It was a chilly day, this thirty-first of October, in the year of somebody’s Lord 1996. The few spindly trees that managed to grow within the concrete fields of the city had already lost their leaves to the wind or pollution or both. The nighttime darkness spread over the streets like a dense fog, broken up only by yellow streetlights.
I sat in a cab, huddled in my father’s old brown overcoat. The driver hummed along to the radio as we sped along the streets. I was heading to a party at an underground Goth club. Not of my own free will, of course. The magazine was launching an online site and wanted an unusual story. From the brilliant mind of my boss came the idea to do a story on the Goth club subculture. Out of everyone else in the office, I got picked for the assignment.
As the club I was heading to was having a big Halloween bash tonight, I had to get dressed up. Not just regular wear-as-much-black-as-you-can-and-come-as-a-corpse Goth dress, but Halloween Goth dress. So the fashion editor and one of the interns put together an outfit for me. Under my overcoat was a tight short shiny silver dress, black knee-high boots, and silver body paint. My hair was streaked with purple and blue and elaborately braided. They had toyed with getting me a set of custom-made fangs, but I had rebelled at that. I figured that everyone there was already going to be dressed as a vampire. The intern had said that if anyone asked what I was, to tell them I was a succubus.
Ha.
The cab pulled up to what can only be described as a hole-in-the-wall. A large bouncer was doing ID checks for a large, bizarrely-dressed line of individuals. A sign above the large cathedral-style wooded door named this place “The Belfrey”.
I paid the cab driver and got behind a girl with blue Pippi Longstocking braids and a torn black dress. Her face was made up like a demented Raggedy Ann doll. Attractive. She was talking to a pale-faced, dark haired boy who looked half dead. And maybe he was.
I got past the bouncer (yes, I got carded) and made my way into the club. I got my bracelet, checked my coat, and discovered the fatal flaw in my costume—no pockets to keep my tape recorder or even a pencil and paper. I had already stuffed some money securely into my bra, and as this dress was tight, there wasn’t room for much else. I palmed the recorder and headed for the bathroom.
The bathroom was as bad as I had expected. The stalls were covered with nearly illegible, profane graffiti. Women in their late teens and early twenties were crawling all over it, fixing makeup, puffing on joints right underneath the “No Smoking” sign. One girl was sitting on the floor in the corner with her sleeve rolled up and a needle jammed in her arm. All the women dressed up; one as a Gothic Cleopatra, a few vampire girls, a zombie, some unidentifiables.
I darted into one of the stalls. It was of course filthy, but I wasn’t planning on using it for its intended purpose. I turned on the recorder’s voice-activator, set it to low, and shoved it in between my cleavage. It hurt, but it didn’t bulge. I left the stall and managed to claw my way to the mirror. You couldn’t see anything. And at that setting, I would have to be next to somebody talking for it to start recording. I hoped.
I finally found my way to the club proper. It was, as I had expected, crowded. I got my bearings before I took in details. The club consisted of four rooms, each with its own atmosphere. The main room held the bar, a dance floor, tables, and comfortable-looking, mostly-occupied blood-red velvet couches situated around the walls. The music was loud and, to me, incomprehensible. The room off to the left was completely dark and filled with fog, with the exception of a set of stage lights with automatic gels that moved and changed color along to the music. The colors bouncing off the fog, coupled with a dark, sensual melody that electrified me as much as it grated on my ear, made a truly eerie effect. The third room was simply a disco, columns surrounding the colored dance floor that pounded with a goth-techno type beat. The last room was a sort of supplementary bar area, where a black-garbed, dark-haired, white-makeup-faced band was setting up or taking down equipment. I returned to the main room.
As I had said, the place was crowded. Costumes ranging from the sweet to the grotesque were draped upon individuals who encapsulated the same wide range. Some men and women were sitting on the couches chatting in groups or at the bar; most others were dancing in pairs or groups, their bodies twisting rhythmically. A woman dressed as a nurse was working the room, offering shots of green liquor out of test tubes for a dollar a pop. If the person wanted a second shot, she refilled their tube from an IV bag on a pole she toted around with her. Nice.
I found a seat at the bar. It provided me an opportunity to talk to a bartender about this place, as well as a drink. The bartender was dressed up also, of course, as a knight. He even wore chainmail and all the trappings. He was fairly good looking: tall, well-built, long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, earring, dark beard and eyes, and a sly grin. He said his name was John. I ordered a drink and proceeded to chat (okay, flirt, but it worked) with him. Because of the loudness of the music, it was difficult to hear each other unless we were in very close proximity; it also would have been difficult for me to tape the conversation otherwise. I don’t think he minded. I managed to get a few details out of him. I brought up the girl I had seen in the bathroom, the needle in her arm. He shrugged.
“It happens. We don’t like it, but it does. Only problem is when they OD in there. But we’re not legally held responsible.”
As this highly informative conversation continued, I felt a pair of eyes fix on me. A woman dressed and painted completely in gray was approaching. She coughed politely as she reached my side. I turned to her. I realized that the gray paint on her skin was textured to resemble stone; she must have been wearing special contact lenses, because her eyes—even the whites—seemed to be of stone as well. She was wearing a toga of stiff material. Apparently, she had decided to go as a statue of some kind. She was extraordinarily beautiful, in any case; and her costume was amazing. If I hadn’t seen her move, I wouldn’t have believed her alive.
“Yes?”
“My friend over there—“ She gestured to a dark table in the corner, “Was wondering if you would like to have a drink with him.”
I strained my eyes to see. A tall shadowy figure sat alone at a table. He must have been wearing a headpiece, because his hair extended well above his head.
I turned to John. He grinned and gave me a nudge. Because he was one of my sources now (unwitting or not), he was completely out of bounds for me romantically. Shame, too, because I did find him attractive. Not that he would have felt the same way, of course, but fantasies are interesting. And it was Halloween, after all. Your true nature is supposed to be disguised, to hide from the demons without.
Why not try a new Dagny for one night?
I turned to the woman and nodded. “Sure.”
“Follow me,” she said.
I made my way through the crowds to the table. There I was met with a disquieting sight. A man, face twisted with what I hoped were prosthetics, skin green, dressed in a golden tunic. That wasn’t so bad. It was then I realized what headpiece he was wearing.
Instead of hair, the man had living snakes coming out of his head.
I shook myself mentally. Of course they couldn’t be real! But they moved individually, twisting and writhing around each other, flicking their tongues and brandishing their fangs. They didn’t look like plastic, or rubber. They looked like real snakes. And as I got closer, they really looked like they were really attached to his head like hair.
Either this guy had a fabulous makeup artist from Industrial Light and Magic, or--
“Good evening,” he said in a perfectly normal voice. His face remained serious.
I remained standing. “Good evening to you.”
“Won’t you have a seat?” he asked, indicating the empty chair. I looked around for the statue-girl. She was gone. “Thanks,” I replied.
The man studied me, the snakes curving and writhing in the air like hungry baby birds. They were emerald green, with dead black eyes. It was frightening, and I’m not normally one who is frightened. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
He brought me out of my fascinated stare. “Haven’t we met before?” he said, unemotionally.
“Can’t you think of a better line than that?” I asked with a twist of my mouth.
A small smile. “No, really. Somewhere around Mount Kolvir, perhaps? I seem to remember your name as Florimel.”
“Nope. Sorry. Wrong person.” I rose to leave.
“Evelyn, then!” he said. “Whatever you are calling yourself these days and in this place.”
“Look, you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else. I don’t know a Florimel or an Evelyn. And I’ve got better things to do than be yelled at by a Medusa wanna-be.” I turned to go. Imagine my surprise when I found the statue-girl standing directly in my path, about half a foot in front of me. It was enough to startle my senses. I got the connection between their costumes then.
“My friend is sorry,” she said. “He doesn’t mean to be rude.” They exchanged a glance. “It’s just that you look like someone we used to know. But of course, you’re not her, I see that now. Many apologizes.”
The Gorgon-man regained his composure. “Yes, madame, I am sorry. At least let me buy you a drink to apologize.”
I gave them both a hard look. “No thanks,” I spat out, and strode away.
I spent the rest of the night working the four rooms, getting information for my story. I even interviewed the band that had been setting up earlier. After my altercation, the Gorgon and his statuesque prey must have left, because I did not see either of them for the rest of the night. I did, however, have a pleasant little interlude with John the bartender, who came to dance with me in the deserted fog room. He must have been terribly bored behind that counter all night. But the dark music of that room touched a part of my soul this Halloween, and our bodies pressed close as often as they could, as the melody carried us on a twinned spiral to depths where dance and music and sex were one, warm and primal and sensual.
I left the club alone early the next morning, before dawn broke. There were still people there, of course. John had grinned at me as I grabbed my coat. I don’t think he expected anything else to come of this either, but it had been fun.
I walked a few blocks before I managed to hail a cab. Safely inside, I pulled my tape recorder out of my cleavage. Good, the whole tape hadn’t run out. That meant that it had probably worked the way I had hoped.
I bade the driver to let me off on my corner. The sky was lightening, and we were on the wrong end of the one-way. I took in the fresh cold morning air as I walked. People were already about this morning, walking dogs and jogging.
As I entered my building, I heard a strangely familiar male voice behind me say distinctly, “Good night, Princess of Amber, daughter of Chaos.”
I turned slowly and looked around me. Nobody was there except for a woman walking a German Shepherd, and a mother and daughter walking hand-in-hand. No men, and certainly nobody I recognized.
I shook my head. Strange things were bound to happen in this town. My head whirling from the previous night, my heavy feet strode upstairs, where I collapsed, dress, makeup, and all, on my living room couch--