Nefaria--a prose anthology

Lorraine Webber

 Lorraine Webber has died.

I got that exact text two days ago, and while I hadn't known her very well--we went to the same school, is all--I still felt a persistent sense of melancholy. That's the reason why, when I received another text telling where and when the wake is, I packed an overnight bag and hopped the nearest plane to San Antonio.

The wake is being held at her house, nestled just beyond the city limits along a stretch of empty road. She lived alone, and that strikes me as odd as the taxi rolls into her driveway, seeing as it's less of a house and more of a mansion. Almost thirty cars are here, scattered among the well-kept garden plots. I thank and pay the taxi driver, and grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder as I walk to the house.

A woman in a navy suit greets me at the door and takes my bag, ushering it off with a young boy. "Your room is the west wing, third story, second door on the left," she drones, as if she's been saying something of the like all day.

I thank her, and enter the house, immediately swept up in the grandiosity of the whole thing. People float around the grand entrance, stagger on the sweeping stairs that must wind up four stories, at least. Everyone is adorned in sweeping dresses and pristine suits; I feel sorely underdressed.

I immediately notice a man walking among the guests, asking the name of everyone he talks too before wandering away. He carries himself differently; something more businesslike and dutiful. I drift towards him as subtly as I can.

He finds my eyes and extends his hand, a smile on his face that holds no real joy.

"Mercer Finnegan," he says, his voice magnetic.

"Eliza Shantry," I reply, shaking his hand.

Something in his face changes, and his smile turns real.

"Ah, Miss Shantry. I've been looking for you."

I incline my head. "What for?"

Mercer steps forward, bending his head to me. "Miss Webber has left you in her will," he says, his voice low.

I shake my head. "That can't be right." I hardly even knew her, maybe only talked to her in the classes we shared back in highschool, and that's it.

He continues on as if I hadn't spoken. "It's not to be announced during the will reading--she made sure to specify that. I was asked to do this subtly." He reaches inside his overcoat and pulls out a small envelope. He presses this into my hand, and before I can speak another word, he disappears.

I stare at the envelope in my hand, half crumbled and no writing decorating the face. I move to the staircase and ascend, reaching the third floor. I find my way to what the woman at the door said was my room. I open the door to a small guest room, consisting of a bed on which sits my bag, a window with a thin, sweeping curtain pulled over it, and a small powder room.

I lock the door and fall onto the bed. I rip open the envelope and pull out the contents--a single key, with a small strip of paper tied to the end. As soon as the metal touches my skin, a pervailing sense of dread settles over me like a thick layer of plaster that I'm unable to shake. All the paper says is 'basement' in thick, simple lettering.

I let my hand fall to my side, letting the key spill onto the bed, yet even without touching it, the waves of dread don't subside. I close my eyes for what I think is only a moment, and when I open them, the sunlight streaming through the window is gone, replaced with dusky hues. I sit up, smoothing down my hair and straightening my shirt.

I make my way downstairs, the key nestled in my back pocket. I realize most of the chatter has moved, and I follow the sound to a dining room with four tables stretching underneath rows of miniature chandeliers. Food is arrayed buffet-style on long cabinets lining one of the walls. I fall in line and pile two plates full of food.