The night was so dark that Lee could barely see where he was going. He stumbled through a thicket of vines and branches tripping and clutching at him like skeletal hands, digging their cold, dead fingers into his flesh until it shivered with the dread and disgust of their touch.
And then he saw it in front of him-the Ansonia Hotel, with its ornate balustrades and rococo masonry. It beckoned to him, rising out of the mist like a stone leviathan, lights blazing in all the windows-and brightest of all in the penthouse apartment.
He struggled on through the forest, keeping his eyes on the grand old building, perched atop a stony hill, like a fortress. He sensed that this was not the usual look of Broadway and Seventy-third Street, but couldn't quite remember what it was supposed to look like. So he dragged himself on through the thick, clinging vines and underbrush, vaguely aware that it was odd to see such forestation on the Upper West Side. It occurred to him that maybe he was lost, but there was the Ansonia, so how could he be lost?
He wasn't sure why he was there, though-did he know someone who lived there? He didn't think so, but then suddenly he was out of the forest and riding up in the elevator, the button that said PENTHOUSE lit.
When he rang the apartment bell, the door swung open and there was his father, looking just as he had the last time Lee saw him: young, handsome, and dashing, his curly black hair just a bit shaggy, suggesting the poet/philosopher that he was in life. Without a word, Duncan Campbell beckoned his son inside and closed the door behind him.
The room was elegant, tasteful, and old-fashioned looking, with expensive Art Deco furnishings. His father had always gravitated toward the elegance of that era, whereas his mother preferred the heavier Victorian designs.
He sat on a sleek satin sofa, admiring the silky fabric as he looked around the room. In the middle of a black-and-white throw rug, his childhood beagle slept peacefully. The dog's paws jerked convulsively, as he chased rabbits in his dreams. Lee was about to ask his father why their dog was here in New York, but when he turned to ask, his father ducked behind a curtain. Moments later he came out carrying a long, sharp spear, which he plunged into Lee's side. Shocked, Lee cried out in pain as the cold metal ripped through his flesh.
He awoke with the sound of his own voice in his ears. He knew he had cried out in his sleep-but Kathy lay next to him sleeping soundly. She slept like the dead, he thought, even without the earplugs she always wore. Fearing he had disturbed the neighbors, he listened for sounds upstairs. Hearing none, he threw off the blankets and sat up on the edge of the bed. He was sweating and panting, the gash in his hand throbbing. He looked out the window at the mimosa tree swaying in the wind, its branches hitting his window softly, rat-a-tat-a-tat. To his frayed nerves the sound was like machine-gun bursts.
He took a deep breath and went into the kitchen for a glass of water, passing the piano. It sat silent in the corner of the living room, moonlight reflecting off its shiny black veneer, a reminder that it would be a long while before he would be able to play again. He poured himself a glass of water.
So the demons still raged in his soul. He took a drink, cursing his father for leaving him with nothing but memories and bad dreams.