The Cult of Rohesia: Dora (3/3)

She's still here. She's right here with me. Good.

It's exactly like Michelle said it would be. Cold, and I'm about as stiff as I'd expect after laying motionless for about forty-eight hours. My head feels foggy. It's like I was somewhere else, except it was nowhere. That makes no sense, does it? I can't believe I went through with this. Can't believe it worked. I mean, why not try it, if you can be reasonably sure you won't be in danger? Brrr.

Nicolas comes upstairs with a mug of tea, like Michelle did for him when he was dead. Michelle helps me sit up, then sits in the middle of the couch and passes the tea from Nicolas to me. He's sitting on her other side. It's a little crowded, but whatever—

This tea. "How did you know I like Moroccan mint tea with milk and sugar?" I don't know anyone else who drinks it likes this.

"I saw this in advance, too," Nicolas says. "That moment just now. Mostly just your voice asking how I knew what kind of tea you like. Those exact words and tone. And an impression of you sitting there, holding that mug. I found it in a store the day after I saw it in a vision."

That's a little off-putting. But I'm not going to let it ruin this tea for me. "Déjà vu?"

"I grew used to it a long time ago."

"Creepy."

"How do you feel?" Michelle asks.

"Kinda fuzzy?" More like prickly, from the cold, but Michelle sitting right next to me and the tea and the blanket she put around my shoulders are all helping with that.

"It'll pass," Nicolas says. We don't say much after that. When I get hungry, we eat breakfast.

"Dora, you may as well come to church with us, since we'll be learning the ritual chant and movements afterward," Nicolas says when I start to head for the door.

Ha. Ha ha ha. Absolutely not. I can be generous, though. "Pick one, Nicolas."

"Fine. We're skipping church today," he says without hesitating. Actually, he might even be smiling. Did I play right into his hands? Damnit. Whatever. This is all absurd, but I think I'm running out of fucks to give about it.

So we wait for Princess Emilie to get something in her stomach (she died last month), and for the twins to drive here. And then Nicolas assigns us all cardinal directions, which determine our position as we line up to go downstairs (I'm between Michael and Emilie). Then he leads us into the basement. And fuck, is he a strict teacher. Maybe it's the Victorian in him. Edwardian. Whichever.

Anyway, the basement is about half a story down from the entryway, so it has a higher ceiling than anywhere else in the house. There's enough sunlight coming in through the windows near the ceiling to see by—for now, at least. And there are five white circles painted on the floor. The one in the middle is bigger than the others. We all stand in one of them, and mine (west) is the second to the left when you come down the stairs. Michael and Mark are both standing in the next circle for some reason. There isn't really enough room for two of them to stay inside the lines. Wonder what's up with that?

I don't know exactly how long Nicolas drills us on the chant. He's in the middle circle, with plenty of room to spare. It's not very long, but it takes him a long time to be happy with it. Doesn't help that it's sheer fucking gibberish. He says we have to be in perfect unison. But eventually, Nicolas is satisfied.

"One more thing, before you two leave," he says once we're out of the basement. Emilie and the twins head upstairs. He'd better make it quick.

"Is this about—uh—you and Mark and Michael? In the rites?" Michelle asks.

I don't think I like the way she asked that question. What's Nicolas hiding from us now? Or is it just me?

"Oh good, you already know. Why don't you be a dear and tell Dora for me?" Oh, fuck him. He doesn't get to talk to her like that.

"Uh," is she doing it? Michelle's actually going for it. "Okay, so Nicolas was here when you woke up, right? I literally didn't have time to tell you anything."

"I mean, you could have over breakfast?" I say.

She makes another weird face. Different from the weird face she made a minute ago when Nicolas asked her to explain for him. Both kind of adorable, but whatever she's reacting to must affect me, and I'm guessing it's going to be something at least mildly unpleasant.

"Uh, no, that wouldn't have been good,” she says. “You'll know why in a sec. You know how they were both standing in the same spot when we rehearsed?" I nod. "So, uh, while you were asleep, Michael called me and said that's not how the actual ritual is gonna go. He or Mark has to have sex with Nicolas. In the middle of the circle. While we chant."

What?

I mean, Nicolas only looks mildly uncomfortable. This is clearly a joke, then. He's messing with me. Michelle's in on it. I'm embarrassed at how loud I laugh, but I can't help it. "Oh my god. That's so gross. Oh. Good one, you guys. Very funny."

Except—except they aren't joking. Jesus Christ. No wonder Nicolas kept this to himself for so long. It's exactly like Michelle was saying this whole time. “But it's just the twins, though, right?”

Nicolas nods.

"And, like, you keep saying we can back out whenever, right? That doesn't have an expiration date?"

"No,” he says. “Not even after we start performing the rite. Any of you are free to leave at any time. All you need to do is miss one of the rites."

Surely Mark won't actually go through with this, though. And I mean, that's kind of a relief? Like, I wasn't totally ruling out the possibility that I might actually see something that could help my mom, but I can't imagine what. And I don't think a jail break is in the cards. I've been thinking about it a lot. Fantasizing, I mean.

The reality is, even if we got her out, she'd go right back to being a fugitive, and she'd have to relocate without getting caught. Surveillance and digital everything being the way it is these days, I'm not sure how feasible that is, or if it's even worth it if it is possible. I don't like it, but I can't do much about it, other than visit my mom as often as I can. Accepting that might be the best thing I can do for both of us. She always seems more worried about me than anything else when we talk.

With that knowledge, though, hanging around Nicolas is getting extra awkward. Like, I can keep the feelings at bay for now, but the sooner we leave and I can get him out of my head for good, the better. He's a hundred eighteen. It's more years than most people get. It's more than he wanted, if I believe the things that come out of his mouth. I can't quite logic my way out of feeling bad for him, though, not entirely. And I'm really not a fan of that.

“Okay. Well. 'Bye then.” What else am I supposed to say? I won't see him around. And I'm not grateful for any of what he's done. I don't have the nerve to say “rest in peace” to his face.

Ughhhh why is Michelle lingering? I feel like I'm gonna barf. She's just standing there, looking at Nicolas.

“Any last words?” he finally asks, teasingly.

“I'm glad I met you, Nicolas,” Michelle says after a few seconds.

“Same to you, Michelle.”

Can we go already?

<<>>

"I need you to come back to the house for the rite next month," she says.

Of course. Of course that's why she'd call me. She never calls. Of course it would be for those assholes. "You need me? Or Nicolas does?"

"Mark decided he wants to do it. And I know he doesn't really want to, so—so he has a good reason. He's not like Michael, Dora, I swear there's not even a shadow of a chance he's the least bit sexually attracted to Nicolas."

"Uh, okay, so Mark is a masochist, therefore you need me to enable him? Am I getting that right?"

Michelle sighs. "Look. There's a reason, okay? It's not really my problem to share, but you can trust me that there is one. All you have to do is stand there for a little while and chant. Can you do it for me?"

She knows. She knows she's the only one of them who can get to me emotionally. I don't know if she knows why, she's rather dense that way, but she knows she has some sway over me. And she's using it for all it's worth.

I hate this. I should have stopped talking to her in July. "You want me to trust you? How 'bout you trust me for once? Tell me what this 'reason' of Mark's is."

She hesitates. I wait. Finally, she speaks up. "Okay. Fine. Uh, I forget, did you ever hear about how they grew up separately and only met each other, like, right before the dinners at the house started?"

"No. No, I didn't. Sounds sketchy. Go on."

"Okay, so, their dad took Michael when they were too young to remember and moved to California with him. Mark found him on social media earlier this year, and he came up to visit, except I guess that visit... turned into a move."

"Sounds like Michael so far."

"Yeah. Anyway, that's not my point. My point is, Mark grew up knowing nothing about his father. But Michael was raised by him. And it turns out he's got hereditary dementia. It starts around the age of forty in their family. But if they do the rites and don't age past there, they probably won't get it. That's why Mark wants to do it. You happy?"

Oh god, why is she so gullible? She wasn't like this when we met. Or at least, she didn't act like it. I guess she must've just been good at hiding it under a load of pseudo-intellectual bullshit. "No. That's not how Alzheimer's works, Michelle. It just happens to people. That's all."

"It's not Alzheimer's. He doesn't have memory issues, but he has really low inhibitions so he acts weird. Look, it's not my story to tell, but I believe them. Michael sounded really down when he told me. And I don't think he'd lie to Mark about something like that, at least."

"Ugh. Fine." I can Google it later. "Can I think about it? Or were you hoping for an instant commitment?"

"Dora, why would Mark go through with this if he didn't think there was a really solid chance he or Michael might develop obscenely young-onset dementia?"

"The key word there is 'think,' Michelle. Maybe they're overreacting. Have you ever thought of that?"

"I looked it up, Dora. Frontotemporal dementia. It matches what Michael was describing."

“Can't he get a test for that or something? Did he say if he's gotten tested?”

“I looked that up, too. He didn't say anything about it, but the genetic tests are expensive, and if you test positive it makes it really hard to get life insurance and stuff. People can access the records.”

I mean, I guess she's probably right. She can't be completely stupid. She got into McGill. "Let me do my own research, okay? I'll get back to you tomorrow. Good enough?"

"Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I've said everything there is to say. Thanks, Dora."

"Don't thank me yet." I hang up before the conversation can get any more vomit-inducing.

I mean, I'm pretty sure I know what I'm gonna find. The question is, do I care about Mark enough to make that group of people and that fucking creepy house a regular part of the rest of my life? If I'm not leaving now, then I'm not gonna leave in the future. Not unless something game-changingly awful happens.

But I mean, it's not like I have much to lose. And the visions could be useful. And Mark seemed pretty all right. But I'm not responsible for ensuring he doesn't get dementia, damnit.

<<>>

He's really throwing up in there. Huh.

I was ready to dismiss it all as brain fog from the uh—shock? shock—of actually carrying out that ritual. I never really thought about what it would be like to have waking visions like that, even though they were all pretty mundane. I mean, mundane for my mom, at least. There isn't technically anything all that mystical about setting cars in a dealership on fire. And movies have explosions like that all the time. I'm desensitized to it. It was the way the sights just—took over my head, grabbed hold of all my senses and ripped them away from my actual surroundings to show me these other things. I wouldn't have thought it was possible if Nicolas had tried to explain it in more detail in advance. I'm not sure I even would have understood.

Nicolas. I can hear him retching through the bathroom door. I mean, you could tell he was uncomfortable before and during the ritual, to say the least. Maybe that should have been enough for me to believe what he's been saying about not wanting to actually continue this whole time.

Is it wrong to need evidence of his feelings this extreme to be convinced? I suppose if I wanted to keep being cynical, I could tell myself he's putting his fingers down his throat, all to convince me. Even though the only thing weirder than standing outside a bathroom listening to someone empty their stomach is expecting someone else to do it.

I still think my reaction was fair, to start out with. Surely he could have gotten my attention in a way that looked at least a little less like blackmail.

I didn't have pre-existing ties to him the way the others did, though. Even Michelle knew of his existence before all this. And his partner had connected with her parents well before his death. My mom, on the other hand, used to stare at him when her grandparents made her go to church when she was, like, probably three from the looks of it. I barely recognized her in the vision—just kind of knew it was her. Barely recognized Nicolas, either. I can understand why she stared. He looked like a woman even in a suit. But you could also tell he wasn't. He was pretty. And the vibe he was putting off then was completely different.

It wasn't that he looked happy, exactly—he wasn't smiling. Looked a little sleepy. I saw a woman who looked like Emilie but shorter poke him in the ribs during the service to keep him from dozing off. I guess that was another reason to stare. Even though he didn't look happy at the time, the difference between then and now was like night and day. He came off like he was someone else entirely.

I shouldn't stand in front of the door like this. He might open the door suddenly and catch me listening. I head downstairs to—to get myself something to drink. I don't feel like leaving yet. I wouldn't have been able to imagine feeling that way even this morning. Maybe I can find some food. I haven't eaten all day.

Nicolas hasn't, either. What would he want? Crackers? Toast? Ginger ale? Can't find any crackers, but there's a loaf of bread and a toaster oven. If he doesn't want the toast, I'll eat it. God, I'm doing the same exact thing I used to hate seeing Michelle do.

My reaction was fair, to start out with. But somewhere along the line, the cynicism kind of took over. I was—eh, I mean I was still protecting myself, but I was protecting myself from empathizing with any of them. That probably wasn't necessary. I definitely don't want to keep it up. Do I have to actually apologize, though?

I go back upstairs with a plate of toast and glass of water. There's nowhere to set it where I can be sure he'll find it. Don't need him tripping on the water or stepping on the toast on his way out of the bathroom. Actually, it looks like he's not even in there any more. I didn't see him on my way up, so he must be changing out of the ritual robe. (I know what you're picturing. I don't mean ooky-spooky hooded cloaks. They're white tunics, basically. Or off-white. Soft and old. Probably made of linen.)

I don't think I've ever been in this room on my own before. Or at least, not while I was awake. Mark ran outside, and Michael and Emilie followed him as soon as they had their street clothes back on.

Mark. That was—deeply unnerving doesn't do it justice. Watching him practically get raped. I know it wasn't. He consented. Nicolas gave him every opportunity not to go through with it, but you could still tell how he was feeling. And that wasn't even the weirdest part. When Nicolas stopped fucking him, the first thing he did wasn't walking up to Michelle and taking her hands. That was second.

The first thing he did was lay down on the floor, face-up. And when he stood up again, he had another body that stayed on the floor. Or maybe the body that stood up was the other body. They looked identical. And his hands were definitely real. I could feel them. They felt like anyone's hands. There was this weird electric feel to everything, but that was kind of everywhere. It got more intense when he took my hands and the visions started, but I still don't think it came from his hands. Or at least, not just his hands.

Anyway. I wonder if there's still a body laying on the basement floor, and if it has a pulse. But Nicolas put an iron door stop between the door and the doorway, then told us not to go back down there under any circumstances. Then Michelle said she needed a ride. I gave her my car keys. Didn't feel steady enough to be driving, but she looked so full of purpose that I assumed she'd be okay.

There's Nicolas. "You hungry?" I ask. I'm still sitting on the couch. Probably fifteen feet away from him. Better get up.

Looks like I startled him. He turned his head awfully fast. Now he's looking at the toast. "I suppose," he murmurs. He sounds weak. "Thank you."

He goes into one of the bedrooms to change first. Then he takes the plate and glass from me and we go downstairs. He follows me into the kitchen and leans against the counter while I make myself a sandwich and some tea. That would have bugged me before, but I don't say anything. I don't even mind. Maybe he can tell. Maybe he feels the same way. He pours himself a glass of wine and follows me again when I head for the stairs to wait for Michelle.

I finished my sandwich and she still isn't back. Neither of us has said anything. "Um. Hey, Nicolas? Can we start over?"

"How do you mean?" he asks me.

I was hoping he wouldn't ask me that. "Uh—I've been a bit much. I know I have. And when I didn't know what was going on, I still think I was justified. But even after that, I was still acting like kind of an asshole. I was treating you all like people I was going to leave behind in a minute, because—because I was. Or I thought I was. But now I'm not. So, I was wrong. And I'm gonna try to be less harsh with you guys from now on. Okay?"

Nicolas smiles faintly into his wine glass. "Okay, Dora."

"I was wrong. I'm sorry."

He finally looks at me. Still smiling. Touches my shoulder with feather-lightness. "It's okay, Dora. Let's start over." For a second, he reminds me of the person I saw my mom staring at in the vision.

I nod, and manage to smile back at him. Then I look away again. Eventually, Michelle turns up. First thing she does is hand me my car keys back.

"Thanks, Dora." She looks tired, but way more relaxed than when she left.

"No problem. Everything all right?" I ask.

Michelle shudders. "Barely. My mom almost set the house on fire. I got there just in time."

Sounds intense. I open my mouth to ask her to explain how that happened, but she's already picking her way past me and Nicolas. I guess we are kind of blocking the way. Nicolas doesn't look like he's going to move, though. I don't really feel like it, either.