This story was written for Sonia G Medeiros’ August writing challenge on her blog, and for my own writing challenge for the month of August. I started off trying to update a French folktale, “The Devil and the Dance” (as found in Were-wolves and Will-o-the-Wisps, by Dirk Gringhuis). In the end, however, it ended up fairly different.

* * *

Marie’s eyes darted back and forth from the image on the surface of the small pool to her drawing pad. She worked quickly. The clouds, now painted orange and pink in the fading light were moving perceptibly. If she did not work fast enough the the clouds would leave, too impatient, it would seem, to wait for Marie to finish her portrait of them. However, Marie did not mind. Indeed, that was half the fun, seeing if she could capture something doubly ephemeral: The reflection of a wind-blown cloud.

After reaching for a certain shade of blue pencil from the case at her side, Marie glanced back at the pool to check the image of the cloud. Blocking out the cloud’s reflection was the reflection of a man.

Marie started, her drawing pad fell from her lap and pencils scattered across the tall grass the surrounded the pool. Looking up she saw the stranger, but blinked a few times to make sure he was really there. She had not heard him approach through the long dry grass, but he could not have simply appeared. Must have been lost in my drawing. That’s why I didn’t hear him come up to the pool.

“Don’t be afraid,” the stranger said, holding up his empty hands. “I’m not supposed to be here either.”

Here was the Beaumont house, one of the last mansions from the early twentieth century that still stood. Its original owner had made a fortune selling automotive parts – and bootleg liquor if one believed the stories – and built the impressive Tudor mansion just off Lake Shore Drive in Grosse Pointe Farms. It had an equally impressive garden, at the center of which was a small circular pool bordered by a low wall of stone. It was by this very same pool that Marie and the stranger now stood.

While most of the other mansions from that era had long since been torn down and the estates subdivided into smaller, but still impressive, lots, the Beaumont house had remained. Rumor had it that the granddaughter of the original owner was still alive and still owned the house. However, she refused to sell despite large offers, and while she still lived somewhere in the Grosse Pointes, she never set foot on her ancestral property.

The house was shut up and if one looked through the smudged windows, one would see mostly empty rooms with the occasional piece of furniture draped with a white sheet. Most teenagers were satisfied with a look. Indeed, to creep up to the house and peer in the windows was something of a right of passage for many Grosse Pointe teens. Few, however, ventured inside. The house had an evil reputation. Most said it was haunted or cursed. Why else would the owner of such a grand house refuse to sell it and refuse to live in it. More importantly, every teen in the Grosse Pointes knew someone who knew someone, or had an older sibling who knew someone, who had ventured into the house through a broken window on Halloween night. They invariably returned at dawn, shaken, often with cuts and bruises, and would refuse to tell anyone anything about their time spent inside the mansion.

Marie doubted the stories. One summer she had spent hours combing through the the back issues of the Grosse Pointe News, the Detroit News and the Detroit Free Press, but failed to find one news story that confirmed these tales so often whispered in South High School’s cafeteria or around the campfire at someone’s cottage in northern Michigan.

Marie looked at her scattered art supplies and then back at the young man standing on the opposite side of the pool. He wore long black pants, a black button-down shirt, and a grey pork-pie hat despite the warm June air. Marie felt warmer just looking at him. Probably some hipster from Wayne State, or one of those artists who’ve come to the “blank canvas” of Detroit to create art, Marie thought. His dress clearly declared it. Then Marie noticed that the stranger’s eyes matched his wardrobe. They were almost completely black.

“Are you ok?” he asked.

Marie realized she was staring at the stranger. “Yeah, I’m ok,” she said and started to collected her things.

“I’m sorry I startled you.” The stranger moved around the pool. “Here let me help you.” He bent over and picked up Marie’s drawing pad and looked at her drawing of the clouds. “It’s beautiful. May I?”

Marie had gotten all her stray pencils and stood up.  “They’re pretty conventional. I mean I doubt that–”

“A hipster or an avant-garde artist would like them?”

The stranger smiled and Marie felt her skin prickle as she was enveloped by wave of heat. “No, no I mean that…I mean I just drew them for me.”

The stranger nodded. “That is wise. An artist should only worry about placating the Muses.” He gently tapped the drawing pad. “May I look at the rest?”

Marie nodded. “Ok. Sure.”

The stranger turned over the pages one by one. There were some pictures of the Beaumont mansion and a few other of clouds. However, most of the pictures had fantastical subject matter. In one, a stone tower, blanketed with seaweeds rose out of Lake St. Clair. In another, a young woman danced with a dwarf with livid red skin while tiny women in white dresses floated around the dancers’ heads; in the background was the Beaumont mansion. On the next page was a drawing of a young girl being chased by a werewolf, not through a forest, but down a suburban street. The creature’s tongue hung out of its fanged mouth and its clawed hand was almost touching the girl’s shoulder.

“I like them.” The stranger said closing the book and handing it back to Marie. “I like your style. You have the eye. But I must say, I do not care for the drawing with the loup-garou. It does not look like the girl is going to get away.”

Marie cocked her head to one side. “She doesn’t,” she said. “It’s based on a French Canadian folk tale, but I guess you knew that since you used the French word for werewolf.”

The stranger nodded. “But I remembered her getting away.”

“Well, there’s more than one version.” Marie shrugged. “I don’t know. The one were she gets away never felt right to me.”

The young man was silent for a moment. “I know what I’m here for. What brings you here on such a beautiful night?”

Marie was not going to say that she preferred to spend time here, as far away from the greed and cruelty of the real world as she could get. She could not travel to the places she saw in her dreams. The best she could do was to draw them in peace.

“This garden is so quiet and secluded. I bet you are here to shut out the world,” the stranger said.

Who is this guy? He had a vaguely European accent which tended to confirm her first impression. She had read more than one news story about artists coming from Europe to create in Detroit. It was the latest trend. Now that she stood within a couple feet of him, she could see he was not any older than her eighteen years, but she had not seen him before. South High School was not that big; she would have noticed and remembered a guy with his face and eyes. A silly thought lit a match in the back of her mind and then used it light a candle, and then another. Marie’s heart beat a little faster. You’re letting yourself get carried away.

“But how rude of me. I have not told you what I am doing here,” the young man said abruptly changing the subject. “I have come to visit the ballroom.”

“You’re going inside?” Marie narrowed her eyes a bit. “You know the house is haunted, don’t you?”

The young man smiled. “I’ve heard something about that.”

“And you’re not afraid?”

“Let’s say, I’m divinely protected.” The young man gestured toward the house. “Have you ever been inside?”

“Me?” Marie bite her lip. “Um, once. It was on the Summer Solstice.” This was a lie. Marie had ventured into the house numerous times. She had even spent several hours in the house last Halloween. Sadly, she did not encounter anything supernatural. “No need to tempt Fate,” she said hoping to sound cautious.

“You mean no need to tempt les lutins, don’t you?” the young man said.

French again. The French settlers of Detroit had called the imaginary fey creatures of their folktales les lutins. Marie liked to think les lutins were far from imaginary and had decided for themselves to follow humans to the New World. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

“So, are you coming inside?” The young man said and took a step toward the mansion. “It is the Solstice again, as it was on your first visit, but we better hurry. We’re almost out of light.”

Marie was about to move, but stopped herself. “What’s your name?”

“My name?” The young man smiled again and held out his hand. “You can call me Henri. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Marie reached out and took the proffered hand. It was warm to the touch. “I’m Marie. It’s nice to meet you too.”

The two walked across the garden and passed the patio that was now overgrown with weeds. Through the French doors that led onto the patio, Marie could see the tattered remains of the curtains. On the other side of those doors and curtains was the mansion’s ballroom. Henri did not try to enter the ball room through the French doors however. Rather, he walked toward the back door that led into the kitchen. On her several adventures into the house, Marie had always found the back door open. Henri had clearly entered this way as well.

Once inside Henri quietly closed the door behind them. When the bolt clicked shut, Marie heard a swell of music. It was a mixture of flutes and stringed instruments.

“What the…”

“Ah, the revels have already begun,” Henri said. “We should hurry. We mustn’t be too late.”

He took her hand and lead her down the dark passageway that bisected the house, and Marie let herself be led. The wooden floor creaked beneath their feet, and more than once Marie had to brush a cobweb off her face. Henri stopped before a set of double doors. Marie knew them well. They were the doors to the ballroom she had gone through more than once. The music was louder and Marie now heard laughter and talking.

“After you,” Henri said.

Marie opened the door with a shaking hand. Gone was the broken furniture, the dust, the cobwebs, the tattered curtains, the shattered chandelier on the floor, and the large, broken mirror that had greeted her on all her previous visits. This time she saw a polished floor and brightly painted walls. The chandelier once again hung from the ceiling, and now glowing brightly, and the mirror which took up most of the wall opposite the French doors was now whole. Marie walked to the mirror and ran her hand across its surface. All the cracks were gone.

Looking into the mirror, Marie had an unimpeded view of the entire ballroom and the patio beyond. By the doors, which were now open, stood women in pastel-colored gowns that would not have been out of place in the palace of the Sun King. They were talking and laughing with men wearing long coats with lace at their wrists and throats. Their dress was not the most extraordinary thing about the revelers; some had long tails, some had faces of boars, others the faces of rabbits, and some possessed the fanged face and clawed hands of a wolf. On the patio and in the garden, more fantastical people danced while small balls of white light floated above them. Marie looked but could not see the source of the music.

Finally, Marie’s eyes came to rest on Henri’s reflection. His hat was gone and small horns had sprouted from his head, the fingers had become unnaturally long, and his feet had been replaced by cloven hooves. Henri’s face was unchanged, and it had the mischievous expression of a satyr.

“I have to ask you a question. Promise you’ll tell me the truth,” Marie said.

“I promise.”

“If I turn around, will all of this vanish?”

“No, this is the way it truly is. We make it look decrepit to keep people away.”

“I’m glad. I was afraid I might have to stare into this mirror forever.” Marie turned around. Everything she had seen in the reflection, she now before her. “It is so beautiful. Can I..?”

“You are the guest of honor.”

Marie smiled, took Henri’s hand, and led him out onto the patio.

Somewhere in the house, a great clock began to strike midnight. If Marie heard it, she paid it no mind. They began to dance.

* * *

Sometime later, a group of teens creeping across the garden to peer in the windows of the Beaumont house found Marie’s drawing pad and pencils scattered on the ground next to the circular pool. The pad was open to a drawing of clouds reflected on the surface of the pool. Bisecting the reflection of the clouds was a black shadow. It was was clearly a man, however, short horns emanated from his head. At the bottom of the drawing, in Marie’s handwriting, were the words, “Such stuff as dreams are made on.”

No other sign of Marie was ever found.