Audrey’s Door (31 page)

A dial tone!

She reached into the pocket of her sweat suit. A piece of paper. Her instincts told her to do this: she no longer remembered why. She dialed the number on the card. An answering machine. She didn’t listen to the message, or remember why. Just spoke after the beep. “Hi. They’re trying to kill me, and I found this card. My name is Audrey Lucas.”

Hung up. Dialed a number from memory, didn’t know whose. Machine picked up. Was it late? Early morning? “Hi. They’re trying to kill me. My name is Audrey Lucas.”

Found a Post-it in her pocket. Dialed the number written there. Behind her in the hall, she heard the
click-clack
of high heels. Ringing, ringing. The phone picked up, but no one answered. “Hello? Hello?” she called. “Please help me. I’m—” then she remembered, “At The Breviary—510 West 110
^th
Street, fourteenth floor. Please!”

But no one answered. Far away, two people talked on the other line. They didn’t hear her!

Behind her, the tenants had arrived. Galton, unmasked. His lone eye glared. Loretta. Marty. The naked man. Evvie. The party, too. Still holding cocktails. So drunk they swayed, staggered, and crawled.

She watched, panting. Her breath was as heavy as syrup.

On two, three, and four legs, they advanced. They clogged the hall with their bodies. Arms and legs and torsos, indistinguishable as clumped insects. Their eyes had all gone black. It was The Breviary coming for her. The Breviary never lets anyone out.

She squeezed the receiver. Someone spoke on the other line:
who is this?
The tenants got closer. “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!” Loretta clapped.

This was happening…This was happening?

“Who let her out? Marty, did you let her out?” Loretta asked. Her feet were a puddle of blood. They clacked as she walked, full of doll shrapnel.

Audrey remembered the key in her mouth. They’d take it if they could. But, two inches long and jagged on one end, was it too big to swallow? Then again, if worse came to worst and she died, at least she couldn’t build their damn door.

She swallowed. It got stuck. Swallowed again. It tore her throat and lodged inside the wound. She breathed, and air whistled.

They came closer.

And then, on the phone:
Tell me who you are!
It was Jill. She’d called Jill!

She swallowed and lifted the phone to her ear. The key went down, cutting its jagged way along her esophagus. “Hh-hh-help!” she cried.

Loretta pulled the phone from her hand. “I’m Audrey Lucas. I need help!” she shouted, just as Loretta ripped the wire from the jack.

W
ith hands reaching high over their heads, they played light as a feather. Carried her back to 14B and in their fine, tattered clothes, filled her den.

“Build the door!” Loretta screeched.
Clop-clop!
Her feet were porcelain castanets.

The key cut its cold way down her throat. She coughed blood and wiped it with the back of her hand so they didn’t see, then sputtered, “Build it yourself!”

“Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!” Loretta screeched. “I’ll scratch your face!”

And then, in the den, Audrey saw what in her sleep state, she’d missed. Her work was almost done. It wasn’t shaped like a normal door anymore. Its edges were curved, and it was thicker in the center than at its base. It defied conventional engineering, but she could see that it was strong, and like The Breviary itself, so
long as she built a proper frame, would hold. This time, none of the labels were hidden: PALMOLIVE, SERVITUS, PFIZER, HAMMERHEAD, UNITED CHINESE EMIRATES. They’d been cut and taped so that the entire front of the door was riddled with nonsense letters, like English converted into babble.

The hole she’d made for a handle hung only two feet off the ground, as if, when the thing on the other side finally came through, it would not walk but slither. Along the door’s perimeter, letters had been cut from the boxes to form a single, repeated phrase:

Abandon Hope. All Ye Who Enter Here

They laid her on the air mattress. “Finish it yourself,” she said.

Martin’s voice was low, but no one spoke above it. “We can’t. You’re the one who can make it sturdy enough to hold. Every time we’ve tried has been a failure.”

“What’s on the other side?”

The tenants began to chatter among themselves. Gleeful and twittering. Their time in The Breviary had made them hive-minded. A few, too drunk to stand, were crawling on their hands and knees. Martin blinked his lashless eyes. He’d neglected his eyeliner, possibly because his Parkinson’s today was especially severe: he couldn’t stop shaking. Then she realized, it wasn’t Parkinson’s. He was terrified.

“My wife is on the other side!” Galton cried. “She says she’s coming back to me.”

“The Breviary promised me a pony,” the woman with heavy gold chains announced. “Only it’s a Pegasus and a unicorn, so I can fly and teleport.”

“You’re an asshole, Sally.” Loretta giggled.

“No, no. It’s hell that’s behind the door,” the good, naked doctor said with a smile, like he was talking about Florida.

“We have no idea what will happen when it opens,” Martin said. “But The Breviary wants it, so we want it, too.”

“And Schermerhorn, what is he?” she asked.

Marty nodded. “He died a long time ago. The Breviary wears his face.”

That was when Loretta pointed at him. “You let her out, didn’t you? Fed her that sandwich even though you
know
how much I like tuna fish! Oh, Martin. The simpleton redhead scrambled your brain!”

Martin looked down at his worn-out Hickey Freeman suit, circa 1975, and sighed.

“It was him!” Loretta shouted.

They rallied, and drunkenly shoved him down the hall. A slow-motion shuffle all the way out of 14B. She heard a
click
as they locked her inside, which was soon followed by a low-pitched scream. The sound was cut short, and she knew that Martin, her last ticket out of this madhouse, was dead.

Y
ou don’t have an address in your files?” Jill asked. Collier Steadman’s office was a wild assortment of bat-shit nuts. He’d rummaged through street-side trash for his decorative cast-iron plates, which he’d colored over in crayon and used to adorn his file cabinets. Instead of taking photos of his prize-winning terrier poodles, he’d snapped their shadow-images, then blown them up human-sized and hung them along his office walls, so the place looked like a forest of giant poodles.

Collier had been working at Vesuvius since he’d graduated from the Fine Arts Acting Program at Yale, and was now in his fifties. A decade ago, Jill had gone to one of his plays. Ten men who were supposed to represent different aspects of a person’s psyche had shouted at one another on a darkened stage. The denouement came when they’d hurled their own excrement in all
directions, which, fortunately for the front row, had turned out to be half-cooked brownie batter.

“Fascinating,” she’d told him the following Monday. “Really brought me to a place I wasn’t expecting to go.”

His eyes got watery with crazy intensity, like he’d decided they were kindred spirits. “Most people can’t handle that kind of emotional honesty. Darling, it’s you and me against the heathens.” As he spoke, the poodles had suddenly loomed too large behind him, like he’d been about to get devoured.

Ever since, Collier had always put her requests at the top of his pile. She hadn’t worked the day after Thanksgiving in ten years. Schlock Jock or not, that secured for him a special place in her heart.

“Have you tried calling her?” he asked. This evening, Collier looked worse for wear. His skin was waxy, and when he’d leaned over to wave her into his office, he’d dipped the bottom of his pink geometric-patterned tie into his coffee. He was working on a new play set to debut in Bushwick, Brooklyn. A reimagining of
Our Town
with an all-midget cast.

“I’ve tried her cell, but she’s not answering. And the landline I have for her—it’s some guy’s voice on the machine. Her ex-boyfriend, I think. He hasn’t called me back, either. Is it possible she moved?”

Frowning, to let her know what he was doing was against company policy, Collier opened Audrey’s file. “It says here that she’s on 93
^rd
and York. I’ve got the same landline number you do.”

Jill sighed. After coming home from Around the Clock this morning, she and Tom had made breakfast for the boys. Then they’d all gone to a movie, passing popcorn and large sodas down the long line. They’d even taken Markus’ boyfriend Charlie. He’d been grateful as Oliver Twist for the free popcorn, which had prompted her to do something completely un-Jill, and hug him. The slender, nervous boy had hugged her back with all
his might, like it was the first time in his life anyone had ever approved of him, which had elicited something even more un-Jill. She’d broken down right in front of the Sutton Theatre. Suddenly, Tom had been holding her, and then Markus, and Clemson, while troubled Xavier had stood a little back. Group hug, they’d all cried, and then, feeling foolish, laughed. A minute or two after that, they’d let go. They went back to the apartment, feeling daunted by such gaudy emotion, but also less bereft.

A few times during the morning and afternoon, she’d called Audrey’s cell phone and office phone. Finally, she’d called Bethy in reception and learned that Audrey hadn’t been to work in over a week.

That was when she’d told Tom to hold dinner and hailed a taxi. It was after six on Tuesday by the time she got to Vesuvius, and she’d caught Collier just as he’d been putting on his coat. Perhaps even more alarming than Audrey’s disappearance, he’d also carried two small denim jackets as gifts for his poodles. Before he’d looked up Audrey’s address, he’d made her admire their fine embroidery. “Stunning,” she’d told him, and she’d meant it.

Now, Collier flipped through Audrey’s file. “No other addresses. Emergency contact is…Betty Lucas, at the Nebraska State Psychiatric Hospital.”

Jill rubbed her temples. “Psychiatric hospital? That explains a lot.”

Collier pressed his head back into his neck like a turtle, and she got the feeling she’d insulted him. “Audrey? She’s fabulous. Only one of your team who doesn’t fudge her overtime.”

Jill nodded. “She’s a lovely woman. It still explains some things. Her mother’s in a coma, though. I doubt she’ll be very helpful.”

Collier rapped his pen against Audrey’s file. “I don’t know what else to do, then.”

Jill sighed. “Something’s wrong. I’m sure of it. You should have heard her voice. She sounded so frightened. And when I saw her last week, she wasn’t herself. You know how she’s always alert, paying attention—you never have to tell her anything twice? Well, last Monday, she was a zombie. Don’t repeat this to anyone else in the office, please, but I thought she might be stoned.”

Collier looked down at the file for a long while, and Jill considered thanking him for his time, washing her hands of this strange business, and heading home, where her life had its own worries. Only, she’d failed Julian not long ago. If she lived another hundred years, she’d never forgive herself for not holding his hand as he took his last breath. If she could help it, she didn’t plan on failing anyone else.

Just then, Collier dialed the hospital in Nebraska. “I have an idea,” he said, then into the phone when the line connected, “Can I speak with the billing department?”

Jill waited, stunned by Collier’s hitherto unimagined deviousness. “Yes. Hello,” he said. “I’m Ms. Audrey Lucas’ accountant, your patient Betty Lucas’ legal guardian. I wanted to make sure you’ve got her proper address. She’ll of course pay what she owes, but she hasn’t received any bills.” He shrugged at Jill as they both waited. Then picked up a pen. “Yes, 510 West 110
^th
Street. #14B. That’s right, just a cell phone. No landline. Exactly correct. Thanks for your time.”

What surprised Jill most after he hung up the phone was what he did next. He put his hand over hers, like he was prepared to miss the dress rehearsal for his play, prepared not to feed the dogs for another few hours, all for a woman he knew tangentially, between the hours of nine and seven. Sometimes people surprise you in good ways. “What should we do?” he asked.

She toyed with the idea. It seemed excessive. And yet.

“Call the police, yes?” Collier asked.

She nodded. “Yes.”

T
uesday afternoon. Eight days trapped in 14B. Nobody had come to find her. Not her office, not her boss, not even Saraub. That kind of neglect leaves a girl feeling less than swell.

Schermerhorn played the piano while Audrey rested. Cocktail-hour entertainment! She’d had a long morning. Her back ached. Arms, too. She’d worked fast since they’d killed Marty. Often, her fingers had moved without her knowledge.

The tune Schermerhorn played was familiar: “Heart and Soul. I beg to be Adored…And Tumbled Overboard!” It reminded her of a Harold Arlen song, and now she remembered why his voice seemed so familiar. The accent wasn’t British—just rich WASP Connecticut, like his jaw couldn’t move more than half an inch in either direction. It was the same man who’d answered the line when she’d called to view the apartment. She’d spoken directly to the building itself.

“Build the door, Audrey!” Schermerhorn cheered. She looked over at her creation. Glued to the cardboard were the shredded trappings of her old life; clothes, the Parkside Plaza plans from the hall, and her air mattress sliced to plastic strips. They fit like flaking skin so that all that remained was the caution:

Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here

From the hole in the floor, she’d sawed two sets of two-by-four supporting beams to keep the door from tumbling over. The entire den now sagged, and pretty soon, she expected that it would collapse into 13B.

Ants swarmed the rotten hole and walls. They didn’t bite, even though she kept expecting them to. Instead, they circled in and out against the door, like an ocean tide.

“I beg to be adored!” Schermerhorn cried. His skin had sloughed from his bones, and in places, she could see his skeleton. He laughed so hard that tears fell as he sang, like maybe The Breviary itself had gone mad.

Audrey sat on the turret ledge of the empty room. Black-and-white Betty sat next to her. A trick. Not her real mother. But company, just the same. The television blared an old sitcom about single friends living in Manhattan. Betty giggled along with the canned laughter, while the ghosts of The Breviary lined the walls of the den. Each with noose marks, or broken skulls. Bloated faces from drowning underwater. Maybe they hadn’t wanted to build doors, either.

“Finish it, my lovely!” Schermerhorn sang.

Audrey looked at the rebar, then the piano. The door needed a solid frame, of course. Something firm, like satinwood. Otherwise, it wouldn’t hold for long enough before it collapsed…Long enough for what?

She answered her own question:
Silly girl. Long enough for the monsters to climb through!

At the piano, Schermerhorn cried and laughed. “I fell in love with you, MADLY!” while next to him, the ghosts of The Breviary watched. Some smiling, some seeming themselves, haunted.

What time was it? Afternoon? Morning? Her eyes were heavy, and she knew tonight, when she fell asleep, that The Breviary would consume her, and she’d finish the job.

And what then?

Saraub would come. The last piece of this puzzle. Maybe Loretta would call him and pretend to be a concerned neighbor. Maybe by then, she’d have no control, and she’d call him herself. Either way, once he heard that she needed his help, he’d come running. She would murder him. Skin his flesh from his bones. The door would open then and set something terrible free.

She stood. Thought about tearing down the door, but knew she’d only build it again tonight, and by tomorrow, she’d be too weak to resist.

She tried to push open the turret window, but it was stuck. Betty laughed while somebody on the television broke up with another boyfriend because he looked bad bald. The children howled. They’d been howling for days.

Out the window on 110
^th
Street, groups and couples meandered, and the M60 bus cruised toward the Triborough Bridge. She wrapped the sleeve of Clara’s sweatshirt around her hand, then smashed a small, lead-fluted windowpane. “Help me! I’m in 14B!” she shouted, but her voice by now was so hoarse that no one heard.

She pulled one of the shards from the broken pane, a perfectly preserved stained-glass bird, and sat next to black-and-white Betty. She pressed the glass to her wrist. The bird’s red eyes watched. “What should I do?” she asked her mother, not mother.

Betty’s eyes moved in her direction, but the rest of her
was still. On the television, the friends sang a plucky tune at a local coffee shop: isn’t life grand?

“Build the door, baby,” Betty said. Her mouth didn’t move, only her eyes.

Audrey traced her old scars with the sharp point of the bird’s beak. Schermerhorn played louder. She tried to make herself want this. For Saraub’s sake, for her own, for the innocents of The Breviary, if there were any.

She closed her eyes, remembered the last time she’d done this. That feeling of freedom, and floating. Watching yourself drift as the water turns pink. It came back to her now, that girl in tan coveralls that she used to be. She was that girl again. Greasy and hungry and useless.

Schermerhorn played louder. The ghosts moaned. The living tenants had gathered in 14A and 14C, and now banged against her walls. The sound reminded her of childhood: bill collectors; angry boyfriends; a manic mother.

The edges of her bird’s-eye glass were sharp, but she didn’t think the cut would be clean. She pushed hard and broke her callused skin. A tiny scrape. Her scars were already so thick.

“Bitch!” Schermerhorn shouted. He stopped playing and glared. The ghosts wailed. The tenants revolted, pounding so hard that the walls shook.

Her blood beaded. Small droplets thin as dew. “I never stopped bleeding,” she whispered.

“I’ll take care of you, Audrey,” black-and-white Betty crooned without moving her lips. “Trust me. Build the door.”

Audrey looked at her hands and wrists. She was sick of scars. Her body had endured so many of them. She was still that girl in coveralls, ugly and invisible. Naïve and too trusting. Easily used. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe that girl was the real Audrey. And all these trappings of her adult life: the cleaning, the nervousness, the hostility, the biting at people she
loved most, maybe they were the scars that made the woman shine less bright.

She knew she ought to end this. Thwart The Breviary while she was still in possession of her faculties and had the chance. It would give her pleasure to see the tenants’ crestfallen faces and hear The Breviary shriek as she gasped her last breath, and the door went unopened. But neither the old Audrey nor the scarred one was the type to give up. Even in that tub more than twenty years ago, she’d not been frightened or relieved as she’d stood from the pink water and bandaged her wrists with masking tape, but disgusted: how dare she treat herself so cheaply?

She closed her eyes, and in her mind, whispered, “What do I do? Dear God, what do I do?”

Just then, her groin cramped. She doubled over from the pain and remembered that she’d swallowed the key.