The Invitation

You step onto the gangway, a shiver of anticipation running down your spine. Beneath you, grey fog obscures the surface of the water, small tendrils of it drifting up to tease at the spiky heels of the woman in front of you. As you watch it trail up long, bare legs, the woman gives an involuntary shudder, as though she’s been touched by something—or maybe someone—distasteful.

If you hadn’t been distracted by the short hem of her skirt or the way the dim red lighting shines like blood over her golden hair you might have noticed something strange in the movement of the fog. Unfortunately, your mind is elsewhere, and it doesn’t occur to you until much later that the way the mist curls around her is almost seductive, in a decidedly unnatural sort of way. Instead, your attention is lost to her glossy pink lips, and the way her eyes gleam with interest as they meet your own.

Despite the lineup of people in front and behind you the sound of conversation is muted, hushed whispers almost completely drowned out by the sound of the waves crashing against the shoreline. Eerie music plays out of hidden speakers, the haunting sound of instrumentals making the little hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The woman steps closer to you, so close that you can smell her musky perfume, masked only slightly by the salty air.

Finally, the two of you reach the front of the line, and you bite back a smile as her hand snakes out to hold yours, making the two of you a unit.

“One at a time,” the man at the door drones, his pale skin shining through the darkness.

Behind him hangs a long velvet curtain, shielding the interior of the vessel from view. You glance around, feeling suddenly apprehensive. Without warning the fog has thickened, reducing your visibility to no further than five feet in either direction. The lantern above you sways as the boat rocks, the amber light casting sinister shadows that are somehow darker than they should be.

You realize the woman is staring at you, gesturing for you to go first. You feel a sudden sense of foreboding so strong you almost turn back, but you swallow hard, straightening your shoulders as you pass the man your ticket. His fingers are icy to the touch as he grasps your hand, turning it over to reveal your wrist. The stamp he presses there seems burning hot in comparison—almost searing, in fact. Gritting your teeth you subtly rub your thumb over it, trying not to show your discomfort. For a brief moment you think you see a flicker of something like amusement pass over the man’s face, but it's gone in an instant, and you decide you must have been mistaken. Looking down you see that it is some sort of symbol similar to a cross, dark in color, perhaps black, or maybe even deep green.

The curtain in front of you parts without warning and you take a deep breath, resisting the urge to look behind you as you move forward.

The second you pass through it’s as though you’ve stepped into another world. The sonorous notes of the cello are gone, replaced by a steady thrum of bass. The air is hot and heady around you, smelling of something smokey and foreign. You find yourself standing in some sort of small windowless foyer, which is strange when you stop to consider it, as you could have sworn there was a large window just next to the curtain. Hadn’t you been trying to peer through while you waited to get in? Another illusion, you suppose, ignoring the frisson of unease you feel. A small wooden table in the center of the room holds a strange assortment of artifacts, and you wander over to take a closer look.

Among other things is an ancient-looking leather-bound book, the script on the front too faded for you to make out the title. Next to the book is a crystal decanter, full of a deep, dark liquid. There is a stemmed glass sitting beside it, and you assume incorrectly it contains red wine. Giving a furtive look around and seeing no one, you shrug, pouring a generous amount into the glass. It’s thicker than you expect, with an almost syrupy consistency. The aroma is sharp and yet somehow musty, with a mineral undertone. It must be French, you think to yourself, with a mental pat on the back for remembering at least something from that wine tour you’d done last summer.

You bring the glass to your lips, hesitating only a second before letting the drink flow over your tongue. It’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted before, with an almost oily texture that lingers in the back of your throat long after you swallow. Try as you might, you can’t decipher which type of grape it might be, only that it isn’t to your taste. Not wanting to offend your host you drain the glass, then glance idly down at your watch, noting that it’s exactly midnight. Anxious to join the rest of the party, you stride back over to the curtain, intending to find out what’s taking the woman so long to join you. Instead, you brush back the heavy velvet to find nothing but smooth, paneled wood, no latch or seam detectable.

The candles in the room flicker, and as you look around you realize whatever was in the decanter was more potent than what you’re used to. Your entire body feels warm and relaxed, a pleasant tingling sensation coursing through your veins. The walls seem to expand a little, almost as though they are breathing, but instead of feeling afraid you find it brings you comfort, as though you’re in the company of an old friend.

You move past the table to the opposite side of the room, where a door is cracked slightly ajar. The thumping of the music feels as though it's moving in time with your heartbeat, and you follow the sound down a long hallway lit with more flickering candles. A tiny part of your mind is dimly aware that you’ve seen the ship from the outside and it would be physically impossible for it to contain a hallway this long, but right now this thought seems oddly irrelevant. Even the memory of the woman in the black dress is fading, drowned out by a growing urge to give yourself over to the music, which sounds like a tangible representation of your every desire in life.

As you continue down the twisting halls you let your intuition guide you left or right, your excitement growing as you move closer. You can now feel the vibration all through your body, the sensation almost sexual in nature. Over the music, you begin to hear low melodic laughter and the muffled sound of conversation, until you reach another velvet curtain, this one black as night.

This time when you step through you find yourself in a room full of people, the bright lights playing over their faces in a kaleidoscope of colors. A man dances nearby, his eyes half-closed as he moves sinuously in time with the music. A woman carrying a tray of glasses appears next to you, her coal-black eyes luminous as she wordlessly hands you a drink. Before you can even smile your thanks she’s gone, disappearing so quickly it’s as though she vanished into thin air.

You blink, looking around, but there is no sign of her. Once more, a strange feeling of foreboding slides over you, temporarily sharpening your focus. In a brief moment of clarity, you realize something feels…off..about the people around you. Maybe it’s the ethereal appearance of their skin or perhaps the fact that their movements seem too quick, too graceful. Maybe it's the undercurrent of hunger you sense, though you can’t explain how you recognize it for what it is. As though they can hear your thoughts, those nearest to you stop dancing, turning as one to face you. Your sense of comfort diminishes, only to be replaced by something cold and predatory. You eye the door, but instinctively know it’s too far away.

Then, you know nothing at all.

Cynthia Adams sits bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding. This is the third time this week she’s had the same nightmare. Hands shaking, she reaches over to switch on the lights, half expecting something to appear out of the darkness. Instead, there is nothing but her familiar butter-colored walls, everything in her room just as she’d left it before going to sleep.

Bringing her fingers to her temples Cynthia tries to recall the details of the dream, but they are already slipping from her consciousness, in that fluid way that dreams often do. Not ready to fall back asleep, she turns on the TV, hoping to find a mindless movie to keep her company. Instead, Cynthia feels her blood run cold as a familiar face appears on the screen.

Scrambling for the remote, she hurriedly turns up the volume.

“Parker James was last seen six days ago, leaving home to attend an exclusive party in the city. Friends and family say it is out of character for James to disappear without word or contact, and are asking anyone who may have information on his whereabouts to contact police immediately.”

Cynthia thinks back to the invitation she’d received two weeks prior. “A Party Worth Dying For,” the ornate-looking postcard had promised. She’d heard rumors about the event, and how hard it was to get on the guestlist. Cynthia still had no idea how she’d received an invite, but it had proved to be a waste of her time anyway. She’d spent hours waiting in line, only to be told that there had been a mistake, and she wasn’t on the list after all.

The only silver lining in the evening had been meeting Parker James in the lineup. Cynthia had lingered around on the dock in the hopes the tall, handsome stranger would come back out to look for her but he’d never reappeared, and eventually, she’d gone home to drown her sorrows in a bottle of wine, feeling dejected and miserable.

But now…Cynthia bites her lip. What if something had happened to him at the party? Bringing up Google, she stares down at Parker’s face, feeling something suddenly click into place.

Her nightmares. In them, she’s standing in the same lineup, seeing herself as though she were looking out through someone else’s eyes. Cynthia squeezes her own eyes shut, trying to remember what happens next. Try as she might, all she can bring back are vague disjointed images of dark, shadowy rooms, and a rancid taste on her lips. Then, an overwhelming rush of fear washes over her, and her eyes fly open, scanning the room for a danger she senses, but cannot see.

The following day dawns cold and rainy, suiting her mood perfectly. After running an old, cynical detective through the minimal information she had to offer, Cynthia drives down to the harbor. The slip where the steamboat had sat is empty, with no sign it had ever been there at all. Staring out at the sea, she watches a lone bird battle the wind, bobbing and weaving as it soars over the turbulent water. The waves are an angry blue today, so dark they almost appear black.

A sudden prickling sensation on the back of her neck has Cynthia scanning the length of the boardwalk. An elderly man in a yellow slicker raises a hand to her, tugging his old shepherd along behind him. Soon the two disappear from view, yet she can’t shake the feeling of being watched. From the corner of her eye, she sees a flash of movement and snaps her head in that direction. A tall, dark figure stands motionless on the beach, seemingly unbothered by the storm.

“Parker?” Cynthia whispers, feeling her pulse skip a beat. Squinting, she steps forward for a better look, only to realize the sand is empty, with no one in sight for miles. She remains there for the better part of an hour but sees nothing but the gull, dipping, and diving through the surf.

Back at home, Cynthia works her way methodically through her apartment, locking doors and windows one by one. Darkness falls early this time of year, and while she usually finds her home cozy and comforting, tonight it feels tainted, with thick, grey fog pressing against the windows like an uninvited guest. Shutting the curtains, she lights a candle in the hopes of dispelling some of the gloom. Cynthia has just made herself a cup of hot chocolate when scraping against the glass makes her jump, spilling scalding liquid over her hand.

“Shit!” she swears, grabbing a cloth. Heart racing she’s frozen in place as she holds her breath, intently listening for the slightest hint of movement. Nothing. Pulling back the curtain, Cynthia lets out a sigh of relief as she sees the tree branch waving in the wind, bending back towards the glass. “You’re losing it,” she mutters to herself, shaking her head.

Yet, as she settles into her chair, she can’t help but feel as though she’s waiting for something, without knowing exactly what. For this reason, when the knock at the door sounds, she calmly sets her mug down on the table and crosses to the door, gripping her cell phone in one hand.

Standing on her toes, Cynthia peers through the security hole. When she sees who is standing on the other side she gasps, shoving her phone in her pocket as she hastens to unbolt the lock.

“Parker! You’re okay! Come in.”

Pale and worn, but still as handsome as she remembered, the man from the party steps into her apartment, giving her the ghost of a smile.

“H-How—” Cynthia pauses, her mouth suddenly bone dry. “How do you know where I live?”

Parker shrugs, stepping forward just as she steps back. She sees the light reflect off something in his hand and opens her mouth to scream, half-expecting to see a knife.

“I thought we could have a drink,” he says, his voice smooth as silk. “We never got the chance the other night. I waited for you.”

Cynthia relaxes slightly, realizing the glint is simply the light reflecting off an antique-looking crystal decanter.

“But, the police…” she trails off, needing him to explain. “I saw your picture on the news.”

“Nothing but a misunderstanding,” Parker says, waving a hand dismissively. “I was away on business and lost my personal phone the night of the party. I had no idea anyone was looking for me until I got back earlier today.” He gives Cynthia a charming smile, and she finds herself distracted by the depths of those expressive dark eyes. Then he’s leading her to the couch, the coolness of his touch penetrating her thin blouse. When Parker hands her a glass of wine she brings it automatically to her lips, sipping without thinking. The flavor is oddly familiar, and Cynthia frowns, staring down at the glass.

By the time her memory pieces together the jagged fragments of her nightmares, it’s far too late. As it turns out, death isn’t always the end. Sometimes, death is nothing more than giving up everything you were before to become who you truly are. Other times though, you discover there are far worse things than death.