Silver Nitrate(103)
“Come on,” she told Tristán and guided him down the long hallway flanked with tall mirrors and doors leading to the offices and editing bays. They turned left. The storage rooms were closed at night, and as Montserrat jimmied the lock she thanked God that it was the holidays. There was no chance they’d be interrupted.
She flicked on the lights and they were in a vast room with shelves filled with blank cassettes for the duplicates they made. Past a tall pile of boxes there was a door with a sticker that said “Vault One” on it.
“We keep the masters there,” she told Tristán.
There too they stored some of the older equipment that nobody had the heart to throw out, including a Moviola that had supposedly been used by Carlos Savage. On the other end of the room there was a door with a sticker that said “Vault Two.” It was a glorified closet rather than a room. Inside it was the steel fireproof cabinet where she’d stashed Ewers’s reel. Montserrat forced the lock to the small vault, opened the cabinet, and quickly stuffed the film can into her purse. She was still carrying Ewers’s book with her, which she supposed was oddly fitting.
She closed the cabinet, and they headed back the way they’d come. When they reached the long hallway that would take them to the lobby, they paused.
An old woman stood at the other end of the hallway, wrapped in a dark navy coat, her white hair pulled back from her face and pinned perfectly in place. Montserrat did not recognize her at first but then something in the way she held herself up allowed Montserrat to connect the dots.
“Alma,” Montserrat said. She had aged a decade in the span of a few days.
“I want that film,” the woman said. Her voice was hoarse, but her eyes remained sharp and knowing.
“We’re going to destroy it. Like you should have done.”
“That film is power. Ewers’s magic has kept my old age at bay for over thirty years.”
“It doesn’t seem to be working anymore.”
“No,” Alma conceded, slowly walking toward them. “You and Abel did something. You threw everything off balance. It’s cost me a lot to find you and come here. All my reserves of power, every inch of my magic…but it’ll be worth it.”
Before Montserrat could reply there was a great popping sound and the lightbulbs above their heads began to waver and fizzle out, plunging the hallway into darkness. Then there came a hissing, almost a hum, and Tristán let out a loud grunt, pushing against Montserrat.
“Fuck, it stings,” he said. She turned around and saw what he meant.
A faint rope of light had woven itself from one side of the hallway to the other. It sparked, a live wire, except there was no wire. It was as if the electricity was being siphoned from the outlets on the walls and dragged as a rope across the hallway. Tristán had come in touch with it and been electrocuted, although it must have been a mild pain, perhaps not unlike a child toying with a wall socket and a fork.
“We can probably jump over it,” Montserrat suggested, but other ropes of light had started weaving themselves. It was a spider web, quickly knotting itself together and glowing brighter.
They began to walk away from it, toward the spot where Alma must be standing in the darkness, awaiting them. But they didn’t have much choice as to their path. The doors on each side of the hallway led to production rooms, editing bays, or offices: dead ends. There was no alternate escape route they could follow. As they walked, the tendrils of light extended along the wall and ceiling, humming with power. It was like listening to a loud generator.
Tristán clutched Montserrat’s hand, and they moved slowly, avoiding stray whips of light that appeared before them, illuminating the floor for a moment and then disappearing. The tendrils on the wall continued expanding, as if they were a monstrous, glowing mesh of ivy. They snaked around the tall, decorative glass panels and the doors but otherwise seemed to be able to crawl upon any surface.
“I didn’t want to kill you,” Alma said, from the darkness. “I won’t, even now, if you give me the film.”
Montserrat clutched her purse and shook her head. “You’ll use it to cast a new spell and he’ll keep existing. He won’t cease to be.”
“He’s been asleep for a very long time, and he can sleep again.”
“What if someone awakens him once more?”
“I’ll deal with it, like I’m dealing with you. I won’t hurt you, I promise. But you must give me the film.”
The lie was easy to read. “You killed Abel,” Montserrat shot back.
“Because he wouldn’t do as I said. You’re better off taking your chances with me than with Clarimonde, and I doubt José is any use to you. If I was able to track you, it means his power is waning.”
“So is yours.”
Those words must have angered Alma because a rope of lightning stretched suddenly taut in front of them with such strength and speed that Montserrat felt the sting of it. It was like pressing your tongue against a nine-volt battery and tasting its charge. It didn’t hurt Montserrat, but then again it hadn’t really touched her. The rope of light hung inches before her, yet she could still perceive its power. Should she come in contact with it, it would seriously harm her.
More ropes of light spread in front of them, creating another spidery web. Tristán pulled Montserrat back. They began retreating. Montserrat rested a hand against the jamb of a door but immediately let it go with a loud yelp as the metal seemed to sear her flesh: it was electrified.