Illustration by Paul Campbell © 2006
In Bluebeard's Castle
By Alison J. Littlewood © 2006
When Blaine left the company and the noise to sit at the kitchen table with me, I thought he was looking for the wine.
"Not watching, Jo?" He gestured toward the lounge where our hosts had put on a slasher flick. Judging by the screams, it was getting pretty gruesome.
"Not my kind of thing," I said. I smiled, attracted by the pale blue eyes that went so well with the fading light brown hair.
"No, you're right," I remember he said. "Some things shouldn't have an audience."
At the time, I didn't find it a strange thing to say.
Blaine wasn't handsome, having a slightly hooked nose and a scar that ran from the corner of one eye into his cheek, but he was athletic and confident. My friend Angela and I had talked of him, but it wasn't really him we spoke about; it was the cars he owned or the places he went. And living in a castle. Mostly, we talked about him living in a castle.
Blaine never seemed to think of such things, save for a single moment on our first date. After we drained the wine, he took out his wallet. It was a fat, bulging thing, a little worn at the seams.
"I really should sort this out," he said. "I never know how much is in here." Then he seemed embarrassed at making a statement so bald. "You know what it's like," he added, and threw the wallet down before heading for the bathroom. I stared at it a moment, wondering exactly how much cash a man like him carried around.
When he came back, he seemed surprised for a moment to see some notes already laid across the bill.
"We'll go Dutch," I said, in a voice that brooked no argument. The ease returned to his expression. He stared hard at the wallet, as though it could speak. Then he picked it up to pay his share; but not before removing a long hair that had settled across the top of it. It glistened for a moment in the candlelight; it looked blonde. The couple at the next table had short, wiry hair, dark and curled. I wondered where the sliver of blonde had come from. An ex, perhaps. But then I wondered, just for a moment, if he had put it there, a single hair that would tell a tale of snooping.
I never asked about Blaine's means, his roots. We chased enjoyment, eating, drinking, traveling, dancing, and his life revealed itself to me piece by slow piece. But the real object of my curiosity, the castle, wasn't revealed to me until later. Until I agreed to move in.
When Hartworth Castle came into view it seemed that two visions had drunkenly collided. It had battlements, towers, tall windows dressed in stone; but tinted sheet glass covered them. Beyond electronic security gates the impossibly large wooden doors were adorned with black studs, but backed by sliding steel rods.
I was still finding my way around when Blaine was called to the bedside of a sick uncle. "It's probably only a couple of weeks," he said. "And you needn't be alone. You could ask your friends to stay while I'm gone."
I clung to him and we made love before he left, him softly whispering my name in my ear.
Then he gave me the keys to the castle and showed me the labels, just small coloured dots of green and yellow to denote the first and second floor, a brown one for bedrooms. This house had so many doors, and so many of them locked. I found it is not possible to see so many keys without thinking of creeping figures wearing black and knives flashing in the night.
He saw my face. "Don't worry," he said. "You don't need to go in half of these rooms unless you want to. Actually, there is one that I'd rather you didn't go in."
"What?"
"Oh, it's nothing important. Family things, you know. But I'd rather you didn't go in there, all the same. The small room at the end of the corridor on the ground floor."
He selected a small key, an old key flaking with rust and marked with a single red dot.
"This is the one."
"Why show me the key if you don't want me to use it?" My voice became petulant. "Why even give it to me? This is your house, after all..."
He took my shoulders. "No, it's not." He said. "It's ours. But I'd just…prefer it if you didn't go in, that's all. It would be better that way."
He put the prickly bunch of keys into my hand.
"Please. I trust you." He pressed his lips hard to my forehead, and he was gone. I stood in the doorway, staring after him. Then I turned and looked toward the small wooden door that I had assumed to be a linen closet. But there was no time. An hour later Angela would be here, and I needed to prepare.
Later, I relaxed. We watched films together in the snug den, all soft sofas, fluffy cushions and warm yellow light from huge lamps. Angela had loved the place, as I knew she would. And as we turned key after key, exploring the high bedrooms together, pointing at chandeliers and opening musty drawers, I felt as though I loved it too. I felt proprietorial, protective, even while I fumbled with keys in the wrong doors. I didn't tell her about the rusted key until we were warmed by red wine and the open fire.
"You're kidding me. Let's look!" were her first words.
But I remembered the pleading look in his eyes and the kiss he pressed on me when he left, the kiss that had seemed just a little desperate.
"Oh, it's nothing," I said. "Probably where he keeps family papers, that's all. I don't want to pry."
Her forehead creased. "God, it's like that story. What is it. Bluebeard. A forbidden room, where his wife can't go. And if she does..."
I laughed. "Rubbish. Anyway, I can't look. He trusts me..."
"But what kind of trust is it that keeps secrets?"
I shrugged it off. But her words met something in me that couldn't help but agree.
The castle felt silent when Angela left, that brooding silence you sense when someone lies in wait behind a door. You listen, and you can almost hear them listening back.
When I went inside, entering the code that set the steel rods into place, it felt as though the castle were swallowing me whole. And then it struck me that Blaine hadn't even called.
I took the keys out of my bag, a spiky mass. One of them caught my palm and left a white scratch. Without looking, I knew which one it was; I took hold of the rusted key with its single red dot, like a drop of blood. I shook it free of the bunch and looked down the corridor towards the tiny wooden door. I imagined myself bending double to enter, unable to see where I was going, while something looked back.
Ridiculous. This place. How could it ever really be home if I was afraid? I pictured that last, fevered kiss, and brushed the thought away. When did you get to define what trust meant, I thought. Then I walked down the corridor, as though my mind was already made up.
Outside the door I bent to see if I could see through the keyhole, but all was dark. Then I slotted the key in, realising my hand was shaking as it rasped against the lock. I found myself looking round as though I were a naughty schoolgirl expecting to be caught. My house, I thought. Mine. Then I turned the key, hard, expecting it to stick; but it gave immediately, with a soft click that made me think of glassed-in offices.
Just lock it again, I thought. It's not too late. Then I pushed, gently, and the door swung inwards.
The light from the hallway only penetrated a couple of feet beyond the low doorframe. I ducked and edged forward, my hand up and twisted to feel for a switch on the wall. An irrational fear kept telling me to wait for a hand to fall on mine as I groped, but after a second I found the switch. Brilliant light flooded the room.
It was sterile and white. Row upon row of shelves lined the walls, and on them was row upon row of videotapes. But what the hell were they, that they had to be locked away like this? Blaine...I thought of his pale eyes that always looked to frank, so genuine. Surely he couldn't be into children, or snuff movies; he was so gentle, so kind. I could almost hear him whispering my name into my ear as I edged forward and read the names. Sheena. Emma. Caroline. Naomi. Women, all women's names, a tape for each. Bastard. What the hell was he playing at? Had he taped them having sex, in our room maybe? Had he been taping me ?
I looked further. There, in the corner, was a set of TV screens, and under one of them was a VCR. I caught up one of the tapes – Naomi – and pushed it into the slot. At once, the screen flickered into life.
It didn't seem like a bedroom scene, at all. A woman was there, in the kitchen, her back to the camera. She was cutting something, and when she turned, I could see an apron with pictures of vegetables on it. She smiled, a wide smile, but somehow fake.
"Blaine?" she said. "Blaine, what are you..."
Her eyes widened. Then she backed away, feeling along the range of stainless steel cupboards in her kitchen. My kitchen.
"Blaine, I didn't mean to look. I didn't mean anything..."
Still clutching at the edge of the units, she reached the corner. And stopped.
"I won't look again, Blaine. I won't. I won't tell. Please..."
She held out the knife, still clutched in her hand, and waved it wildly.
And then a hand appeared in the frame, a hand I knew, a strong, firm hand with light brown hairs. It too held a knife, a long, curved knife that would reach her long before she got near with her pitiful blade.
I looked back towards the door, as though it might close on me. But nothing moved except the flickering image on the screen where the hand fell, fell, and rose and fell while dark blood began to splatter, spraying the kitchen, running down the doors, running across the floor when Naomi fell, still looking with wide, pleading eyes as the light in them slowly drained away.
The tape stopped, whirred, and ejected itself. I just stared, eyes wide, hands clutched to my mouth, breath gasping over them, and shaking. Just standing and shaking.
I looked back at the tapes. Sarah. Jane. Therese. Aimee. So many tapes. So many. I yanked the tape back out and tried to stuff it back into its box. And then, another screen flickered into life.
A picture appeared, not grainy like the first but sharp. It showed a white room with rows of shelves in it. A figure stood in the centre. There was a soft whirr and her face appeared, close. Her eyes were open, staring, with a wild look like that of the woman I had just seen stabbed to death in my kitchen. No. Christ, no. It was me.
I scrabbled at the shelves, rows of gadgets metallic and blinking. I pushed buttons, pushed at them, hit them, crying and hitting. I wouldn't know until later how badly my hands were bruised.
Then, a sound. The telephone in the hall began to ring. I sank down to the floor and waited until the answering machine came on.
"Hi honey." The voice was so cheerful, so happy. "Just calling to let you know I'm done. Quicker than I thought! I'm on my way back..."
No. No. I went back to the units and realised the TV had a slot in its base. Finally, finally, it spat out a tape. A black tape, like the others, with 'Jo' written along the side. I put it in the VCR to check, just to make sure. That was it. It was mine, my tape. If I took it, if he didn't see, it would be all right.
But he would, I thought. He'd see the tape was gone and he'd know.
I grabbed the 'Naomi' tape again and started to scratch off the label. Half of it came off, half ripped and was left stuck to the tape, sticky now with glue. No. No, he'd see. I started to look around again, frantic. There – a box full of labels, fresh and white. I stuck one over the top, a little crooked. I grabbed a pen and wrote 'Jo' as steadily as I could. Then I pushed it into the machine. I looked around, seeing where I had been, checking for evidence, dirt off my shoes or a screen left on. I spaced out the tapes on the shelf a little where 'Naomi' had once stood. Then I switched off the light, edged backwards out of the door and looked around.
The telephone stood silent on a carved table. My coat hung on a hook on an ornate stand down the hall. There was nothing to see, nothing to hear. I turned back to the door and fitted the key in the lock. Then I hid the tape in my coat pocket.
As I walked away, I heard a car pulling onto the gravel.
I stood frozen in the hallway as the steel rods drew back, the soft whine insidious now. The door swung wide and a silhouette, the shape of the man I loved, entered his castle, arms open wide. I walked slowly into them, turning my face from his kiss.
"Darling," he said. "It's so good to be back." He ran a hand down my cheek and turned my face. I met his lips this time, then forced my own to smile.
"How have you been?"
"Great. I...I've been fine. Angela stayed with me. It was nice."
"I called just now. There was no answer. I thought maybe you were out..."
"Oh...I was. I mean, I just came in. I went for a walk."
He smiled, stroked my hair, and went to get his bags. He walked in front of me up the stairs, calling back over his shoulder. "Come on. I have a surprise for you."
I glanced at the door, standing wide open, then walked slowly after.
He headed for the bedroom, tossing his bags into the corner. I went again to his open arms. "Did I say how much I missed you?" He whispered into my hair, then began to stroke my back. After a moment he found the buttons on my blouse and started to undo them, one by one. He slipped his hands underneath the thin cotton and stroked.
"Blaine, I...I'll make you something to eat," I said, pulling back.
A look of doubt came into his eye. "I've got what I want right here," he said, pulling me down, pulling at my clothes, and I moved with him. And as we moved, he started to nuzzle my ear, to whisper that he loved me, and as he came, he said her name.
"Naomi." Just that, soft like a breath. Then again. "Naomi."
I froze, as he pulled away, laughing. "Now that was a welcome home." And he was gone again, down the stairs.
I ran to the window, even though I knew it was too high, the walls too sheer. I moved to the top of the stairway, listening hard. I couldn't hear him anywhere. Slowly, step by slow step, lifting my feet exaggerated and high, I descended.
The front door was locked. I ran to it and stabbed in my entry code. It beeped, impossibly loud. Nothing happened.
"Oh, your number has been rescinded, my love." His voice was high, hard. "This castle is mine again, it seems."
"Blaine." I wheeled and saw him behind me in the corridor. There was something over his face, a leather strap taut around his head, making his hair stand up in tufts. A black circle sat over one eye. An aperture contracted as it pulled me into focus.
Beneath the camera he looked gaunt with cold determination. His scar stood out clear and red against his pale flesh. He held out his hand. In it was the same long, carved dagger I had seen on the tape.
"Just like the others," he said. "I thought you were the one I could trust. The one who would be different. But no..." he swung the blade in practised curves as he walked.
I backed away, heading towards the only door I could reach, now; the kitchen. In my mind I saw its crisp modernity drenched in a woman's blood. I saw her backing away, hands empty and clutching. I saw her turn, smiling that fake smile, as she prepared a family meal, maintaining a semblance of domesticity. I saw her, chopping, a knife held in her hand.
I retreated until my back met with cold steel. I felt around it, fumbling with bruised hands. I started to back my way along the units.
"So appropriate you should choose the kitchen, dearest. But it's a pity you didn't watch some of the others first. Jess was particular fun; she tried to jump from the tower before I could get to her. I cut her throat across the battlement; very medieval. Worthy of Bluebeard himself, if I may say so. This was his castle once, you know. I'm surprised you didn't notice where her blood seeped into the stones..."
I felt along. One, two, three. Not far to go before I was backed into the corner.
"Gill was superb. She begged and begged. Then she screamed, like someone in one of those horror flicks you dislike so much. Really, I thought if ever I found someone who wouldn't look..." he dropped his knife to the first of the units and dragged it along the steel. Eeeeee....
Four. Five. I pushed, the drawer springing open to my touch. I put my hand in and forced myself to break eye contact while I felt for the handle I needed. The blade caught on the jumble inside as I pulled.
"Ooh, feisty. Yes, Naomi tried that. Not much use against this thing, unfortunately." He reached out, demonstrating the length of his arm, the size of the dagger, just as he had held it out to Naomi, as her eyes turned black with fear.
I threw. The hatchet turned, over and over, and I prayed it would hit him blade first, not the handle, not the handle.
It thudded into his chest. His white shirt, so thin, filled with red and clung to him, blood flowing into runnels and dripping.
He raised the dagger as though to throw it back, but it fell from his hand. He dropped to his knees, eyes still fixed on me, wide with pain and surprise.
Then he fell on his face, the hatchet clattering onto the hard tile and grinding further in with a ripping sound.
I stared as the pool edged forward. I stepped around it, leaning over and pulling on his arm. When I let go it slopped back into the wetness. He didn't look like the heir of a legend, the keeper of Bluebeard's castle. He was nothing but a man. A weak man, brought into this position by fortune or fate.
I bent and slipped, my knees falling into the mire. It soaked instantly through my trousers to the skin. The blood edged upward, clawing its way up the fabric.
I pulled his arm and dragged him over, propping him half against the cupboards. I found myself wondering for a moment how long it would take to scrub them clean again, restore their finish.
I pulled the hatchet from his flesh, hearing air escape through the hole I made. Then I picked up the dagger. It was curiously beautiful, carved with runnels and runes. The handle was stained dark, not with age and sweat, but with layer on layer of blood.
Soon, I would hang it in its rightful place; but not until it was clean again. The thought felt like mine, and yet not mine. And with it came a determination, a sense of lordship, of power, seeping up from the very stones. This place, his by chance, could be mine by right. All I had to do was bury him, carve up the flesh, turn it into pieces, into mince for the worms and the maggots to claim as their own.
So helpless. Just like those women, waiting while he helped himself to their deaths, so helpless.
When it was clean, when it was right, I would take the tape he meant for me and I would erase my name again. I would label it with his own and I would add it to those shelves, the ones he kept so tidy, so complete; but this time, his would be the first. For others would come, I knew that now. Men who wanted me. Men who were weak, who were devious, who wanted only to deceive and to take. Men who needed to be put to the test.
Men who would surely fail.
THE END
Alison J. Littlewood is from Wakefield, West Yorkshire, and writes catalogue copy and press releases for her day job. Since she began penning horror stories, her work has been featured in the BBC's Get Writing anthology (selected by Muriel Gray), Dark Fire Fiction, The Harrow and Prometheus Unhinged, and will be in the forthcoming Thou Shalt Not anthology from Dark Cloud Press.
