Approaching "Letavermilia"

Fiona Grice is presenting her story in the Keeler Gallery, which I have actually visited before. It’s where Augustina Keeler’s painting //The Red Bride// hangs. I should be able to find it without much trouble. Hey, were you here with me in 2018? [[Yeah, that was me.]] [[I don’t think so...]] [[No, that was someone else.]]

Okay, so you know what Fiona Grice is like. She was the lady who presented, I think the name of the story was “Looking for Caroline,” about the lady whose friend was abducted by a giant baby. And she—Fiona—said it came to her in a dream. She said she didn’t know what it meant. Or, it didn’t mean anything. [[You said she was a mystical sort of person.]] [[It sounds like you don’t believe her.]]

Well, then let me tell you about Fiona Grice. There used to be two Fionas. In public, she had this persona as a mystic seer, weaving her stories out of smoky nightmare-threads. Reaching down with psychic fingers to dredge nameless horrors from the depths of the Unconscious. In private, like here at Castle Balderstone, Fiona would let her hair down, goof off a little, and basically admit that the whole mystic seer thing was a big joke. And we had this kind of unspoken agreement that, outside of the castle, we'd all go along with the horror-shaman act. But, more recently, there’s been just the one Fiona. [[The horror-shaman?]] [[The goofball?]]

No, I said that was the persona she puts on for public appearances. Behind the scenes, she’s down-to-earth and normal. Or, she used to be. More recently she’s been acting all spooky and theatrical even at these authors-only events. [[I remember now. You said she might have been putting it on because I was there.]]

Well maybe I’m grasping at straws, but I felt like her story had a pretty consistent thematic through-line of anxiety associated with babies, and her claim that it just arose fully-formed from the dream-logical abyss struck me as disingenuous. But we’re all creative types here. You have to expect a certain amount of... [[Theatrics?]] [[Bullcrap?]]

Oh yeah, I did say that! Well, if that’s the case, we won't get to see her normal side tonight. And I guess you never will, until you become a master of the horror genre like the rest of us. Hey, here we are! The Keeler Gallery! [[Let’s go in, then.]]

The Keeler Gallery: A jewel in the crown of Castle Balderstone. Randolph Balderstone was a patron of the painter Augustina Keeler, whose haunting canvases here surround us. There are those who say he was more than a patron—but the place for such gossip is surely beyond these rain-soaked walls. Keeler’s incredible talent would have languished in obscurity if not for Randolph’s generous support, and this hall would have stood forever empty—soulless—useless. Have I mentioned that I have a Patreon? [[Let’s look at some of these paintings.]] [[Is that Fiona Grice over there?]]

Yeah, basically. Hey, here we are! The Keeler Gallery! [[Let’s go in, then.]]

You said it, not me. Hey, here we are! The Keeler Gallery! [[Let’s go in, then.]]

Yeah. I don’t know why she thinks she has to be fake all the time now. We’re still her friends. Or, colleagues. [[Maybe the version you thought was genuine was really the fake one.]] [[Maybe she just doesn’t feel comfortable around Castle Balderstone people anymore.]]

No, the horror-shaman. [[Oh.]]

You mean, she’s naturally spooky and theatrical, and she was just acting self-deprecating and normal to fit in with us? But then she gave up on the act for some reason, to be her normal theatrical self? That doesn't make a lot of sense. [[Well, you masters of the horror genre are a weird bunch.]]

Why wouldn't she feel comfortable around us? We understand each other better than all the normal people out there, no offense. [[None taken.]]

Can’t argue with that. Hey, here we are! The Keeler Gallery! [[Let’s go in, then.]]

I don’t get it. But what are you gonna do? Hey, here we are! The Keeler Gallery! [[Let’s go in, then.]]

We don’t have time to look at all the paintings. We’re here to hear Fiona’s story. But you can’t visit the Keeler Gallery without taking some time to admire //The Red Bride.// It is the centerpiece of Randolph’s collection. Augustina Keeler herself is known to have said: “I may as well put down my paints, for the //Bride// has said all that I care to say.” [[What is she saying?]]

Ah yes! She is noticing us. Fiona Grice’s sea-gray gaze falls with a twinkle of restrained recognition upon me, and now upon you—and now across the gallery, as the venerable authoress wonders whether there are enough people for her to begin reading her story. She might be waiting for us to sit down. [[Then let’s sit down.]] [[I still want to look at paintings.]]

We take our seats on a pair of ancient wooden chairs near the back of the audience. Fiona steps up to her podium, and the low murmuring of the assembly decrescendos to silence. “I thank the Balderstone Convocation for allowing me to present another chilling tale at this momentous bicentennial convocation,” says Fiona Grice. “I hope my offering will be worthy of our distinguished conference, and of the immortal Augustina Keeler, whose haunting canvases here surround us. In honor of her //Red Bride,// I have selected a similarly colorful story, which I call ‘Letavermilia.’ The word—and the story, its sundry twists and turns, its intervals of dread and its pangs of shock—came to me in a dream.” What, again? “I cannot guess at what the story means. But I have placed my trust in the shadowed architect of the Unconscious, as have all we horror-authors. I am merely its conduit—or contractor, we might say.” A polite chuckle ripples through the audience as Fiona opens her notebook (link: "and begins to read...")[(goto-url: 'letavermilia.html')]

What indeed? Look at the line of her cheek. Look at the thread woven between her fingers. See how her dress flows down the stairs and bleeds into the shadows. At the foot of the stairs, a cat licks its paw—a detail unmarked by many casual viewers. The door before her, we imagine, leads into the chapel where the marriage ceremony will take place. But the //Bride// is distracted: She is staring at something behind us, with her lips slightly parted. I had a postcard of //The Red Bride// stuck to my minifridge in college. [[But what is she trying to say?]]

Nobody knows for sure. Paintings can be very vague. [[What’s Fiona Grice doing?]]

Oh, right. She is noticing us. Fiona Grice’s sea-gray gaze falls with a twinkle of restrained recognition upon me, and now upon you—and now across the gallery, as the venerable authoress wonders whether there are enough people for her to begin reading her story. She might be waiting for us to sit down. [[Then let’s sit down.]] [[I still want to look at paintings.]]

We don’t have time to look at all the paintings. We’re here to hear Fiona’s story. But you can’t visit the Keeler Gallery without taking some time to admire //The Red Bride.// It is the centerpiece of Randolph's collection. Augustina Keeler herself is known to have said: “I may as well put down my paints, for the //Bride// has said all that I care to say.” [[What is she saying?]]