Dione
By Jess Kaan
Translated by Sheryl Curtis

t was a stormy night and TF1 was broadcasting an old episode of Fantômas. The credits had just started when someone pounded on the mechanical shutter of the front door: heavy, violent, rhythmic blows. Like the beating of a heart, but a heart in turmoil, on the verge of exploding. A noise made all the more unsettling by the rain-lashed PVC.

Sitting in her leather armchair, Mama stood up abruptly, then looked at my father, worried. Who could that be, her eyes screamed.

Waking with a start, Dad sighed. The day spent with the family had taken its toll on him. Between the barbecue, the soccer game and the stroll at the Platier d’Oye, the natural reservoir where we occasionally liked to spend time, he’d spent the day on the go. The heavy heat that overwhelmed us had done nothing to improve his temper.

At the time, my father was staggering from fatigue, working under the table on Saturdays, to make ends meet.

Frequently, come Sunday, he was exhausted. Between working at the plant and moonlighting, he would fall asleep in the early evening and wake up the next morning at about four o’clock to start his regular week. The lot of the average working man…

That evening, I was lying on the floor, surrounded by a cordon of bellicose Action Men. The hammering at the door had surprised me and I glanced at the shutter, as it quivered with painful spasms. Its vibrations terrified me. The show was no longer of interest; someone had interrupted, ruining it for me. If I could have, I would have made them disappear. Or better yet, I would have turned time back, erasing the annoyance.

As my parents darted questions at one another with their eyes, I hunkered down against the sofa, fearing that Fantômas, with his horrible blue/green mask, would reach through the screen and carry me off.

At seven years old, this agonizing fear gnawed at me. The week before, I had flipped though all of the pages of the TV guide until I came to the frightful image of Jean Marais’ masked face. Once before, I had had the impression that his criminal glance had trapped mine, trying to control me, to force me to bend over the photo. All the monster had to do was grab and devour me.

I was a normal kid, with stupid fears, something I didn’t realize at the time. Whatever drove me to leaf through the magazine worried me. Was I crazy? If I provoked the monster, he would catch me. Strangely enough, I found this confrontation pleasurable. It was that sense of well-being that drew me back to the photo each time. 

Mama turned the volume down, a pathetic strategy. Our visitor would eventually get tired, depart, and leave us in peace, I thought. On a stormy night, no one would be crazy enough to stay out in the rain. No one.

Sinister and demented, the hammering immediately accelerated: the other understood our maneuver. He knew we were at home. Fantômas knew. He was coming for me. No way was he leaving. Exasperated, Papa finally stood up, but I held on to him with all my strength.

“Don’t go,” I begged.

“It’s nothing.  Most likely a neighbor.”

Even though I was only seven years old, the knowledge that my father had lied to me deliberately upset me. A neighbor on a night like this? Besides, our house was located at the edge of the village. As far as the other kids were concerned, I wasn’t even from Teefkerque. Teefkerque was the place, where Louis Caron lived and where, occasionally, Émile Zola also lived, a place where the Well Fair Gang hung out.

I had no idea who the Well Fair Gang might be at the time, but I was as wary of them as I was of extraterrestrials.  In fact, I was an ET in my own way. We lived away from the others, our only horizon the fields that lay front and back of us, the village off in the distance to our left, and a splendid view of the A16 highway to our right. Playing alone didn’t bother me. I was used to it.

My whining changed nothing. Papa went to the door. Blows hammered at the shutter with each step he took. Bang. Bang. Bang. All too soon, the horror would enter our home.

“It’s Fantômas,” I shouted with a leap. 

Mama rebuked me, “Stop being so silly or you’ll go to bed.” Anger not fear.

Papa took the key for the mechanical shutter from the nail near the entrance. He inserted it in the lock and turned. Fantômas. With a frightful racket, the mechanical shutter lifted— Fantômas is going to catch me!—surprising our visitor.

I stepped back when I saw him. Mama said, “Ask him what he wants” in a tone that sounded less than reassured. But Papa had no intention of letting the stranger, who was drenched to the bone, unnerve him.

The man was very tall.  His skin was swarthy and the rain ran down from his black hair. His eyes were disturbing.  Today, I’d say that they were the eyes of a lunatic.

The strange man grabbed my father’s hand and started to speak, words rushing out. Oddly enough, I didn’t understand a word he said. Papa replied, “Speak French?” to which the guy shook his head, rushing on in his gibberish.

Papa shrugged, but the stranger insisted. His abrupt gestures frightened me; I didn’t dare move. Finally, Mama got involved, had the man repeat what he had been saying, and managed to make out two words from his double Dutch. Help, house.

“I don’t understand a word,” murmured Papa.

“Call the police,” replied Mama. “That will make him leave.  He must be an illegal alien.”

“No police,” protested the stranger. “No police.”

No police. With my seven-year-old wisdom, that refusal astonished me.  How could someone not accept help from the police? Obviously a criminal. An illegal? Papa and Mama had always told me that the police protected honest citizens. And this guy who had come to our door late at night, this strange guy was afraid of the police. An escapee. A terrorist.

“I don’t care if he’s illegal or not,” Papa replied. “I’m calling the cops. I’m calling the police,” he repeated for the visitor.

Panic flashed across the stranger’s face. He shoved my father, sending him sprawling against the dresser in the entrance. Then he rushed through the room, pushed Mama, and grabbed me.

It’s Fantômas, I thought.  He’s going to carry me off and I’ll never see my parents again!

Visions of a haunted castle, of dragons, of torture devastated me. Yet, I tried to stay calm. In fact, I was sniffing the man’s odor. He smelled of sweat, but also another scent, one I didn’t recognize. Terror?

“Let my son go,” shouted my father.

“Help,” replied the other.  “Come with me.”

“Let my son go!”

My father clenched his fists, about to take on the visitor. But the stranger caught him off guard and took a knife from his pocket. Gauging his adversary, he placed the blade against my throat. I struggled to keep from peeing my pants. I had to be brave. Fantômas was going to kill me and that was that. Papa made a peaceful gesture. He spoke of talking. Mama told me to stay calm.

That was easy for her to say. She wasn’t at the mercy of some guy who would slit her throat if things went badly.

While holding me against him, the illegal alien headed towards the door. In a little while, he’d see what it cost to threaten the child of the household. But Mama shouted, “No, Thomas!” freezing the paternal anger.

As he reached the threshold, the visitor motioned Papa out. “Your car!” he ordered. Mama clasped her hands over her mouth, holding back her cries, encouraging me. Papa followed the man and me outside.

“No police!” he said again. “No police, please!”

The last word sounded like a plea. It almost upset me.

Papa took the keys to our car from the dresser. Then he ran to the garage, opening the door hastily. The violent rain, the downpour, had drenched my clothing. Water ran off the man.  But, although he was thoroughly drenched, he made an effort to control himself. Doggedly, he held me tightly, like the most precious of hostages.

Pushing the pedal to the floor, Papa flew out of the garage. He immediately opened the door on the driver’s side and said to the guy, “Take my car. Take my car and leave!” 

“No,” replied the illegal. “You come! You drive.”

Frozen in the doorway, Mama nodded. My father jumped in behind the steering wheel. The stranger then pushed me into the car. Then, he pointed to the right, the car starting at his command. We were hostages.  The criminal’s hostages.  I got that right away. Unarmed and powerless. Victims.

The rain on the windows, the weary wipers chasing away the flood, the countryside around us, the odors…everything was different. Shifted. Subjected to this man’s will. Even the noise of the flasher… so distant… and alive. After we had driven a kilometer, the stranger pointed to the right again.

“What do you want?” Papa asked. “There’s nothing there.  Nothing but the highway.”

The road wound over five kilometers, until it reached the A16. A real quagmire in November, when the trucks parade down it, carrying their loads of beets.

The stranger held me tighter, forcing my father to accelerate. 

“I think he wants to take us to the old house,” I stammered.

For five long minutes, we drove in heavy silence. Papa tried to talk, to calm the illegal.  But he wasn’t listening. He looked pressed for time, as if Fantômas were after him. Or worse, the Devil.  That thought sent shivers up and down my back.

I thought about Mama back at the house and felt sad for her. Would she call the police?  Put us all in danger? How was this adventure going to end? A blockade on the highway, shots, the car exploding with us inside? The rest was a foregone conclusion: our skin devoured by the fire. No way out of the vehicle.  Burned alive.

My imagination ran wild, showing me images of carbonized bodies, and yet curiously, the more I thought about it, the better I felt. I no longer needed to pee. Despite my sadness for Mama, I was quite enjoying my experience. The stranger’s body against mine, his odor, the fear, the tension in each of us, the blade ready to slash me. The situation electrified me.  I wanted to see blood flow. Death strike.

As we approached the curve near the house, the stranger shouted “Stop!”  Papa obeyed immediately. I protested, struggled, fought for better or for worse. Enraged, the stranger tore me from the car. Immediately, my father joined us, standing in front of the old ruin.

It had once been a brick house, not a terribly comfortable one. A three-room dwelling with no running water, heated by a coal fire. Too small, too far from everything. Its occupants had vainly built on an adjoining room of concrete blocks, a practical, graceless construction. When the owners had passed away, no one wanted the building. The vagaries of the weather had then beaten it down. Storms had carried off some of the tiles, pierced through the sheet metal roof of the addition. Saturday night vandals had then systematically demolished the window panes. And as for the door, it was probably rotting in a nearby ditch.

“That’s enough,” shouted Papa. “What do you want? Let my son go or I’ll… I’ll kill you.”

I’ve often thought about that night. Each time, he barks out “kill.” A flurry races through the surrounding fields, like a phantom horse; the water whips our faces. And, surprisingly, I smile. If only Papa would kill that man, I’d see his brains spilled on the ground. Brain stew. Amazing!

“Come!”

Dragging me, the stranger soon stood on the threshold of the ruin. Once again, Papa had no choice but to follow us. But he had run out of patience. Unless it would mean injuring me, he would intervene. You can feel these things when you know people.

In fact, my father was on the look-out.  His eyes were sharper than any blade. He was not about to miss his shot. The slightest misstep and…

A cry rose up from the house, nailing us both in place. A cry or rather I should say a death rattle. It was so weak. Between two gusts of wind, we detected a male voice, fading away, like that of a dying man.

“Please,” the stranger said, pushing me to the ground.

“Antoine, come here,” Papa hissed.

I didn’t move. My father’s lips moved; he was calling me. Yet, I turned back to the house. That morbid curiosity.  Like with Fantômas.

Inside, the man called out again. The illegal alien stretched his hands out to the old hut, as if inviting us into his home, his humble hovel. Papa didn’t move; his anger seemed to have cooled. Well, at least I thought so. I tried to peer through the shadow, suddenly able to make out vague silhouettes. A hideous odor assailed my nostrils, a blend of dampness and other disgusting scents. Excrement, urine, earth that has been turned over and another scent even more repugnant. One I didn’t recognize. I could make out three men. Small.  So very small that at first I thought they were dwarves.

Faced with my fascination, my father walked over in turn. Either that or curiosity got the best of him. The stranger murmured words of comfort. But the other man didn’t answer.

Papa was standing right behind us when the flash of lightning tore through the sky, followed by a deafening explosion. It lit the house up with a light that was both unhealthy yet bright enough. Three men were inside.  Three dying men. At least what remained of them. Then I understood.  These men were not naturally small. The image burned into me, more fearsome than all the Fantômas in the world. The men were small because they had no legs.

All that was left of the first was a pathetic trunk. His hands, reached up to the sky, begging for an improbable deliverance which Lady Death refused to provide. The unfortunate man’s body flowed, in a sticky, effervescent liquid on the ground, feeding the floor tiles and, beneath them, the foundation of the dwelling.

The other men were hardly in any better shape. Lying on the ground, a head emerged, warped by suffering and decomposition, mouth opening and closing like that of a guppy. Was it some exhortation to murder? His dark hair cascaded onto the floor of the house, fraying as it came into contact with the devouring soil. A head. No body.

Remains of an insect digested by a carnivorous plant…

Finally, the last man was stuck to one of the gutted walls of the old shack. He was melting into the partition, grotesquely, flesh and mildewed plaster melding. Slowly, but surely, the building sucked him in, swallowing his flesh, sucking in his blood. 

“Help,” stammered the stranger.

“It can’t be…” Papa said.  “It can’t be starting all over again.”

One final groan and the ‘man head’ released a sound like that of a water bomb bursting.

“Help me,” begged the illegal.

“Okay.”

Our visitor had barely taken a step towards the building when my father shoved him violently. Surprised by the attack, caught off balance, the man reached out, searching for a handhold. He grabbed the door case. His entire face a terrible “why?” But the rotten wood crumbled under his fingers and he fell into the old house.

He screamed for a long time, unable to get up, tortured by something foul, something straight from hell. My father and I stood on the threshold the entire time, watching him die. Occasionally, a flash of lightning would tear through the sky, casting an unsettling flame over the scene. Little by little, his shrieks trailed off into death rattles and the illegal alien accepted his grievous fate.

Then, we went back home. There was no need for Papa to tell me; I never said a word about what happened that night. Mama tried hard to find out what happened, but we were as silent as the sphinx.  Finally, she gave up asking us. As far as she was concerned, the stranger had left.  For God knows where.

I too gave up trying to understand. It can’t be starting all over again. Distance and time did their work. The A16 is over 800 kilometers long. Nineteen years have gone by. Doubt. Forgetting. Memory is of no consequence for black souls.

Yet, this evening, when the young girl came hammering on the door, I thought back over the stranger’s death. I accompanied my nocturnal visitor to the house where her boyfriend was supposedly stuck in the rotten floor. I didn’t ask her what they were both doing in that old shack. I simply prayed that it was just a coincidence. But when we reached the threshold, there was no doubt about it. The poor guy was screaming.

“It’s eating me.” He shouted.  “This house is…alive.”

Then I knew it was starting all over again.

I did the same thing my father had done with that illegal alien so many years ago.  I grabbed the girl by the shoulders and threw her into the monster’s maw. Into this trapping structure. Devoured by the thing, dissolved by gastric juices, that beautiful child shriveled up and died, after suffering atrociously. Blood flowed, sprayed; her intestines were strewn about, hideous serpents. A vile mess, punctuated with curses.

Once again, the creature in the old house won.  She always wins, thanks to us. Those who escape from her fall into our nets and…the curse catches them, catches us.

We’re a part of this monster. We are her legs, hers arms. We look like hope. But we are bad seeds, only devoted to her…

Some evenings, the obvious leaps right out at you. Some people say the names are an inheritance of our ancestors’ acts. Sure, they are right. That evening, for example, I realized why I’m called Antoine Dione. Named for the Dionaea muscipula, the venus flytrap.

I finally realized…

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