In Her Image

In Her Image

A white Jaguar cruised toward the setting sun. The top was down. A man in a dark Gucci suit drove with an elbow propped on the door. The elbow rose, and the hand slid into the suit to extract a titanium cell phone. A flick of the wrist and the phone opened.

“Al Jordan.”

“Al, this is Rick. Washington’s bailing us out, and they’re gonna go through the books Monday. We need you in early tomorrow.”

“Shit! Tomorrow’s Sunday. How early?”

“As early as you can. I’ll be in by seven.”

A front tire dropped into a deep rut, jolting the sports car. The phone cart-wheeled over his shoulder. The wheel lost its guiding hand. The car, swerving off the road and rolling down an embankment, smashed into a tree and stopped.

Life for Al Jordan had been rosy till this summer. With a degree in real estate law, he worked for the loan department of a bank, reaping in bales of Ben Franklins from commissions and legal fees. With the encouragement of the bank, he approved loans with abandon. He used to silently laugh as former school mates came to him for loans he knew would crush them. But, now, with the collapse of the housing market, he was careful not to frequent their haunts, for he knew he wasn’t welcome. He recalled that a rival, Lowell, had disappeared. There had been signs of a struggle in his home. At first thought to be a kidnapping, it was now considered a homicide though his body had yet to be found. Al’s belief was the failure of Lowell’s bank had convinced him to high tail it. He made it appear he’d been a victim of a violent crime. Either way, he thought, a good riddance.

Al lifted his head and groaned; his beloved car was hissing at him. Disoriented, he felt in his pocket for his phone, then recalled it flying out of his car. Cradling his head, he got out of the car, climbed the bank, and stepped into the road. He walked back hoping that the tough titanium body had kept his phone intact. He came upon one half of it. Cursing all false advertising, he kicked it down the road. For a moment, he considered which way to walk. Then, realizing he hadn’t passed a house for miles, and remembering there was a lonely old house not far from there, he turned around.

Three years ago, Lowell had boasted to him that he had sold that house for way above its value to an attractive researcher who had retired on the earnings of several patents she had acquired while working for some tobacco company. Lowell had said she was an expert on genetics and wanted the isolated house to conduct some experiments away from neighbors who might complain about the noise.

The pink clouds were now purple bruise and gunmetal gray. The wind huffed a chill under his jacket. Al hurried and crested the incline in the road just in time to see the windows of the house darken as the last rays of the sun died.

The road dipped for a hundred yards before rising gradually for about half a mile. By the time he got to the gate, the feeble light of the crescent moon was all he had to keep him from stumbling on the crumbling brick path to the house. And, even with that light, he did stumble once. It was at that time that he noticed the silence, so different from the serenading of crickets on his own property at nightfall. Another odd thing was the lack of leaves on the lawn from the huge oak tree though the yard was otherwise wild from an uncaring homeowner. Then, he heard it, a low hardly audible grating sound coming from the earth. It was just for a moment, in the calm between two exhalations of the wind, and although he waited for the next one there was only silence from beneath. He decided it was from his imagination, heightened by the night and adrenaline remaining from the accident.

Up the path he went till he stood at the bottom of the porch stairs. The two dark windows stared down at him, seemingly judging him for worthiness. The house loomed over him now, as if he had shrunk to a kid on his first Halloween. All that was lacking was a parent urging him up those steps. He chuckled, went up the worn wooden steps, and thought; what had brought that memory back from all those years?

He pushed the bell. Silence. He pushed again, harder and longer. Nothing. Al cursed, if the place was abandoned and the electricity turned off, he would have to walk all night. He knocked and shouted, “Hello, anyone here?”

All he heard was a mocking echo.

His hand went to the door knob and twisted; producing a click, it pushed. The door swung open and his feet pulled him inside. There was an odd odor like sawdust and acorns mixed with musk. His eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior and he began to understand. A contorted sofa and armchair occupied the living room with sawdust sprinkling the carpet near them like crumbs from a leftover meal. The dusty fabric sagged over the metal parts giving the furniture a sad starved dog appearance.

He heard a plop like a ball dropping into deep mud and then that grating sound. He yelled, “Anyone, here?” Again, the echo, but he was ready for it. His ears judged it was coming from the right. Not even thinking over the logic of why he should follow an echo, he proceeded toward its source and entered the next room.

The strange furniture was nothing compared to the bizarre sight in front of him. It had probably been the dining room. Two large windows provided a feeble light. A large table with mathematical symbols carved into its legs and top, had been pushed to one wall. On the table, propped against the wall, was a large mirror imbedded in solidified sand with colorful stones randomly arranged around the frame. A woman’s face was carved, life-size, into the wall above the mirror. So detailed were her features that it appeared like the finest work of Michelangelo. The face was one of extreme anger with a deep sadness in the eyes. It all gave the appearance of being an altar.

Al wondered if the carving represented the researcher, then he looked into the mirror. Someone was clinging to the ceiling! Spinning around, he raised his arms to protect himself. Several heartbeats he waited. When he opened his eyes, he realized the thing on the ceiling was made of sand and stone just like the material around the mirror. Then, the hairs on his neck rose, for he recognized the face of Lowell. Pain was etched into the face, yet there was pleasure in the eyes.

Al took a deep breath to calm his nerves, then turning back to the table, he noticed a drawer and pulled it out. The top of a thick black notebook scrapped against the wood of the table. Grabbing the book, he laid it on the table on its spine, allowing it to open where it may. Written in a fluid hand, the words told of genetic research beyond the ethical and legal boundaries, plans to create tireless workers willing to toil without a thought for money, and insane dreams of fame, power, and glory.

Al flipped to the last written page. He read the last words and, like the words in a song, couldn’t stop repeating them; I know God when He created Us. Had the face on the wall written those words? He supposed she had. So, what exactly was her creation? He had visions of willing slaves toiling for food.

It was at the moment that he nearly turned and ran. What made him continue was the memory of taunts from his classmates twenty years ago. He’d been afraid of heights and been unable to climb anything in gym class. He was proud he’d learned to overcome those fears. He gritted his teeth and drew in clenched his hands into fists.

The adjoining room was the kitchen. It was darker, yet he could make out a door next to what appeared to be a stove. That would be to the basement. Somehow, he felt the answer was behind that door and down those stairs. His legs stretched into the room.

There was someone sitting at a table. Al yelled in surprise, yet the figure neither spoke nor moved. From the clothes it was wearing, it appeared to be a woman. Moving closer, his eyes examined the face. The silhouette matched the face on the wall except it was thinner. He took a step closer. The skin was worn and wasted with fine diamond lines. He leaned to the right. There were two black hollows where the eyes should have been. He bent forward. The ear had been crudely cut off. Small ragged fragments rimmed the hole encrusted with dried blood. His breath disturbed the crinkly strands of hair hanging over it. An arm shot out. It snatched his wrist in a shaky grip as if trying to sap enough energy to stand. Her mouth full of black teeth sucked in a deep breath. There was the repulsive smell of rotting flesh and acorns. A voice as dry and cracked as dead leaves pleaded, “You’re not one of them! Get me outta here. Please!”

“Lady, what...”

From behind, thin yet powerful arms encircled his waist and thighs. The desperate grip on his arm was forcefully unclenched finger by finger as the woman shrieked, “Get your filthy claws off of me. Run!”

They lifted him off the floor and more arms bound his chest and legs. Cursing and yelling, he was carried on his back, feet forward through the doorway to the basement.

Though it was nearly pitch black, the creatures didn’t pause, it was as if they relied on another sense to navigate. Al felt himself being carried down at a steep angle. Here, there were the two strong odors: acorns and musk. The smell of acorns rose from the creatures while the smell of musk grew as they descended the stairs. His body shifted, his feet were level with his head once again, as they reached the basement floor.

The procession stopped. Twisting his neck in every direction, Al raged. His head was gripped, a gritty sweet paste was forced into his mouth, and his jaws clamped closed. Choking, he swallowed. Instantly, a warm glow invaded his body and aroused the passions in his groin. More hands covered him, ripping off his clothes. The procession moved forward. The smell of musk was overwhelming. Finally, they reached their destination.

They lowered Al to the floor. Rolling over and onto his hands and knees, he strained his eyes for any hint of his fate. By chance, the headlights of a passing car swept through the small windows at ground level. Like a rapid series of photographs, the scene was etched into his mind. Lowell, desiccated skin and bones, crumpled in a corner. Four legged two armed creatures surrounding one giant one. A golden new-born gushing out of it into waiting arms. The creatures rubbing their legs together in a grating cacophony of unmistakable joy. And, worse of all, they all had the angry face with the sad eyes frozen under their shifting antenna.

The creatures came to put him to work. They laid him between the open legs of their queen and caressed his face, for termites are blind.