violetta took her meaning. And then, in a sudden flash of intuition, Violetta understood something else about her sister. Maddalena Eastman had never been with another man after they had been with Roger. After they had been together. And Violetta thought that even if what had happened did not happen, Maddy would never have been with another man anyway. Could she call her a lesbian? Maybe, but labels like that never quite suited Maddy. Maddy was not the kind of person to be made to choose outright. She would be in love with whomever she fell in love with. She was the kind of person to let her spirit choose for her, not necessarily her mind, or what society told her was right.

'Even if I had wanted children,' Maddy said, 'I wouldn't have had the time. With mother and the house. Have you been to the house?'

'I have.'

'Did you like what we did?'

'No.'

'Well, we can have a bitter fight over it later,' Maddy said rather casually, as if Violetta's answer did not bother her at all. 'Half of it will be yours now, after all.'

'I don't want it.'

'Think about it before you decide to give it up. It's a good business, at least. You might change your mind.'

'And what,' Violetta said, 'give up my job in L.A.? Come back here and run a bed and breakfast? A haunted bed and breakfast? You and I, a couple of old maids entertaining drifters and travelling salesman.'

'Is that really what you think I do? Like I'm some old whore bringing in people off the road so I can fuck them?'