Marisha Pessl - Night Film

The emergency room staff sensed from my agitation I hadn’t told them the whole story and thus were understandably relieved when Cynthia and Bruce arrived. I’d called Cynthia from the cab, and their private plane, minutes from taking off at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, headed back to the terminal. She showed up within an hour and a half, and I’d been gently ushered by a nurse into the hallway.

Or was I wrong ? Had it been a simple accident? It was possible I’d been sucked so deeply into Villarde’s story, the horror of what he’d done to Ashley, that I was no longer thinking clearly.

“She was playing,” I said to Cynthia. “She tripped on the electrical cord.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She said it in a monotone. I stared at her, bewildered, but there was nothing to see. Her face was so drained of feeling, it was startling to behold, as if a room I’d lived in all my life was suddenly without furniture, barren; piece by tiny piece, it had been dismantled, carted away, such a gradual progression into emptiness I hadn’t noticed it until now.

She shook her head, her bloodshot eyes electric green. “The doctors said you ran in here, shouting about someone hurting her? A priest ? Have you lost your mind?”

I didn’t have a response.

“We’re finished with visitation.”

“I understand.”

“No. I’m going to the judge so it’s official. You’re not going to see her anymore. Ever. ”

“Cynthia—”

“Stay. Away.”

She shouted it angrily, causing a nurse who’d just walked past to turn and frown at me.

Cynthia smoothed down the front of her blouse and started back toward the curtains, but then she turned back.

“Almost forgot.” She fumbled in the pocket of her blazer. “The nurse found this in Sam’s coat pocket.”

She held out a small figurine. I took it.

It was a black wood carving of a serpent. I realized, after a dazed moment, that I’d seen it before; it was the same figurine that had belonged to the deaf child back at 83 Henry Street.

He’d dropped it down the stairwell. I’d found it, given it back.

And now Sam had it.

“ This is a toy that you consider fit for your five-year-old daughter? I can’t wait to show this one to the judge.”

The sounds in the hospital, the intercoms, the clicks and phones ringing, the squeaks of a gurney wheel, footsteps on the floor — they all grew deafeningly loud in my ears, then, almost as quickly, silent.

Again, I could feel the sucking back of that black tidal wave rising over me. It was still rising, growing stronger.

Bruce had pulled the curtain aside, and I could see Sam staring up at a doctor, her tiny bandaged hand lying atop the blankets like a lost mitten.

I turned and suddenly sprinted down the hall.

“Come back here!” Cynthia yelled after me. “I want to keep that!”

I raced past an old man lying on a gurney, blinking at the ceiling, a doctor in a white coat. I pushed open the doors to the waiting room. Hopper and Nora, sitting on the seats under the TV, glanced up at me.

“Scott?” shouted Nora.

I didn’t stop, racing through the revolving doors, emptying me back into the night.

I reached Enchantments five minutes after closing time.

The door was locked, but a handful of customers were still browsing inside.

I pounded loudly on the glass. A woman stepped out from behind the register.

“We’re closed!”

“I need to see Cleopatra! It’s an emergency! ”

She shook her head and stepped to the door, unlocking it.

“ Dude, I’m sorry, but—”

I barged right past her, racing by the few remaining customers to the counter in the back.

“Is she here?”

A punky blond kid on the stool only stared in confused alarm. I dashed past him, yanking aside the black velvet curtain.

“Hey! You can’t go in there!”

I stepped inside, finding Cleo seated at the round table, conferring with a young couple.

“This is an emergency. I need your help.”

“He barged right in,” said the blond kid hurrying in behind me.

Cleo looked unruffled by the intrusion.

“It’s all right,” she said. “We’re pretty much finished.”

The couple scrambled to their feet, grabbing the plastic bag of herbs off the table, and nervously filed past —giving me a wide berth —stepping after the blond kid through the velvet curtains, leaving me alone with Cleo.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the figurine. It felt strangely heavy in my hand, heavier than before.

“My daughter had this in her pocket. What the hell is it?”

Cleo rose, stepping toward me. She was wearing a white embroidered peasant blouse, jeans, her red Doc Martens, her hands and wrists laden with the same silver bracelets and rings as before. She scrutinized the serpent without getting too close to it and then turned, stepping to the cluttered shelves in the back, returning with a pair of latex gloves.

She snapped them on, carefully took the figurine — as if it were a dangerous explosive — and took it over to the table.

“You just found this?”

“Yes.” I pulled up a metal folding chair, sitting across from her. “But I’ve seen it once before. Another child I encountered recently had it.”

She turned it over in her hands, shaking it, listening to the interior.

I could see now, in the strong red light overhead, the wood was intricately carved, every scale, fin, and tooth polished and pointed. The beast’s leering expression looked lecherous, lips curled back, tongue protruding.

“Could it be used to mark a person?” I asked. “Give them some type of, I don’t know, devil’s marking? Have you heard of something called huella del mal ? Evil’s footprint? ”

Cleo didn’t seem to hear me, setting the serpent down at the center of the table. Bending forward, with great concentration, she grabbed it by the tail — which coiled up and over the body — sliding the figurine in a slow counterclockwise circle. She did this three times, the only sound in the room the figurine’s jarring rasping on the wood.

Suddenly she whipped her hand away as if she’d been scalded, the snake falling onto its side.

“What?” I asked quickly.

She looked disconcerted. “You didn’t see that?”

“No. What? ”

With a deep breath, Cleo reached out again, grabbing the tail.

“Watch the shadow,” she whispered.

I was so flooded with adrenaline, I could hardly bring myself to focus on the deliberate movement.

And then I saw what she meant.

The shadow —resolutely black on the table — did not naturally follow the object. Instead, it froze as if snagged on something invisible, quivering with tension, the shadow’s tongue elongating , pulling far out behind the figurine before swiftly snapping back into place and moving normally. Amazed, I blinked, leaning in, certain my eyes were playing tricks on me, but within seconds, it happened again.

And again.

She reversed the direction, moving the figurine clockwise, and the shadow behaved ordinarily.

“How is it possible?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” She set down the figurine. “I told you I’m not proficient in black magic. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“But you’ve read something about it. In your extensive witch education.”

She looked at me. “I can’t help you. You need to visit a real practitioner of black magic.”

“I don’t know a real practitioner of black magic. I only know you, so you’re getting to the bottom of this, even if it means we sit here for two weeks figuring it out.”