Page 4 of Enthralled

There’s blood on the paving stones.

A body crumpled.

A head rolling. Rolling.

Stopping.

I draw a sharp breath. Nausea rushes through me so viciously, I turn and vomit right there in the street. A few passersby cast me dirty looks and take care to put distance between themselves and me. No one stops to offer assistance; that simply isn’t how things are done on Clamor Street. For once I am grateful. I fish a handkerchief from my reticule and dab it to my mouth before turning to face the street again. The image is gone, both the moonlight and the gore. But it lingers in the back of my brain as I pick up my skirts and hurry on my way.

My footsteps slow against my will as I draw near the door of our house. It feels as though I’ve not been here for many years. Which can’t possibly be the truth. I live here with Oscar. Or do I? Danny said something about me working as a governess for some lord. Is that where I’ve been all this time? Trying to recall only makes my head swim, and the last thing I want is to vomit on my own doorstep. So I push those thoughts back, lift my chin, and knock sharply. No answer. I wait for a count of twenty, then knock again, this time calling out, “Oscar? Oscar, are you in?”

Perhaps he’s out for the day. At work? No, not Oscar. He’s never been able to hold down a job. If he’s out, it just means he never bothered to come home last night and is sleeping off an evening of debauchery in a ditch somewhere. I pinch my lips in a thin line. Without any real hope I try the doorknob. To my surprise, it gives. Oscar didn’t bother to lock up behind him. I suppose I can’t blame him—Dad sold off anything of value in the house long ago. Still I wish the boy would take more care.

I shiver as I step over the threshold. It’s a strange sensation, like tiny knives are cutting away the top layer of my skin. Like I’m stepping out of one reality and into another: the reality of my childhood, of a life lived in shadow and constant anxiety. Yes, there were moments of joy, companionship, laughter. But these were underscored by tension, by the knowledge that the embodied volcano living in our midst might erupt at any moment, for any reason.

Something in my soul rebels at the notion of reentering that space. But I force the feeling down and stride purposefully from the foyer into the conjoined kitchen and living room. It’s colder here than on the street. My gaze flicks to the empty hearth. When was the last time Oscar lit a fire? He’s so heedless of personal care. Which is why he needs me, why I should be here with him, why . . . why I would never leave him. Not willingly.

I cast my eyes about the shadowy room. A single beam of sunlight penetrates the window grime and gleams on the chipped skirts of Mama’s porcelain shepherdess on the mantel. Even faceless and battered, she is a familiar sight, and I find courage enough to raise my voice and call out, “Oscar? Oscar, are you here?”

A scraping sound overhead, followed by a crash of shattered glass. My heart jumps to my throat. Every instinct tells me to turn, to run, to get out of this place. A cloud passes by, and the sunbeam vanishes, filling the room with deeper shadows that writhe on the edges of my vision. Footsteps pound through the ceiling. I whip my head to one side, to the narrow stairwell. It’s dark—not even a shred of light illuminates beyond the first two steps. I stare at it like it’s a portal from the deepest hell, listening as those footsteps thud on the treads. Darkness seems to ripple around the doorway like smoke. I brace myself for whoever will emerge.

No one does. I blink several times, but the footsteps—which had seemed so near, so threatening and imminent—are simply gone. The cloud rolls on, and filtered sunlight fills the room again. The darkness in the stairwell eases. I can see the treads leading up to the next floor. Slowly I make my way to the bottom of the stairs. “Oscar?” I call. “Please, answer me.”

Nothing. But he’s here. I know it. So I climb the stairs, one hand lifting the hem of my skirt, the other pressed against the too-close wall for support. Emerging on the upper floor, I look around at the small landing and the trio of doors. My room. Dad’s. And Oscar’s, the smallest chamber with the steeply slanted ceiling and tiny windows with their leaded glass panes. He should have moved out of it by now, should have claimed one of the larger bedrooms instead. But he hasn’t. He remains as he always has been.

The stench of strong liquor stings my nostrils. His door is partially open, and I push it wider. Glass crunches beneath my boot. I look down to see the dirty tumbler shattered underfoot, as though it had just been thrown at the door. I lift my head, fix my gaze on the hunchbacked figure crouched at the little desk beneath the window. Papers, ink, pen-trimmings, and broken quills litter the space all around him, along with empty bottles, upturned glasses, a pipe, and the stumpy ends of cigarettes.

“Oscar?” I say quietly.

He doesn’t react. He sits in a pool of morning light, writing furiously, as though all the words of a lifetime are even now flooding his system and must be purged before he explodes. I’ve seen him like this before, recognize the manic frenzy that every so often comes over my otherwise indolent brother. Despite the glow surrounding him, the shadows beneath his desk are deep and seem to writhe with the energy of his creative force.

Licking my lips, I step closer. Something on the bed catches my eye, however, freezing me in place. It’s a stack of magazines, twenty at least. I recognize the title, the familiar ornate script ofThe Starlin,the premier literary magazine in the city. Dad’s old publisher. And there, just under the main title is another, set in Gothic script:

THE HOLLOW MAN

Written by Oscar Darlington

I suck in a breath. For a moment my mind tries to reshape those words, to transform them into another name:Edgar.Edgar Darlington. That’s the name that should be emblazoned across the front page ofThe Starlin. That’s the name I grew up seeing on every month’s issue for years. But though I squeeze my eyes shut, shake my head, and look again, the letters will not morph into their correct shape.Oscar,they read irrevocably.Oscar Darlington.

With a wordless cry, I snatch the topmost magazine from the stack, flip to page twelve, and begin to read, heedless of my surroundings, heedless even of my brother at his desk. My pulse quickens as the words capture and absorb me, as the story drags me into its depths. It’s a dark tale. A tale of obsession, violence, and possession. A tale of horror without end, passed on from one generation to the next. I come to the last page, the last sentence, the last word, knowing full well this story is but a brief glimpse of one much older, much longer. A story which has been playing out since before I first drew breath and will continue long after I’ve gone to my grave. The curse of the Hollow Man, a dark inheritance. Inescapable as death.

Slowly, my fingers still white-knuckled as they grip the pages, I lower the magazine from my face. Oscar has stopped writing. He’s turned in his chair and leans back, one elbow propped on the desk as he watches me read his work. His expression is closed, an enigmatic mask.

“So, Clara,” he says, breaking the silence at long last. “I did it. I wrote a hit.”

I feel faint. Wordless, I sit down on the edge of his bed. The rest of the stack tips. The magazines make a soft shushing noise as they slide across his rumpled quilt.

Oscar reaches behind him and plucks a stack of glossy pages from the paper spike nearly lost amid the rest of the debris on his desk. He hands them to me. I accept them numbly, my eyes glazing slightly as I read the words printed on each one: reviews from every major critic in the city and across the country. All raving, all effusive in their praise of Oscar’s prose, of his grasp of the genre, his themes, his symbolism, his creative courage. But most notable is the one phrase that every reviewer repeats in one form or another:

“Oscar Darlington has done the impossible, surpassing the scope of his late father’s hitherto unmatched talent.”

“Edgar Darlington has finally found a worthy successor in the pure, unfettered genius of his own son, Oscar.”

“The son has eclipsed the father.”

Over and over again with unrestrained floridity, the same idea: Edgar’s sun has set; Oscar’s star is on the rise. And all due to the success of a single story, if one were to believe the word of these fawning critics. The most unbelievable part? I agree with them. I have read every one of our father’s works multiple times over.The Hollow Manbeats them all. Written from the very depths of a wracked and battered heart. Unashamed and unpretentious. A true work of art.

“Oscar,” I breathe, “this is . . . incredible.” Tears spill through my lashes and trail down my cheeks. This is his dream come true, his darkest, most desperate dream. I laugh, shaking my head. “I can’t believe it.”

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