Every movement had strength and bearing. He glided, as if on ice, mesmeric and dangerous; seeped from the stage into her life. His skin was alabaster white, his eyes impenetrable, his lips, cherry black. Long strands of diaphanous hair and black cloak flowed in his wake. His command was total, dark and irresistibly arousing. He did not ask for her love, he required her soul. To know what you want and to take it were qualities Lucy lacked and admired.

Lucy did not have the shape or grace of a ballerina. Patricia’s long legs seemed to grow effortlessly out of her tutu. Delores could twirl making quick adjustments of the head, to compensate for the dizzying thrill of the spin. And Gabriella, ah – Gabriella even had a name to match her long necked grace. She stood on points as if born to it, her silky ribboned feet, slender and pink. Lucy cluttered the stage – clunked uneasily through each performance.

Lucy attended the ballet, imagining for an hour or two that she was that delicate danseuse on stage – not the dreary office drudge. Her flat was a shrine to lost ambitions. In privacy she practised ballet positions before a full length mirror, using the back of a chair as a bar. At twenty three, she was still limber, and young enough to fantasize if too old now to hope.

Gabriella sent Lucy a complimentary ticket every time the ballet came to town and that was how she came to see, “Dracula”.

Her friends thought her quite mad to have a poster of Dracula in the bedroom, but when Lucy looked at it, she could again hear Feeney’s evocative music; feel the frisson of that first, heart-stopping scream, as the house lights went out plunging the audience into silent darkness. She had attended every night for a week, and knew by heart, the score, the story and the face on that poster.

The high domed forehead, prominent cheek bones, deep-set dark eyes and sallow cheeks were those of Denis Malinkine, creator of the role. His performances had seduced every woman in every audience and probably some of the men. He had climbed bat-like, down scaffolding, at impossible angles, with unparalleled muscular control – exuding the sexual power of a perfect physique. He had insinuated himself into their souls – for who could be afraid of so entrancing a creature?

Back stage Gabriella had introduced them. He was still in make-up, his eyes hooded and black. Lucy quivered with delight as he lifted her hand to his lips. “Lucy,” he bowed and melted away into the shadowy labyrinth of corridors and stairs.

“Is he always like so graceful?” she enquired of Gabriella.

“You saw him dance.”

Lucy’s gaze followed him into the blackness. That had been four years ago.

When she looked at the poster, Lucy saw him, heard his voice; watched him dance. Superimposed beside him was the lithe and supple figure of a ballerina, wearing the most gossamer of gowns. She fell backwards off her points, into his arms, her milky throat exposed and willing. She envied Gabriella’s world of twilight dance. In all her dreams she was part of that clandestine realm and time stood still.

At first the poster had been tacked roughly to the wall but it demanded prominence, so Lucy had had it framed – a thin, ox-blood coloured frame to compliment the sepia tones. Dracula was there every night as she undressed for bed and every morning when she first opened her eyes. After a weary day she would uncork a bottle of wine, listen to the ballet’s music and stare at her hero. She even talked to him.

Delores and Patricia said it verged on obsession and she should ‘get a life’.

“You’re gorgeous, Lucy! Look at you!” Delores turned Lucy to face the mirror and stroked the long waves of strawberry blond hair that fell about Lucy’s shoulders.

The mirror reflected a voluptuous figure, heart shaped face, full rosy lips, pale, freckled skin and lapis lazuli eyes. Lucy just saw plain, boring Lucy.

“Why don’t you go out with Neil? He really fancies you.”

“They all really fancy her,” remarked Patricia, “Even our Darren.”

“They don’t bite you know – real men,” joked Delores.

“No, not with my luck,” Lucy feigned amusement.

A life – going out with Neil or Darren, and then marriage and babies and all that mundane mind-wash; Lucy didn’t want her passion archived like certificates and decaying deeds, gathering dust. She was an office clerk. She wanted her heart to pump, her breath to quicken; to be enraptured, possessed, consumed. Somewhere there was her man and one day he would come to her. He would come to her. The poster was more real to her than anyone out there. She saw a creature akin, in those eyes. She hung about with her friends less and less, drank more and more, and wished and dreamed.

Lucy woke at midnight shivering, lying on her bed with an empty bottle at her side. She’d left the window open and the September night was chill. The flat was utterly dark, except for a neon sign that flashed on and off at the shop across the road. She went to pull the curtains and tripped over a discarded slipper on the floor. Lucy cursed as she picked herself up, tasting warm blood from her lip. Turning she stubbed her toe on the bed base and yowled, “Damn it to hell!”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, crossed her foot over her leg and rubbed her toes. ‘Graceful as ever,’ she thought, and turned in regret towards the poster. The eyes flashed red. It was momentary but she was sure she’d seen it. The eyes had widened for an instant and lit up. It must’ve been the neon just caught it in a certain way. It must’ve been the wine. A combination of the neon and the wine – that was it. She put the light on and examined the poster closely. Then she shuffled into the bathroom to see to her lip. It was bleeding quite badly for so small a cut.

Next morning Lucy felt silly imagining such things. She determined not to drink so much and get out more. There were plenty of invitations and a whole string of young men waiting.

“Which shall it be, Drac? Shall I phone Neil or Darren?” She scrolled through contacts and arranged a date.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to if you were available, would I?” she remonstrated, leaving the room.

Her resolution did not last for long. A week amongst stuffy files and a date with Darren were enough to drive anyone to drink. He was preternaturally boring, had two left feet, no brain and six pairs of hands – not a winning combination.

“God, Drac,” she said kicking off her shoes and opening a bottle, “Am I glad to see you!”

He was smiling at her enigmatically like the Mona Lisa. Lucy went to the poster and planted a long kiss on the lips. “There,” she said. “Let’s make Darren jealous, eh?” She played the ballet music. A few glasses later she was twirling round with the bottle in her hand. “Why won’t you dance with me Dracula? Why?” Face to face with the poster, she emptied her longing into his eyes.

Shrouded in dust, the office was a living death. Could you sue life, she wondered, for giving you no gift but itself? There must be something about it in all those dusty, crumbling files she handled daily – death certificates, last testaments, documents long buried from the light of day; so many papers yet so little life.

As October drew to a close the first frosts sugared the fringes of the night. Lucy loved Halloween. Once all the ‘Trick or Treaters,’ had gone she prepared to spend the evening with Dracula. Dressed for the role in her floatiest negligee, she drew the curtains and lit candles on a low table. She poured two glasses of wine, as if she were really expecting a visitor, selected the music on her I-pod and lay on the bed, keyed up for that initial electrifying scream.

This music was intense and invigorating. Her whole being wanted to dance. She shut her eyes and allowed herself to dream that she was on stage – the tea rooms in Whitby. The other members of the company moved in slow motion. Gabriella stood still and watched. Only Lucy and Dracula existed in real time. He approached and held out his hand – to her alone. They danced round each other, he seductive and she, shy of contact with this beguiling stranger.

Feeney’s music became darker and deeper in tone. The tidal ebb and flow of notes, the dripping cadences of the leitmotif and slow, repetitive drum beats intensified. An involuntary shudder made Lucy open her eyes. Something or someone had entered the room. A sudden draught had chilled her. She could not pinpoint it – but that there had been a change, she was sure. The music deepened her sense of menace. She rose to switch on the light but before she did so, something caught her attention – something in the mirror. Lucy stared into it, perplexed. It took some seconds to determine the nature of that change, yet once observed it was inescapable. The poster in the mirror – was blank. Unwillingly she turned her head to look at the poster itself. The image was still there. She expelled the breath she had been involuntarily holding.

Lucy looked at the bottle. She hadn’t drunk that much. She laughed to dispel the tension and said, “Well, Drac?” But the image before her began to cloud and fade – became less and less distinct, then melted to a ubiquitous dun.

“Lucy?”

The voice was fathomless. She swung around.

“Come Lucy, you know who I am.”

Of course she knew.

“Shall we?”

Her entire body and will yielded to her long pent up desires. Every hair affirmed consent as she stepped forward and took his hand. His compelling body pressed against hers. He slowly began to sway her to and fro, and she recognized his supremacy of strength and authority. She felt him control her every gesture, as any great dancer will, and she was truly dancing – effortlessly, gracefully. He spun her round at dazzling speed and holding her waist, ran his hand flat from her neck to her pounding breast where it rested. Her breath quickened and her pulse pumped. He felt it too. She knew he felt it too. His eyes flashed red as his tongue brushed his lips. Lucy blenched. She felt a slow paralysis caress her limbs. She was pinioned, unable to evade his gaze.

The drumbeats of the music slowed the heart and the leitmotif, instead of reaching its climax, acquired bathos and quieted to a hypnotic hush. Lucy could not recall ever having heard this passage before. It was deeply disturbing, darker and more sinister than she remembered. It echoed through her body, reached down inside her, visceral yet cold and unrelenting. Lucy shuddered.

He drew her closer. “You are not afraid, Lucy?” he whispered.

Something – an intake of breath almost a hiss made her bite her lip and it began to bleed again. He put a finger to her mouth and tasted the warmth of her blood. Time seemed suspended and as she fell limp into in the crook of a strong arm. Looking up, she did not quite recognize the face that bent over hers but she felt his icy breath on her neck.

 
About the Author

Oonah V Joslin

Oonah writes mostly Flash Fiction and Poetry. Halloween brings out the goth in her. You can find links to more of her work at www.oonahs.blogspot.com Oonah is Managing Editor of Every Day Poets.