Ante Mortem

FETCHING NARISSA David Chrisom

Narissa had no idea that her campus was a hunting ground.

Even if she had been warned, she would have called the students’ rumors of “hauntings” mere fantasy. She did not believe in ghosts. Quite the contrary, the halls of Boston’s Mass College of Art were infested by cunning creatures so ordinary in daily appearance that one might have passed one by and never given it a second look.

Certainly, the odds are great that you yourself have looked a Fetch in its face at one time or another. You would remember the honeyed smell of almonds that pervades its breath.

Narissa simply had no idea. Her head was lost in the clouds before she ever learned of such abhorrent creatures as the Fetch.

She was a success in her first year, passing with honors in every class. During her second semester, on the last Monday in January, Narissa decided to skip art history class. This led to missing her English class the same afternoon and ditching an anatomy class every art major was expected to take.

The girl rose each morning that week, dressed in drab clothes to keep the cold off her skin, slipped her backpack through her arms and walked from her cramped sublet to the subway. Instead of riding the T to her stop on Huntington Avenue, which dropped her off at the front steps of the school, she calmly exited the train at the Copley shops station.

By the time the train moved on to Huntington, Narissa stood at a counter in the food court. She ordered a low-fat cranberry-nut muffin and a hot chocolate. She ate her breakfast, wandering past the colossal window displays for Louis Vuitton and Christian Dior. How exciting it must be on the photo shoots with the exotic models in Morocco and Aruba, she imagined.

Narissa longed to be anyplace but dreary Boston on a frigid day.

After she finished the muffin and chocolate, she strolled through Borders bookstore. She would live in a bookstore if it were legal; she experienced an innate tranquility when she surrounded herself with stacks of books. The anticipation of reading a new novel was sometimes better than the actual story that leapt off the page.

Most often, she purchased a new thriller and got back on the train. Reading while she rode the T all the way out to Braintree, she would turn around and shoot back into Boston. Sometimes, she spent the entire day riding the train and reading.

That was before she learned of creatures called the Fetch.

One lazy afternoon, loafing in bed engrossed in a new Dean Koontz novel, a beep from her computer indicated she had received an email:

Hey Narissa. I looked for U after art history let out.

Where are U? Do U have a cold? Can I come by?

I’ll bring the soup this time.

She smiled; the message was sent from her current flame, Noel Berman, a sweet-faced, tawny boy who worked out every morning, perfecting his biceps. He often baited her, playfully quipping, “Do you want tickets to the gun show later?”

Since the first year, they spent most Friday and Saturday nights together. Lately though, she’d found excuses to avoid him.

Narissa had fallen for Noel after they met. He told her he loved her name, because no one else had a name like it. He said, “You’re one of a kind.”

At that time in her life, Narissa had no reason to think otherwise.

She was nineteen years young and careless about almost all things. If funds were low and she ran out of toilet paper, she would snatch a few rolls from the pizza joint restroom behind her apartment. She often forgot to replace detergent in the basement of the sublet and would find nasty, handwritten notes from other students who could not wash their laundry. Your mother doesn’t live here! was her favorite retort.

After Narissa resolved to blow off classes, she also began to withdraw from Noel. She knew he wanted to do something special for Valentine’s Day; she hated that holiday most of all, and she did not want her boyfriend wasting his money on overpriced, dried out roses or an expensive meal in the North End. When she did answer his calls or text messages, she lied, told him it was a flu bug, and promised to see him the following week. She rode the trains all day, reading more books or staring silently at the landscapes whizzing past the windows, wondering where do I go from here? How can anybody feel so alone in a city full of people?

She received an e-mail from Noel:

Glad you’re feeling better. I would love to see you.

Meet me at our bench in the park tomorrow. 6pm.

I’ll bring the guns. XOXO.

Narissa had not contacted him for a week by this point. She missed him, sometimes; the smell of musk that clung to him, his warmth when he held her tight. She assumed that he was being playful, trying to pull her out of her doldrums, in a backhanded, charming way. It was in Noel’s nature that if he ignored an issue, then it really was not a problem for him at all.

It never occurred to her until much later, that Noel might have written in response to someone else’s message.

At the time, she still believed she was one of a kind.

Friday night, Narissa called her Mom. She asked for some money and a care package of dry soups and pasta to be mailed. She sent her love to Dad and their pet terrier, Bugga. Mom begged her to keep warm and come visit soon.

Narissa spent her entire day at the bookstore and came home to read volume one in a fantasy series about a young wizard, apprentice to a dark and powerful warlock. She envied characters in books that could wave their hands and have something magical happen.

Around 6 PM, she remembered Noel’s e-mail inviting her to the park. Tired of reading and with nothing to eat in the apartment besides tasteless crackers, she shrugged her jacket on and bolted from the building so fast, she forgot her cell phone. She’d meant to call or text Noel and alert him that she was running late. He loved her so much, it seemed he would forgive almost anything. Narissa ran a couple of blocks, the cold air slapping at her scarf and made it to the park only fifteen minutes late. She lost steam and halted near the water fountain.

Noel was not alone.

Narissa hid herself in a shadow cast by the stone structure. From this angle, she could easily see Noel seated on a park bench beside a petite figure with black hair, like her own loose, carefree curls.

The stranger was facing Narissa, but her face was cast in darkness. Noel laughed at something the other girl said and the sound of it, the joy of it, cut into Narissa’s heart like a knife. Noel handed the stranger a pink rose, put his arms out and cocooned her against him. Her free hand slithered against his back and squeezed him.

Narissa choked, expelled plumes of icy air. She turned away and put a hand to her stomach. She thought she might be sick, but her belly was empty. It tangled in knots. She felt dizzy and her legs trembled.

A homeless man, reeking of urine, brushed past her and grumbled insane nonsense at her.

She turned, reaching for the fountain, needing to balance herself. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she looked back towards the bench.

Noel and the other girl had left their seat and were walking away. They still had their arms around each other.

Narissa looked away, eyes blurry with stinging tears, and stumbled back to her sublet.

There was a note taped to her door.

She’d forgotten to buy detergent yet again. Damn it.

That Saturday, Narissa never left her bed. Rain stroked the window overhead and made murky reflections shimmy across her body as she tangled in the covers.

She tried to ignore the next text message from Noel:

Y did U leave before I got up? Next time, wake me up. I miss U.

Narissa’s temples thundered. Her bloodshot eyes burned. She could not escape the pain pounding in her head.

When Noel showed up an hour later, rapping at her door, she opened it. Before he could ask her what was wrong, Narissa’s hand darted out like an irate asp, and struck his cheek so hard the sound echoed in the tiny hall. “Hey,” he cried and pulled away from her.

“Don’t ever talk to me again,” she screamed and slammed the door so hard it rattled.

Noel wrestled with the knob, swung the door open and tried to follow her. Narissa picked up a plate from the pile in the sink and hurled it straight at him. It ricocheted off his face and his body bounced back against the doorframe.

Noel swore at her and put his hands to his nose as the plate clattered to the floor. His brow creased in pain, and his eyes glimmered with anguish as he stared at her. He mumbled something that sounded like “Grow up!” and walked away. Narissa heard him pound down the stairs and the front door slam behind him.

She picked up the plate, pressed it against her chest and wept until she felt empty.

The second week in February, she received an e-mail from Professor Kehoe:

Narissa, your essay mirroring the careers of Claude Monet and Edgar Degas is glorious.

If you don’t mind I’d like to read it aloud to the class this week. I think your clever insight should be shared with the other students.

I’d like to recommend you for a semester abroad at Parsons Paris School of Art.

She stared a moment, nibbled a fingernail, and wrote back:

What the heck? Go for it!

She had no clue what her art history teacher was referring to. She had not written an essay and had been ditching his class for three weeks.

That morning, Narissa dressed and took the train straight to Huntington Avenue. She arrived in the Mass Art Building and took the elevator to the seventh floor, where the class was held in an auditorium with stadium seating.

She took a seat at the very back. None of the other students seemed to care. Noel did not come to the lecture.

Professor Kehoe—a bookish man with a squirrel face—stood at the front of the room and read the essay off his laptop. He pointed out Narissa as the author but instead of looking at her seat in the back of the gallery, he singled out a raven-haired girl seated in the front row. He even had the audacity to call her by the same name.

Her duplicate in the front row chuckled with friends on either side who praised the imposter for her sly opinions of Impressionists.

As Narissa in the back of the gallery stared down at her twin, it seemed to her that insects, like angry gnats, darted and flew around the imposter’s head. They mingled in the locks of her hair as if they nested there. No one else seemed aware of it.

Narrisa, the real Narissa stayed calm and quiet. When the class finally let out, the imposter was rushed away by the wave of student bodies; Narissa tagged behind the group, catching glimpses of the other girl.

The imposter swept past an elderly man who was cleaning the floor, and stumbled over his mop. She turned to fix him with a wicked glare, but as in the park, her hair made her face appear murky, though her eyes glinted with hellfire.

“Der Teufel,” the janitor gasped as the bizarre girl slunk onto an elevator and vanished. He rocked back and turned, his gaze fastening upon Narissa’s distressed eyes. His eyes bulged as she approached him.

She heard him whimper, “Not another one.”

“What did you say?” she asked, as she approached.

“Look at you,” he said. “So young. So weary.”

“I feel fine.”

“So much potential. That’s why it chose you.”

“What? It what?”

“You followed it. It must not have seen you yet. Never look directly in its eyes.”

Narissa took the man by the arm and steered him into a doorway, out of the hall. The janitor had a hearty German accent and she wanted to be sure she understood every word.

“Who was that girl? The one that looked like me?”

“She… it was… a Fetch,” he stammered.

“A what?”

“A copy. Um…have you ever heard of a doppelgänger?”

“A clone?”

“Yes, like that. The Fetch are primeval, restless. They are legends from my homeland. My Oma told stories about them, when I grew up in the Black Forest near Freiburg. She scolded my siblings that if we did not apply ourselves and make something better of our lives, if we wasted our days at play, then a cunning Fetch would step into our shoes and steal our lives away.

“Oma told us they are envious creatures who crave a living, breathing body.”

“That’s crap,” Narissa spat.

“I’ve no doubt that was a Fetch, who dressed like you and wore her hair like you.”

“Bullshit!”

“It walks in your own image.”

“Did you leave Germany to be janitor here in Boston? Is that what your Gramma would consider a better life?”

The old man jammed his lips together and looked pitiful. “When I came to this country I had a career as a broker-dealer. When I was young and carefree. Do you think you are the first student to be singled out by a Fetch? I assure you, Miss, you are not. I have seen them before. I’ve seen the damage they cause.”

He straightened up and stood taller than her now. He grumbled, “Sometimes I wonder if the Fetch followed me here, from the Black Forest. I think… I am to blame.”

“What should I do?”

“The apparition doesn’t need your soul. There are two worlds of life and death. There’s the one we see and know, and the other beneath the grave.” He looked at her intently. “It will want to unite with your body… in death.”

“Screw that.”

“The creature will insinuate itself within your circle of friends. It will revel in your life, be successful, and gain the admiration of others. Its weakness is its vanity.”

“How did this happen to me?”

The janitor turned his back on her. “Take care, Miss.”

The girl suddenly thought of Noel, his nose red from a flying plate. “I have to make amends.”

“You don’t have much time left,” The old man said. “You are already becoming dim.”

A chill crept over her, even though she had no idea what he meant.

The girl tapped at Noel’s door until he opened it.

“What?” He was dressed in the T-shirt she had given him last Christmas and his favorite grungy gym shorts.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I should never have hit you. I’ll never do it again. Please, forgive me.”

“Sweet, but not necessary.”

“Your nose looks okay.”

“And yours is running.”

“Smart ass. Aren’t you going to let me in?”

Noel raised his eyebrows. “Bossy, aren’t you?”

“Hey.”

“Do I know you? Are we in Kehoe’s class together?”

“Noel,” she said quietly, “…it’s me.”

“Hi, you,” he said as he looked her up and down.

“Stop it and let me in.”

“Thanks, but I already have a girlfriend. She gets very jealous.”

Her smirk withered.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he said.

The way he looked at her, she knew it, her boyfriend did not recognize her.

“Go away.”

“I… must be… mistaken,” she muttered bleakly.

“Look, go pester Mike next door. He needs a new girl.”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Noel shut his door. She heard him turn the lock.

The girl went silent as a mouse, although she ached to bang on that door until it split in two. Something went soft inside her. Her head had been pounding all day and she was exhausted.

She did not want to fight with anyone again.

It walks in your own image, she remembered and shivered.

She turned away and drifted back to her sublet.

She slept for two whole days. On Thursday, she woke at dawn, packed a bag and took the train back to Braintree. She hopped on a bus headed home to Plymouth.

From the bus stop, she walked the four blocks to the neighborhood she grew up in. The Colonial-style homes looked warm and inviting. A heart-shaped wreath still clung to the front door of her house, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped onto the porch.

The door was locked, so she rang the bell. Her mother answered, looking dazed and ill. There was no sign of her terrier, Bugga. He should have been barking his head off in the entryway. Her mother’s eyes were bloodshot and a scarlet wound bloomed on her neck. She stared blankly at the girl and asked, “Can I help you?”

“I’ve got it, Mutter,” a peculiar voice said from the hall. An ashen hand slithered across her mother’s shoulder and pulled her away. The fingers were spindly, its overgrown nails yellowed.

A sparkling engagement diamond adorned its ring finger.

The girl on the porch took a step back as she locked eyes with the Fetch who stood in her home.

“Happy Valentine’ssss Day,” Narissa-the-Fetch sneered. Its voice was sibilant, the breath smelling of rancid almonds. Its skin was parched and torn, sloughing off the cheekbones and neck. The slimy hair was infested with fluttering insects. Both eyes were like orbs chipped from coal. It grinned broadly, and bared fangs filed thin, sharp as nails. A trickle of blood speckled its chin.

In the hallway behind the intruder, the girl spotted her mom and dad standing with Noel. All three of them swayed to some hypnotic tune buzzing in their minds and they all looked pale and sickly. None of them recognized her.

The girl backed away from the door, from her own family.

Narissa-the-Fetch seemed delighted. Its torso undulated as it shut the door and bolted the lock.

The true Narissa did not know what to do next. She looked down and a small sound escaped her parched lips.

Her hand had gone transparent. She could see the boards of the porch clearly through the hollow of her vanishing skin.

The following Monday, a ghostly girl watched Narissa as she left her apartment, running to catch the subway to Huntington.

Narissa looked rapturous in the early morning sun; her skin rejuvenated and lice-filled hair gleaming. Her smile spread wide and her fangs were clenched. Not one person she passed on the street seemed to see her as anything but beautiful, happy, one-of-a-kind Narissa.

She seemed full of life.

But the girl, a shadow now, watched the Fetch and saw through its glamour. The girl lived with eternal, wintry chill now, and regrets for the life she so carelessly let slip away.

A life that might have been hers.

The girl dimmed to a wispy apparition. She shimmered and billowed away, across a crowd of students rushing to class at various colleges in Boston.

Floating along until she was no more.