“Of course, I have read a lot of
Poe,” the thin, tweed-bedecked man addressed me, tamping his
burl pipe heartily upon the spittoon. “And I know of his
penchant for such things.”

At the moment, I understand that I
must have agreed with him, I must have thought we shared some common
ground. A love of the literature of the occult enables a certain
comradery, to be sure; but often, upon closer examination, ones
fellow travellers can acquire a certain agency which can only lead to
doubt. And while the figure of M. Halberstom itself seemingly lent no
credence to any variety of abnormal or supernatural fear, I must tell
you of the occurrence of the brief intrusion he made into my life,
and of the trouble it has brought to my mind and body these long
seven years since he was last seen upon this earth.

That night I first met him in the
drawing room of the Biltwell, sitting alone in the vacant book-lined
study, he had seemed distant, aloof, turned inward with that
temperament which arises often from youth trapped early on in the
life of the ascetic. He had with him a briefcase which overflowed
volumes, books and tomes of unknown genesis and inflection, which he
protectively shielded with his legs at all times. I admit, I may have
seemed an annoyance at first to the man; I was somewhat drunk, having
just that day closed a large business deal with another American
importer, and the glee of success was in my veins. Its not that I
haven’t at times been made acutely aware of the perceptions of those
for whom such areas as business have always seemed a pedantic, lowly
form of human endeavor; but while M. Halberstom exhibited a certain
vexation early on at my behavior, as the night moved into the darker
hours and my inebriation became dulled by sobrieties onset, he seemed
almost driven to communicate some thought or pension which had grown
in him of old.

The fire in the hearth had dimmed to a
hot bed of ashy embers when our discussion, which had previously been
confined to the area of world politics, seemed to take on a different
bent, circumnavigating the world of the commonplace and ordinary. The
topic of the American Poe’s recent publication of works had come up,
and we had been praising his efforts.

“His penchant?” I replied to
his statement, a little confused. “Yes. However, I feel that
Poe, while a great literary salesman of arcane knowledge, is not
himself an avid participant in the practice.” Halberstom said,
reclining into his chair with a certain satisfaction born of the
power of conviction.

“But certainly, you cant believe
the man merely a passive scholar,” I replied in protest.

“I hold, he does not have the
deportation of one in whom the desire rests. No, Poe is a victim of
his beliefs, a haunted, frightened man seeking escape, surrender.”
Halberstom leaned in close to me, the sweet scent of his smoking
tobacco filling my nostrils. “There are those of us for whom the
occult is a science, a thing to be studied, a thing which may be
useful.” Leaning back, his face grimaced in thought, he seemed
to reach a decision.

“Here, look at these,” he
spoke in a low monotone, pulling a small leather-bound booklet from
his voluminous satchel. Holding out in front of him the book, he
opened it to expose rows upon rows of sepia-toned photographs.

“My passion, my future,” he
said to me, indicating the photos. “Fire, flame… have you ever
examined the phenomena?” The photographs were fuzzy shapes of
glowing flickers categorized through some confusing method. Some of
the photos had measurements, writing scribbled upon them, markings of
dimension and Grecian symbology.

“No, I cannot truthfully say I
have,” I replied.

“For each humour, a flame exists.
Some are cold, bluish… others, red, ripe.” he spoke,
indicating the variety with his finger.

“We live in a world consumed by
fire, though we see it not. For every person, a flame exists. it is
the will of Rycgleh B’buneth.”

Shutting the book with a snap, he put
it quickly away, as if he had said too much. Sitting back, he puffed
on his pipe, breathing in confidence with the smoke.

“Poe is a plagiarist, feeding off
the work of a true class of men,” Halberstom spoke, his voice
singed with derision. I sat silent, feeling unable to restore the
jocularity which the earlier evening had promised. I could not
understand the mans sudden aggressive turn. Before, he had been
disarmingly unopinionated, showing signs of a brilliant analytic
mind. But now, it was as if he was nothing more than a child at a
grammar school competition. His posture had lapsed into a sullenness
I felt I could not penetrate. Realizing this, plus the lateness of
the hour and my present, headthrobbing condition, I climbed
unsteadily to my feet and begged his leave.

His head lifted, and his shadowed eyes
glinted with the glow of the fire in the heath, reflecting his own,
harsh coldness. Feeling in my vest pocket, I withdrew my card and
offered it to him, asking him to give me a call if ever he was in the
area. Reluctantly he reiterated the social action, handing me his
own; he was from the North-Hamptonship, the large town of Terusbury,
a city I frequently passed through.

The raised lettering on the card
featured an insignia depicting a flame bisected by a wide, staring
eye.

Once more thanking him for his
company, I retired to my rooms, where I collapsed in a chair in front
of a warm fire. My feet rested contentedly in a pair of mink slippers
my manservant had thoughtfully left out for me, along with a honeyed
brandy. Reclining thus, I drifted off into sleep, lulled by the
alcohol, and the flickering of the weaving flames.

A year later, I had the pleasure of
passing through Terusbury on a slow vacation. My business had been
flourishing lately, and I was enjoying my wealth. Remembering the
strange man, I called upon the address of his card. Set in a tiny
brownstone in a rather rutty neighborhood, the strangeness of our
discussion allowed me to endure the setting, in order to better
satiate my curiosity. It was a plain enough door, with a strangely
ornate iron knocker set upon its faded surface.

I rapped heavily, hesitating, and
rapped again. The sound of disturbance came from within, and suddenly
I felt I may have exercised bad judgement in dropping by so
unexpectedly. However, soon I heard footsteps approach, and the door
cracked open. I must say, I did not recognize the person whom
confronted me, the change since our last meeting being so dramatic.

He had lost the healthy rosy hue upon
his face, which now resembled a whitish, puckish worm. It had
shrunken incredibly, exposing the very bones of his skull, and a
heavy stubble grew upon his chin. He must not have noticed my
expression of shock, for he seemed convivial enough, upon my
introduction. He remembered the time and date to the place and
welcomed me in as best he could. His body was implausibly thin and
bent, and he seemed to walk with a slight limp.

It came as no surprise to me that he
was in such a condition, for when my eyes had adapted to the dim
light, it was obvious he lived in an extreme poverty. Objects were
piled high upon themselves, creating tall mountains of dusty shapes,
threatening to fall and crush one at any moment. I saw no evidence of
a kitchen, only scattered dry breads and mouldy cheeses, lain about
at random.

He quickly moved to clear a place for
me to sit, and he himself merely crouched down opposite me. His
nervousness set me on edge, but I did not question him about his
current status, or what must have befallen him, wishing instead
merely to discover for myself in what ways the depths of his fall
might manifest themselves in his character. I told him a little of
the success of my work, which seemed to agitate his nervousness.

“So you’ve done well in business,
then? Good, good,” he spoke. “Business… that is well and
good. And more markets must merge, it is a time when things… things
will go much more smoothly… yes, yes, when the time arrives it will
alleviate certain… problems… yes..”

“But surely, M. Halbestom, and it
will be a much more prosperous future, one in which everybody can
afford the fruits of labour and commerce…” I said, trying to
imply to him that he, too, needn’t live in such squalor. But it
seemed to offend him, whether out of nihilism or what, I was unsure.

“The future?” he said, as if
hearing me for the first time.

“Of course, the future… yes,
science is wonderful, insofar as it is correctly revealed… but,
when the time arrives, you must see that, you must see… which
forces manifest. The future, you must know, you must see it, there
are ways…”

He was making no sense to me, his
speech reflected the jumpy quality of his agitated character.

“Listen, you are a man I know
shares certain… interests.” He leaned in close to me, rocking
on his heels. “My research, my work in the past, it is coming
together now. I know this mess, I know it seems a mess, but time is
short, and progress rests itself infrequently. Knowledge, certainly
it is a flame upon the heels, it is knowledge which burns, but…
there are forces, forces which work against its acquisition…
time… time must be devoted to it, sacrificed…” He put his
head in his hands, rubbing the dark bags around his eyes.

“If you could see what I have
seen, you would understand, but I fear you are not among the
initiated, that you have been waylaid by numerous enemies… perhaps,
the Eye… I, myself have managed to escape its gaze, though I know
it searches tirelessly… no. My research must not be stamped out.”

I felt then that he had truly
degenerated psychologically, that he was not a well man. But had I
not seen what I had later witnessed, I would have merely pitied him,
I would merely have experienced that liberal despair which so easily
turns to conservative fear when confronted with the deepest of mental
and physical poverty.

“What then is this research you
mention?” I asked. “Last we met, you informed me you were
interested in fire, and flame.”

He looked upon me with suspicion, as
if he could not tell if I were trustworthy enough.

“You… well, yes. My research…
it goes well, very well. I am almost at the end, but I do not know if
it is soon enough… I fear the Eye has sought me out.” Here, I
recall, he grabbed my hands with an inhuman strength, as if he was
pleading for his life. “I am afraid” he whispered, looking
around the small apartment furtively with fear in his eyes.

“You… you must help me. A
penny, a morsel of food, anything…”

I felt deeply ashamed, but of course I
handed him a ten pound note, which he slipped into his ratty pocket
as if it was a bribe.

“Thank you, thank you. We must
supplement, join forces… it would perhaps be better if..” but
he soon changed his mind, his thought left unfinished like so many of
his others.

“So you wish to know how I have
been doing, do you? Well, how shall I explain,” he spoke almost
to himself, pacing the room. It had gotten very dark, so he stopped
to light a strange lantern upon a pile of books.

I was not sure how he lit it, for I
did not see a match on any kind, or a mechanical means of igniting
it, but the light was extraordinary, filling the room with an even,
diffuse glow. I had to blink my eyes against the brilliance, which
resembled that of a sunny day. Even the poverty of the surroundings
seem to shrink away, pushed back by the light into tiny crevices of
shadow. He presently resumed his animated conversation.

“The personality of character has
always intrigued me greatly… the varieties seemed as numerous as
those of the animals upon the earth… but my studies took me deep
into… they opened my eyes to certain… histories, certain powers
which were at work upon us, which have been with us since time
immaterial… soon, they will integrate, but I will maintain… no.
Come here, look,” he gestured, grabbing a large volume from some
forgotten pile, almost as if at random. He pushed it into my face,
my hands, trembling with a restrained excitement as he did so.

“Open it! Open it! Perhaps… I
remember showing you my previous research, but that, that was
nothing! I have made great strides recently… yes, it is all coming
together…”

I opened the book. Once again, as I
recalled seeing the other photo-album, so was this one the same in
nearly every respect… except the photos were… how can I say this,
and beleive it? They were, well, colored. It was truly amazing. If it
was possible, why, it would revolutionize everything! How he achieved
it without lithography I am uncertain, but these were no printed
matter.

It wasn’t just that they were
apparently colored photographs which I beheld, though. There was a
certain light, it shone from within the pictures themselves, a
stunning translucence which seemed to radiate from within them, and I
swear… though perhaps it was attributable to the odd lantern… I
swear that the images themselves… well, shifted. Moved almost
imperceptibly under my gaze.

I must have gasped in amazement, for
his face seemed to relax, something of a smile appeared. I felt
honored, and he recognized it, and to this day I imagine I may very
well have been the first to see such upon this earth… and although
photographic science has been advancing quite steadily in the
direction of sepia-tones and minutely hand colored reproductions, I
have yet to see anything so vivid and full of… life. Again, I
hesitate to say it, but I am as positive as any man can be expected
that those pictures also moved.

What were they of, you ask? The same
as before… an impossible classification system of every variant of
flame imaginable. The blue humour of sanguinity, the yellow and
blackish variants of bilious humours, and of course the predominant
blood red with its millions of different shades. Each was accompanied
by multiple scrawlings, mostly in Latin, some equations, and various
occult symbols very few of which I recognized.

When I shut the book, I praised him. I
could not help myself. The excitement which the technical prowess
engendered in me was a flood let loose, thousands of uses to which it
could be brought to bear filled my head like the hairbrained schemes
of a crazed inventor. But he seemed, as I talked and talked, to grow
sullen, resentful. I slowly became aware of the effect of my words
and stopped talking.

“I don’t think you understand my
work at all. Those are nothing, those are mere laboratory tools. My
research extends far beyond that. Don’t you see? The Final Times are
upon us, the reach of the Power of Flame is everywhere splitting,
diffusing, working its way throughout society, turning man to its
uses! They do not see, those people out there, the crowds of hungry,
dirty people… they each have a flame, a condition… controlled,
controllable by forces… when my research is finalized, I can
consume them all in the mighty profligration promised by Azgathuth
and the Elders… consume and purify, for nature has debased
itself… it is in the history of the flame, it is written there, and
I have discovered it!”

“Surely, that is not the case,”
I responded, overwhelmed by my excitement. “These are not dirty
crowds out there, they are people who depend upon men of science like
you! Daily, I supply them with their bread, I lead them to your
creations, I.. i… ” I stopped, overcome.

I don’t know what possessed me to
imagine that I could convince him… I was nothing to him, perhaps an
illusory human companion he believed in momentarily, locked in, alone
with his studies. He sat back upon his haunches, silent, glaring at
me with a most bilious hatred, his eyes twin beacons of a primal
disgust.

My jaw must have dropped, I must have
had a lack of belief upon my face, which deformed like wet putty
under the terrifying age leaping from those eyes. The timelessness of
his emotion leaked from every pore of his body, and spread to the
room.

The strange lamp seemed to suddenly
emenate black, I don’t know how to describe it. It was as if the
light was… not light, but the absence of light in which everything
could still be seen. The whole incident could not have lasted for
more than a second, for his expression abruptly changed to one of
contempt. Perhaps he could have disposed of me there and then; I am
almost sure of it. But the lamp and the room quickly swam back into
normalcy, everything unchanged and as it was… except me. I was
changed inside, to this very day.

The derision swelled in his face and
his bearing. He stood up and, moving at me very quickly so that I
ducked, afraid he would do me harm, grabbed at books and piles of
scribbled notes and minerals and glass beakers, pulling them down in
a monstrous avalanche which I barely avoided by quickly moving away
from the wall he soon exposed.

“Look, you, if you are the Eye, I
care not if you see… I am done, and you can learn about nought but
your own death! Here!” he glared, thrusting open a huge ornately
carved panel previously concealed by the volumes of junk.

Hundreds of occult and astrological
symbols decorated the doors, a gigantic web impossible to look at,
its surface moving and twisting as if covered by a million small
worms. But behind it, behind it lay my fear, the reason for my
present condition, and the reason I have not left my room since.

Hundreds… no, thousands, innumerable
millions of tiny bottles lined shelves and racks which seemed to
extend backwards into infinity, into the darkness. Illuminated as if
by shattered mirrors it resembled an army of soldiers, individual,
yet somehow combined into a great whole, a massive beast with an
unrecognizable conscience and the consciousness of an inferno… the
lights came from tiny flames, each bottle containing a different
shape, size, hue, color and intensity. Each flame was sealed
completely in its bottle, yet continued to burn, labeled with an
infitesimally small arcane symbol burning with its own colored light.

I profess that, even then, I still
resisted the strength of my impressions. I did not believe. Perhaps
it was shock, a common response in times of stress, but that does not
matter now.

He watched me as I stood there
entranced, his face showing only the coldest appreciation of my
reactions. Turning to the terrible cabinet, he hesitated, looking,
searching for what, I could not tell. Eventually, he found it,
extracting a long, thin rack which extended far out into the room.

Running his fingers down the multiple
rows of the fire-bottles, he quickly plucked out one which contained
a single, bluish purple flame. Holding it in his hand, he lifted it,
gazing through the glass with what must have been a smile, the smile
of a god, the smile of contempt beyond worldly ken.

He threw it at me, as if to see if I
would catch it or not, which I barely could manage… I was afraid of
dropping it then, but I could not have known what the effect would
be… I had no idea. It may have only been luck that I caught it…
perhaps, perhaps. But it is useless to worry about the past, an
endless pit from which one never escapes. Could I have… but what
if… useless questions, forever unanswered.

But the bottle. I held it in my hands,
and I held myself, becoming afraid. Inside, the flame… I knew it
was me. Within its contained, flickering light, images of my past and
present burned onward, twisting and distorting into the myriad
components of what I was… an entire universe contained within that
tiny, fragile vessel. I do not know how he did it, I know only that
he had. It continued to flicker, matching the very synchronicity of
my thoughts and emotions, and I know that if I had looked hard
enough, if I had been brave, I could have seen into the future
also… but I was afraid.

Soon, as I stood hypnotized,
entranced, he must have grabbed the bottle quickly from my grasp. He
barely looked at me, I was nothing more than a worm, perhaps not even
alive… and then replaced the bottle, closing the drawer with an
efficient snap, swinging shut the big double doors… I imagine that
the memory is my own…

After that, I cannot remember. He must
have shown me the door, I must have found my way to some small opium
den around the corner. There is only a drunken, drug-induced haze
over my memory, resisting all attempts at recollection… it is only
when I found myself back at home, in Virginia, that I begin to
remember again.

The communications which lay on the
table in my study, unanswered… the desperate attempts my firm made
to contact me, eventually tapering off until they disappeared
completely… only my maid, she who cooks my food and takes care of
me now, remained my sole contact with the outside world.

It was she who brought me the notice
from the London Herald oh, a year or so after I had left London. It
related the news of a terrible conflagration which had swept one of
the poor districts, precisely the one in which M. Halberstom had
resided in his small poverty ridden room… did he die? There was no
mention of his name anywhere but I feel he must have met some
untoward fate, else I do not believe the world would have lasted this
long, seven years now… although I am afraid even more, somehow, now
that I fear his death was real. His insane talk of the Eye, and the
others… I wonder if the world is not right now maintained by the
forces he described, and, worse of all, if he was correct, that they
are forces of malevolence directing their own apocalyptic
integration…

I am more calm of late, accepting the
burden of the conscription of my soul to whatever, or whomever, would
so desire it. It matters not to me now. I have grown invalid, it is
true, never leaving my bed… Clothilde the maid has stayed with me
since, living downstairs with her family. The sounds of their lively
conversations keep me up until late in the night, entertaining me,
remembering me to that world to which I am now dead. Perhaps I will
be released once I have inscribed this anonymous, faceless tale into
my tiny journal, but I am not worried.

It is not in my hands to decide, but
in those chance winds which bluster the flame, my flame, in its tiny
bottle.

Jen thought that she had
had enough of the whole acting world but once more she found herself
somehow desiring to fall back into it. She hadn?t really given
it much thought, but her current and fairly new boyfriend Peter had
been intrigued by her tales of acting in high school, and then later,
though less often, through college. Lying in bed, he couldn?t
help but point out she had always gotten the lead.

?You were Annie, li?l
orphan Annie,? he?d said, rolling on his side looking at
her. She touched a hand under her bobbed haircut, fluffing up her
hair, her legs tucked under her.

?With naturally curly
blonde hair, how could I not be chosen,? she said, smiling
through a smug haughty expression she?d brought to her face.
Peter grinned at the snooty tone of her voice.

?Besides, Maria
Cowland was tone deaf. And I had been in choir…? she swooped
down to kiss him.

?Tomorrow, I love you
tomorrow,? he mumbled against her mouth.

?How about now, my
name is Jennifer H. Dihmer,? she replied, catching up his arms,
stretching.

?Who else were you??

The question slowed her. A
finger absently traced shoulder. Who was I? She thought back,
remembering.

?I was Christopher
Robin in Winnie the Pooh, and once I played Ophelia, Annie, um, and
in college the old mother in Beckett?s Endgame. Oh, and my
personal favorite, Francis Farmer in a whacked out piece of
playwriting as any young avant garde troupe ever performed…?

?Who was Francis
Farmer?? Peter asked.

?Oh, a big ?40?s
stunning studio star, who ended up wrongly in an insane asylum,
placed there by the white male patriarchy that couldn?t
understand her.?

?Didn?t play by
the rules??

?We never do…?

?So why did you stop
acting??

Jen tilted her head,
listening. She liked that question, Peter wanted to know, know about
her. She decided she liked that. There had been too many who did not
want to know, and she was tired of them.

?The world of the
theater, Peter, is filled with a lot of self-centered folks.?
?They?re everywhere.?

?Yes, but they seem
concentrated in the acting field. I simply got tired of assholes.
Directors who want to be leaders but aren?t, everyone is out for
control of everyone else. It wasn?t quite my game.?

Rising to a sitting
crouch, Peters hands entertained her hair, the ghost of a half smile
on his face. He?s remembering something, Jennifer realized, his
mind seemed back in time. She wondered where he was, what he was
seeing. She felt like she wanted to know.

?What…? she
asked.

?Nothing…? he
smiled.

?Come on, tell me, I
want to know.?

?I mean, its just
that, I was never in a play, too shy.? His head did a ducking
motion.

?What? You weren?t
that shy when we first met.? This time it was she recalled to
the past, to the party.

?I was boosted by the
power of alcohol, what could I do?? he protested, grinningly
helpless.

?Nothing,?
Jennifer said, resting down on his shoulder, relaxing in his presence
and comfort. ?Nothing.?

As often occurs, the
synchronicity of conversations at night often blends in with actual
actions the next day. Jennifer knew that, metaphysically speaking,
who we are today is the result of yesterdays thinking, could also
shape actually events. So, she took it all in stride when, the
following morning at work slinging bagels and coffee for 7.00 dollars
an hour, she was faced with last nights conversation. A man dressed
in an overcoat with a long draping scarf approached the counter,
carrying in his arms a stack of papers.

?Excuse me..? He
said, a slow, polite smile cracking his face. Jennifer, wiping the
remains of some garlic and chive cream cheese on her apron glanced
up.

?Yes, care for a
bagel? The pumpernickel?s fresh out of the oven.? The man
gave them a look, bending his head to examine them in their baskets
behind the glass.

?They do look, and?
here he sniffed the air, leaning towards her and sniffing again, a
furrow crossing his brow, ?…smell delicious, but I was simply
wondering if I might place a flyer in the window.? He pushed his
armful of sheets at her.

?Well,? Jennifer
said, ?depends on what it is for.? His hand drew a red
sheet out and handed it to her. It was an audition for a play. What
do you know, Jennifer thought to herself, and here I was just talking
about this with Peter. There was a black xeroxed picture of an old
sailing ship about to slip of the edge of the world, back when it was
flat. Words spread across the sky.

?Theatre of the
Abyss, holding tryouts for one woman, 2 men, production of Abdul
Rleyh?s classic tale, The Rim of Darkness.? Jennifer read
out loud. At the bottom was the theater address and phone number.

?Rim of Darkness,
huh, what?s it about?? The man took a cut of scotch tape
from a role he pulled from his pocket, sticking it to the paper,
preparing to stick it on the window designated by the collage of
colored flyers announcing local rock shows, parades and community
events as the bagel shops bulletin board. He had taken her lack of
refusal as a yes.

?It?s an
interesting enough fable, a bit of a cross between a Faustian story
and Becketts Endgame.? He stuck the flyer face out to the wide
world.

?Endgame, I was in
that.? Jennifer told his back. The man paused, then swept
around, affected. Jennifer heard him pause in all the right places.

?Oh, perhaps you?d
care to audition?? She felt his eyes appraise her.

?Maybe..? she
said, undecided. She remembered other auditions. The silence of the
stage, the blank faces of the director and his ilk working their
critic into every pore on her face, every inflection of voice.
Still, to know one had been chosen. And as her resume showed, she
had been chosen.

The man saw the look on
her face, and smiled. Another insect in the trap of ego. He drew
another flyer from his stack.

?Here?s one, just
for you.? Then he left, leaving her to her thoughts.

Work was a slow day, and
Jennifer found she was turning over the idea of trying out for the
play. She decided she would talk it over with Peter and see what he
had to say about it. She mentioned it after she had closed the shop
and the two were biking home to her house, Peter having also finished
work at the library.

Speaking excitedly despite
the rapid breathing as they pedaled up the hill, he was all for it.

?That?d be great,
Jen, you in a play! I?m sure you?d get the lead.? ?I?m
not sure, you know, like I told you. The other night, the acting
world..? Peter broke in emphatically again.

?Come on, you?re
always talking about how you want to do something other than work
your dull bagel job. This could be a project for you, give your time
more meaning before you finally get the post graduation days over and
get on with your life!?

?Look who?s
talking Mr. ?I work at the library answering phones? man.?
Peter had to grin ruefully at that. He?s in the same boat as me,
she knew.

?Hey, the benefits are
good.?

?But I get free food,?
she declared, trying to get in the last word. His eyes lit up.

?Did you get some
chocolate croissants?? He asked.

?In the bag.?
They pedaled up the driveway of their rented two bedroom home.
Jennifer was decided. She would try out for the play. After all, she
told herself, buttering bagels just isn?t stimulating enough for
a girl like me, as Peter would learn, again, later that night.

Rising in the morning,
Peter had already gone to work. She found a note from him taped to a
mason jar of fresh squeezed orange juice in the refrigerator. He told
her to make the call for the audition and take the bull by the horns.
And that he loved her.

Still, she hesitated at
the phone, and had to go shopping at the health food co-op and tend
to other errands before she was back at home and could force herself
to dial the number. After all, she could still recall other
auditions. It was true she had gotten leads, but for every one role
she won had failed to get two. Just as it was a rush to be chosen,
the flipside of the coin was equally true. To not get a part after
acting your heart out for some pony tailed director named Conrad who
went on and on about audience actor epiphanies was like learning that
your childhood dog had just died. Well, maybe almost like, she
amended.

Just dial the number, she
told herself, you have nothing to lose but pride. Besides, Peter
expected her to do it and, she had told him she would. After all, it
was only a simple audition. She had yet to score the part.

?Studio Avernus??
A voice came on over the phone after she had dialed, low and
guttural. Sounds of creaking were in the background, and a low murmur
of chants. Part of the stage? She wondered, doing a test of the sound
effects?

?Yes, I?m calling
about the tryouts, a woman for Rim of Darkness.? ?Yeah, you
want to audition. Anytime.? the voice sounded as if it didn?t
care at all, flat and with no inflections save for the hint of a
sneer. Must be the stage manager she thought.

?How about today??
It was her day off.

?Fine, four o?clock.?
the voice reeled of an address for her. Why not, she figured. Jump
into this thing cold. She had always volunteered first in high
school. Get those oral reports done first so you didn?t have to
wait. Plus, you set the standards.

?Do I need to bring
anything?? she asked.

?Nope. Just yourself.
Good-bye.?

Abrupt, she thought as the
voice rang off, and set about preparing for the audition.

The studio was located in
a warehouse space down on the waterfront. Locking her bike to a metal
pole, she looked around for the big red warehouse door described to
her, finding it soon enough. A huge clapboard piece of wood hung
above the double doors, painted in white, sloppy dripping letters;
?Studio Avenus presents: Abdul Rylehs Rim of Darkness?.

The door was slightly open
on its track, creating a space wide enough for one person, spilling a
corridor of light into a darkened partitioned space. The darkness
muffled the sounds, but Jennifer caught whispers near the back behind
a raised wall. Cast shadows distorted themselves up into the tall
rafters, and the whole place echoed faintly with the low murmured
chanting she?d heard over the phone. The sound was low enough to
border on not existing at all.

Soon enough, though, it
blended into the background of Jennifer?s mind. She stepped
forward, making sure not to trip over a scattering of electrical
cords snaked around on the ground. She kept her eyes focused on the
slivers of light and sounds of voices talking. Some man was yelling.
Great, she murmured to herself, that must be the director.

?Very astute.? a
voice at her side made her jump. She turned to make out a short,
squat man with a gnarled face. His rubbery chin jutted forth
strongly. His lips were curled in almost a constant look of disdain.

?You are here for the
audition?? She recognized the voice from the phone, its same,
steady monotone.

?Who are you ??
she asked.

?The stage manger.
Please, come this way.? ?Very astute..? she murmured,
under her breath. The man must have heard her, for he cocked his
head.

?You guessed I was the
stage manager?? he asked, an eyebrow lifted quizzically.

?Well, ?
Jennifer told him as she walked by piled up boards with painted
scenarios on them, ?If you?ve been acting enough, you get a
feel for who goes where.?

?I see what you mean,?
her guide replied, ?Perhaps you should be the director.? he
said with a loud sniffing noise. With that he ushered her into a
space surrounded by cutout black shapes, continuing on past a small
raised stage and a number of folding chairs.

In the front row stood a
tall man with thick glasses, his hair tied back in a slick ponytail,
gesturing wildly with meaty hands, yelling. The shorter, well dressed
fellow sitting in a chair next to the yeller, whom Jennifer had
already pegged as the director, kept waving around a clipboard. She
figured him for the assistant. The stage manager made a loud cough,
which grabbed the attention of the two arguers. Then he shuffled off
and Jennifer could hear him moving chairs.

?I?m here to
audition. Jennifer Dihmer.? Jennifer told them.

?What do you want??
The director adjusted his glasses, casting a look to the assistant
who shuffled hurriedly a pile of papers.

?Yes, good,? he
turned to her again. ?I am the director, Ethan, and this is the
assistant director Whately.? They both gave her a little bow,
directing her with a gesture up to the stage and sitting themselves
down in their seats.

?Now Ms. Dihmer, have
you acted before?? ?Yes, it was my minor in college.?
She replied, gazing out over the black enshrouded warehouse, dustily
illuminated by a side row of muddied windows, giving the whole
theater space a feel which Jennifer could only describe as ?Orson
Wellesian?.

?Good,? Ethan
waved her experience away with a fleshy hand, ?Then we don?t
have to deal with making you feel at ease and can get to the matter
at hand. Whately, give her a script to read. You read the other
part.?

Whately climbed up on the
stage and handed Jennifer a sheet of stapled paper. He then walked to
a position opposite her and stood waiting, his large eyes blinking, a
patient, silent expression on his face. His clothes were old
fashioned, and a very brown color. His black hair was also, like
Ethan?s, heavily greased back. A theater head if I ever saw one,
Jennifer thought, ruffling the script in her hand, feeling its
familiar weight.

?Excuse me, Ethan,
could you tell me a little more about this production, I?ve not
heard of you before, nor the play. Have you chosen any other actors?
Do you have a script I need to memorize and..? Ethan held up his
meaty hand, stopping her.

?No Ms. Dihmer, we?d
like to see you cold, we?re looking for that more natural, raw
feeling. We want that ?you!? energy. Just go for it. Go
ahead. Go for it.?

Jennifer felt her mind go
blank. He didn?t even listen. Not that they ever had, she knew.
They had their vision, their master plan, of which she was a mere
cog. Such were directors, she realized again. But then the phrase
from this morning came back to her. Her decision to jump in feet
first, take things as they come. She gave a sigh and shook her head
in memory at her other auditions, and began to read over the script
in front of her. Natural, raw, she thought to herself, like rain
forest granola, organic apples.

?Whately, what is she
reading?? Ethan yelled up to the stage.

?The Piacular Virgin,
scene 6 page 66.? The small mans wet voice answered. Paper
shuffling sounds came from the chairs. Jennifer began to turn to the
page herself.

?Ahm. Ms. Dihmer, if
you could just began at the top. I will follow as the voice of the
seirizzin.? Whately and his near inaudible voice reached her.

?Okay, Okay. Scene
Six, the seirizzin and Virginia talk. I start.? she nearly
mumbled.

Jennifer, modifying her
voice and posture to some sort of ?Virginia? began to
speak, following her lines, imbibing the printed words with a
physical manifestation. Not herself, not Jennifer, but this
?Virginia?, this vague embryonic form she was giving life.

?A grand room you
have, seizzin, the view out over the cliff is exquisite. Is this
tower not lonely??

?All souls are
lonely, and all souls are one. Lonely? Ahh, that is why I asked you
here, since I first sensed your flesh in the cafe, the absinthe
misting your features, the outline, the curves, your own cliffsides.?
Whately spoke, a monotone like the stage managers but more low,
hypnotic, and trance inducing. It almost seemed to blend into the
blackness of the warehouse.

Jennifer read on. It was
beginning to sound like some sort of Faustian tale, as the man with
the flyers had said.

?I remember, you touched my brow and spoke of..? ?More
dreamy!? shouted Ethan, standing. Jennifer looked at him
yelling. He clenched his hands to his chest.

?Give me young, make it nubile!? His arms sketched a
sky. ?Virginia is untouched, sweet. Good, good. Go.?

He sat down, a pencil in his mouth, gazing at her. Sweet? Thought
Jennifer. When was this play written? She added a lithe husk to her
voice, tossing her head and hair around, lowering her eyelids.
Whately began again.

?The drop of water on your skin. Your perspiration. I caught
it in my fingers, owning it. I tested it in the fields of flame,
bringing forth your image and commanding it. As I command you now, as
you came here, before me, as you are now.?

?I am here now, seizzin, I am here for you.? Faustian it
might be, she thought again, but its definitely not Goethe caliber.

?Hypnotized!? again the director broke in, ?Come on
Virginia, give me compliance!? Jennifer nodded, relaxed her
muscles. She swayed a bit.

?You were always mine, Virginia.?

?Let me, show me.? Jennifer husked it, pushing herself
up towards Whately. She did not notice him back away. Already she was
reading forward, attempting to match movements to words.

?Yes, and what will I let you, do, as you ask.?
Whately?s character hissed.

?Draw the red line from my throat to my dark chasm. Split my
layers with the curved talon. Carve in my untouched cave your sharp
symbol to open my earth and let me flow, over you. I will watch as
you do, my eyes open, seeing all. Allow me to rut..? and
Jennifer suddenly realized what she was reading.

A bile rose up in her throat. She didn?t know if it was from
the image, or the descending particles of dust which fell illuminated
in the sunlight. She could feel them settling in slow layers upon her
skin, dry and caking. She felt it settling in her throat, clogging.
It made her start to gag, but an instinct of acting, of her presence
on the stage and the knowledge of the presence of the soft faced
Whately and meaty hands of the director who was now standing, changed
her gag into a laugh. At this Whately stepped back with a strange
ducking bob of his head. Ethan fairly screeched at her.

?No laughing, no!! All wrong, don?t you know what to
do!? He glared at her, his swinging hands knocked over a few
chairs which the stage manager slowly righted. Jennifer, stunned,
simply looked at him. She than looked again at her script and scanned
the words. She did not like what they implied at all. And she
realized that she didn?t have to take that yelling from Ethan.

She let the script fall from her hands to the floor, and jumped
down from the stage. Whately followed behind her, swooping up her
script from the floor and anxiously smoothing its pages. I don?t
need this play, she told herself, grabbing her coat.

?Good-bye, Ethan, Whately. I don?t think I like your
play.? and she turned to leave. Ethan glared at her, his fists
clenching and unclenching. She noticed a fine line of spittle
draining from the corner of his twisted mouth.

?Fine, Ms. Dihmer, we don?t need you.? and then he
made a movement which unsettled her. She backed away fast and turned
and left. She did not look at the two men again. The director had
leaned down close to her waist and drew in a breath through his nose,
sniffing her.

?You don?t smell right.? he had said.

Jennifer made it to the warehouse door
before she realized she was holding her breath.

?We?ll get others!? the director had shouted in
parting from the dark recesses of the theater. The stage manager
stood by the entrance, ushering her out. She looked at him and he
looked blankly neutral back at her.

?Too bad.? he said. ?You were good. Please, have
two complimentary tickets. Opening night.? He stuffed them in
her hand and directed her out, slamming shut the door.

Her two green eyes blinked in the
sunlight. As she numbly pedaled away from what she could only
describe as a strange audition, the low hum of chanting again came
muffled from the warehouse turned theater. It took a sweaty bike ride
home and hot shower to finally wash all feeling of dust free from her
body.

Later that night, entwined under sheets
with Peters warm body, the strangeness of the day was fast fading. It
had all seemed so unreal, so that she couldn?t quite relate to
Peter the key nature of what it was that had disturbed her about the
event.

?They were just creepy, that?s all.? she told him
as his chest rose and fell, lifting and dropping her head as it
rested in the nook of his shoulder. ?More so than most theater
folks I?ve worked with.?

?Creeps.? chuckled Peter, his
voice resonant in her ear. ?They were creeps. What a word.?

?Something about the play, ? she murmured, ?It
rubbed against my integrity.? A sleepiness began to seep from
her legs.

?I do like your integrity.? Peter replied, moving a hand
to rest over her smooth shoulder. The movement caused Jennifer to
twitch, she felt her body relaxing in spasms signaling sleep. She
trailed off a last sentence before soft dreams took her.

?No more acting, ? she drawled into Peters skin, ?Think
I?ll write my own play.? ?I?ll help. ? Peter
whispered, as the day faded slowly into sleep.

Despite a retelling of her adventures on her day off to her fellow
co-workers, the event had slowly dropped from her memory. The
audition was replaced by a monotone of daily coffee orders and
tasting of bagels mixed with the more substantial interactions with
Peter at home and in town, drinks with friends and well cooked
dinners. Days turned to weeks, and a deepening of her and Peters
relationship. Jennifer found herself looking with Peter for a more
desirable, fulfilling mode of life. They began to seek out a new town
to relocate to. One that was bigger and offered better opportunities
than the food service industry and library information desk. Thus it
was that Jennifer did not remember the Theatre of the Abyss and its
play entitled the Rim of Darkness till she saw flyers appear, though
not in the bagel shop, announcing its opening performance that
weekend. Searching her drawer of coupons she found the two
complimentary tickets given her and decided to see how the play would
turn out.

?Shall we get decked out for the theater?? she asked
Peter the night of the play. He poured her a glass of whiskey on the
rocks and handed it to her. She looked at him over her sipping.

?I like getting duded up. And it is opening night.? The
whiskey was already her third glass. She and Peter both had the next
day off.

? I thought you said those theater guys were creeps.?
Peter said the word, relishing its pronunciation.

?I want to see how it turned out. Besides, it?s free.?
?Can?t beat that. Shouldn?t we hurry? It?s
starting soon.? Jennifer smiled at his haste.

?We?ve got to get duded up first.? Her hands began
to work at the buttons on his shirt. She smelled the whisky on his
breath as she kissed him. Peter protested, pulling away.

?Hey there, we?ll be late.?

?I like making you late.? she coyly grinned as she lead
him to the bedroom to get ?duded up?.

A swift and drunken bike ride brought
them late to the warehouse theater. Giving their tickets to a
tuxedoed usher at the door they entered into darkness and found all
the seats taken. They stood with their arms around each other at the
back near the door.

Illuminated actors moved slowly about the stage, a low chanting
rising from their shuffling steps. A girl dressed in white gowns with
a low slung bodice stood raised on a pole above the chanters. A tall
man in a suit stomped around the scenario, waving a large knife in
the air.

?That must be Virginia.? Jennifer whispered in Peters
ear, wondering how the actress had survived her audition.

?Strange scene.? muttered Peter. The chanters increased
their song, their voices singing faster, rising up into the rafters
of the warehouse. Jennifer cast her eyes around, trying to spot the
director. She spied him and the shorter form of Whately stage left in
the front row. Their heads seemed riveted on the performance. Back on
stage, the tall man stopped pacing in front of the girl, whose face
glistened in the lights with a sheen of sweat. Her expression made
Jennifer grip Peter tight.

The man stretched his arms forward and gently scraped the brow of
the girl, turning to the audience with a gleeful look. A droplet of
sweat glittered on the blade. A movement caught her eye.

Is this a postmodern play? Wondered Jennifer, or is the director
climbing onto the stage as another character. Perhaps his audition
technique was too harsh, and he was forced to play a role himself.
But as she watched the director walk right up next to the knife
wielder, and lick the blade with his tongue, she decided it must be a
postmodern play because she was having difficulty deciding what was
real, and what was acting.

?We shouldn?t have come so late.?
Peter whispered. ?Can?t make out what?s going on.?

Jennifer found she couldn?t take her eyes off the stage.
There was no other sound other than the chanting. The audience too
was mesmerized as Jennifer was. The director turned towards the
audience, raising his big hands. The knife man stepped behind him,
knife again raised, blocking the view of the girl. Jennifer?s
ears began to hurt as the chant rose in crescendo. She saw a flash as
the knife made a downward movement and the air rent with a concerted
scream as the chanters voices yelled as one. The director began to
gibber in a strange tongue, and beneath her feet, the ground began to
shake. Her mouth went dry, and her feet moved her instinctively back,
her arm tugging Peter with her. This was no play, she realized.

?Peter..? she whispered, and a red line suddenly split
down the front of the director with his outstretched hands, onto the
stage, and up the center aisle of the audience. The whole floor shook
and a large snap rifled the air, and Jennifer and Peter gasped as a
huge chasm began to crack open the ground. Dust clouded the air and
flames erupted from buried unknown gases. The two sides of the
warehouse titled, sliding the stage and audience members screaming
into the flaming pit, flailing and trying to desperately hold onto
sliding chairs, to stop their unfathomable descent. Jennifer tugged
Peter out the door, an insane fear moving her legs, backpedaling
rapidly as they watched the crack race towards them.

The chasm spread wide, a mottled vent down into sheer, alien
terror. Pushing a dazed Peter outside she felt herself stumble into a
body and her fearful eyes stared instinctively into the face of an
unsmiling person she only later recognized as the stage manager. ?

Not staying for the end?? he had leered at her, trying to
block them, but Peter accidentally barged right into him, knocking
him down. And then, they were through the door.

Collapsing outside the entrance to the
warehouse, she looked back, and saw the manager calmly fall into the
burning abyss which in no, sane way could have appeared there, his
eyes steadily locked onto hers as he fell, smiling.

A wrenching sound coupled with human screams reverberated out over
the industrial waterfront as the entire building collapsed inward
upon its self, settling into a burning pile.

Cradled in Peters arms and limping away as the Theatre of the
Abyss disappeared in a cloud of fire and brimstone, Jennifer realized
now why she no longer ever wanted to get into acting again.