Mimesis

The Last Supper

Candlesticks, dozens and dozens of them, sat upon walls, on tables, hanging from the ceiling in chandeliers. Casting the room in the wavering light and warm glow of fire, instead of bulbs. The house was a fire department violation waiting to happen. A terrifying thought crept into my mind: candles don't like themselves. I pulled out the Model 85 for some comfort.

A set of double doors to my left were closed tight—old habits die hard and I had to see what was behind them. I found my feet moving to the marching tempo of the music. Was it Bach? It was familiar to me.

Beyond the closed doors was grand dining hall. A table running the entirety of the room, a dozen or so seats filled only one side of the table. And it was set. Entirely. Plates, cups, forks, knifes and a meal. Enough food to feed a football team. Turkey, stuffing, salad, mashed potatoes—everything—glowing in candle light.

I got that eerie feeling. The kind I had gotten before, in a thousand different cases: the feeling of being watched. But this felt less physical, something closer to childish fear: a sinister thing lurking in the shadows with a mischievous grin peeled across a wicked face. I ignored an urge to turn around and instead rested a hand on the big bird in the center of the table. Cold to the touch.

Some of the food had begun to spoil, the gravy had a sickly looking layer of grease.

And beyond the table, opposite of the dozen chairs, was a mirror. Running the length of the feast, reflecting the twelve empty seats sitting before a spoiling meal. It was as if the guests of the Last Supper hadn't gotten the memo that dinner had been served.

I walked out of the room, the music had found a new tempo and volume. Was it Beethoven? I had never paid attention in class, but it most certainly fit with this house. I imagined it as something being played at a party somewhere long ago.

That's when I heard her. A scream. Blood curdling, the kind that sends runs a knife's point up your spine.

I waited for it again, the violins cut through the air.

She shouted again, this time pleading for someone, or something, to stop.

I pushed through a set of doors leading to a kitchen filled with dirty dishes and discarded pots and pans. Something had begun to smell in the sink.

Where are you?! I wanted to yell, but before I could say anything she cried out again. Something wet was bubbling in her throat.

I was running then, bursting through door after door, following the moans of a woman somewhere in the house. Her voice seemed to be coming from every room I was in, she was always one step away from me. That's when I spotted a set of speakers, resting in the corner of a room: blaring that classic music and shrill cries of the woman.

I found myself in the back of the house, a glass corridor ran the length of the garden. Like a tunnel through a mountain, or the depths of hell. Besides a candle resting on the table next to me, the corridor was unlit, save for the pallid moonlight that seeped through glass walls. I cursed for leaving my flashlight in the car, and grabbed a candle sitting at an end table. I remember feeling thankful it happened to be there. Looking back, I know it was left just for me.

I heard sobbing.

Outside, the world was dark. Quiet, and drown in the blue hue of a midnight moon. An old willow tree cast its branches downward, hiding who knows what behind its tendril fingers. I wondered who was watching me, beyond the thin glass pane. If I looked hard enough, would I see eyes leering? Her piercing cry called out again, then stopped short, someone had wrung her neck, or hit stop on a recording.