You wouldn’t have noticed it if you weren’t searching for it. That was exactly the idea.
The instructions from my embroidery group were simple: After nightfall, walk past the bakery to the second lane, look for the unlit lamppost, then turn into the dark alley, spoken in hushed tones as the pianist suddenly played louder, by coincidence. Then you’ll find a moss-covered stone staircase, descend it, and at the bottom, a dim hallway awaits. She lives through the green doors on the left.
The doors are tall, French-style, like my husband’s mistress, but weathered and peeling. Once, they were a beautiful shade of emerald, though now, that color is mostly in small, scattered flakes on the cobblestones. I hesitate, but reach for the rusted copper handle with feigned confidence. It turns easily. A small bell rings, its sound echoing.
"Welcome."
On the posters, she’s grotesque, an example of how time and sin sour a person. In person, though, she has a kind of enduring beauty you can’t look away from.
“Come in, darling. Don’t be shy. Contrary to what they say, I don’t bite. Though I can’t say that nothing here does.”
Her voice is like a wind chime, soft and melodic, floating just above the crash of her words. I wonder if I stay too long, whether that voice might pull me into the deep sea. Or perhaps that only works on men, like in the myths.
“Take a seat, love. Yes, that’s perfect. Would you like a cup of tea? It’s never too late for tea, is it? I myself enjoy it late into the night, but perhaps you were raised more properly. Here.”
The cup is warm, not hot. If she noticed my trembling hands as I reach for it, she says nothing. It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the warm light inside, a sharp contrast to the dark street.
Among her many talents, interior decorating is not one of them. The shabby wooden walls are bare, save for a collection of faded newspaper clippings from her anonymous career. Obituaries, mostly. A tattered blue curtain with tassels separates part of the room behind her armchair. Oddly painted shelves hold books and strange bottles I’m reluctant to focus on. Had she not earned other, more colorful nicknames, people would have called her a witch for her oddities. The only item of real value is the heavy, ornate gold watch on her slender wrist. The kind of watch a petty thief might covet if it gleamed under a sleeve in the street. She catches my gaze and smiles thinly, lifting her arm to eye level.
"Isn’t it beautiful? It was my first husband’s. On the tenth anniversary of his death, I’m going to smash it and melt the gold into a necklace for myself. I think I deserve a gift from him, don’t you?"
Her laugh makes my skin crawl, but my curiosity keeps me from turning away. I offer my condolences for her husband's death.
“Oh, darling, don’t be sorry he’s dead. The best thing he ever did was inspire my charity work. I haven’t always done this. Once, I was an actress..a leading lady of the stage. Men came from all over just to see me. I was beautiful then. After shows, they’d approach me, usually drunk, complimenting my dress or what was beneath it, asking for a kiss or a drink..or a night. Sometimes, they didn’t ask at all. My husband didn’t become my husband because he asked. No, he damaged me, and he had enough money to get away with it. He was clever enough to know that marriage was my only option.”
She smooths the skirt of her maroon dress, looking at me with a solemn expression I can’t quite read. It’s easy to believe she was once the most sought-after woman in town. Her face, though aging, is smooth, almost porcelain-like. Her hair is twisted into a dark crown atop her head, secured with metallic pins. Her eyes like a cat’s, but not a house cat..are predatory, like those of a tiger who’s been hungry for far too long. I will her not to look at me with those eyes again, and silently beg her to keep talking. We sip our tea in unison, keeping up the appearance of proper ladies.
He said he loved me. At first, I believed him. He may have loved me or perhaps just desired me. Mostly, I think he loved seeing the envy of other men when he told them I was his wife. But that got old fast. So did I, in his eyes. After a year with no child, I became ugly to him. He, in turn, became ugly too.
One night, he came home from the pub, speaking of how the other men’s wives had filled their homes with children by now. He spoke of babies like cattle, then threatened to tell the whole town I was a whore and leave me. I should’ve kept quiet, obeyed, and smothered him in his sleep, like a good wife. But instead, I promised him that as long as I was alive, no child of mine would ever be cursed enough to have him as a father. I’m sure you know what happened next, darling. Or else you wouldn’t be here.
Her finger traces a scar on her chin, one I hadn’t noticed before. It extends along her jaw, running into the delicate bones of her neck. I imagine it wrapping around her throat like a ring, strangling her pale skin, and my breath catches. It looks like lightning struck her. Though not by something as rare as lightning.
I thank her for her kindness, nervously reaching to shake her hand. How much blood has coated it? The posters say she killed three men, but I know those were just the ones who didn’t escape when she wanted it to be messy. The posters call her grotesque, but they’ve never seen her. They know nothing.
We women must stick together, don’t we?
I think of my young daughter. I would do anything to make sure she never finds the instructions to reach this place. There will be no scars for her to trace. I will see to it.