The Door to Lost Pages

Chapter 5 - Lost Girls





It’s obvious to Sandra that Aydee feels like she doesn’t belong here. Aydee, wrapped in layers of tattered and dirty clothes, wearing a tuque thattries hard to hide her face, fidgets nervously while she recounts the latest adventures of her “other self.” Sandra begins to regret bringing her inside.

It’s only midmorning; The Small Easy isn’t very busy yet. Sandra—petite, extravagantly tattooed, fashionably underdressed—is sitting with Aydee at a table that looks out onto the street. Their muffins and coffee arrive. Sandra thinks the waitress is kind of cute: plump, friendly, frizzy-haired, sporting a nose ring.

Sandra expects Aydee to resume her story, but Aydee’s attention has wandered. Russet—a brown mutt nearly as tall as a Great Dane but with the robust musculature of a Rottweiler—stares at her through the glass, one paw held up against the window. Aydee matches the dog’s gesture.

There’s a slight drizzle today, and the year’s first hint of autumn chills the air. Sandra had insisted that they come inside. Aydee reluctantly agreed after Sandra suggested they could sit by the window to keep an eye on Russet. Aydee dislikes leaving him alone outside; even more so recently. Dogs are being found stabbed, murdered, and the city isn’t doing anything about it.

Aydee sips her coffee silently, while Sandra thinks about today’s story—some intricate yarn about Aydee’s alter ego helping a group of time-lost prehistoric proto-humans find their deity, the Green Blue and Brown God—a primordial “god of life”—one among the several outlandish recurring characters in Aydee’s fabrications. Sandra wants to prompt her to continue, but she hesitates. Poor crazy Aydee and her crazy stories, thinks Sandra, yet she’s nevertheless fascinated by Aydee’s imagination. Those weird stories of ancient tomes, powerful gods, and outrageous monsters excite Sandra—they sometimes seem more real to Sandra than her own dead-end life. She feels guilty about indulging, maybe even encouraging, Aydee in these delusions, but what else is she to do—ignore her?

As Aydee tells it, on the evening of her tenth birthday, she, hopelessly lonely and with nowhere to go, walked away from her abusive parents. She’s been living on the street ever since. She believes that when she fell asleep in an alley that night, she was split into two people. The other Aydee had awoken to find herself rescued by a giant lioness—“the god of lost children”— only to be flung in the middle of an eternal conflict between the supposedly benevolent Green Blue and Brown God and Yamesh-Lot, a violent, amorphous god of darkness, which led her to discover a strange bookshop called Lost Pages. She ended up being more or less adopted by the shopkeeper, living with him and his many dogs, and apprenticing at the shop. Lost Pages is at the centre of Aydee’s fantasy life, and Sandra’s been seduced by the allure of this surreal bookshop: its inventory of arcane books that can’t be found anywhere else; its knack for attracting—and helping—people (and other creatures) who are desperately lost.

Aydee breaks her muffin in two, slipping half of it into a coat pocket. “Gotta keep some for Russet,” Aydee says, responding to Sandra’s inquisitive stare, and then falls abruptly silent again.

Sandra feels selfish—she’s already wolfed down her own muffin in three hurried mouthfuls—and wishes she could afford more food, but she barely has enough money to leave a tip. She should get a better-paying job, but together she and the boys make enough to get by; being a twenty-year-old high-school dropout with no special skills limits her options. Cleaning up the tattoo shop isn’t exactly stimulating, but at least, in addition to the under-the-table slave wage, she gets her tattoos done free.

Recently she’s been thinking of moving out on her own. For that she’d need more money, though. Tom’s mood swings are getting worse all the time; he’s too focused on scoring drugs every night, and she’s fed up with that scene. And, as sweet as Kevin can be to her, because of his paranoia about “strangers” they don’t make other friends. It’s the three of them against the world—only she doesn’t believe that anymore.

She’s never told them about Aydee; they would neither understand nor approve.

Some days, Aydee is cheerful, wrapped up in the magical life of her alter ego or simply enjoying Russet’s company, but today Sandra can see that Aydee is having a rough time. She’s distracted and nervous, and not just about leaving Russet outside.

Aydee starts crying. At first Sandra is too shocked to react, but then she reaches out and squeezes Aydee’s wrist.

“Why did I wake up in that filthy alley? There’s no Lost Pages. Not for me. I wish that other Aydee would come and rescue me. She’s a hero, she really is. She helps people who think they have no place in the world find where they belong. I wish she’d be my hero. She runs Lost Pages now. She’s strong and beautiful, with her hair braided and beaded and her skin as smooth as a baby’s. Not like me.” Aydee disentangles her wrist from Sandra’s fingers and wipes her runny nose. “But we’re still connected! I know everything that happens to her! She has to know about me! Why doesn’t she come and find me, so I can be safe, too? Me and Russet. She has to find us some day. She has to!” Aydee glances outside at Russet, who is steadfastly focused on her. “It’s getting cold again.” She pauses. “I don’t know if I can take another winter.”

Not for the first time, Sandra wonders about Aydee’s age. When she noticed her last February, begging on the street with her dog on the coldest day of the year, Sandra had assumed from her weathered face and scraggly voice that she must be around fifty. She’s so frail and withered, but there’s something about her features—the delicately small ears and nose, for example—that makes Sandra think Aydee might be closer to thirty, maybe even younger. Whenever Sandra asks, Aydee always answers, “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve lost track.”

The boys are sleeping off whatever shit was in the pills Tom brought home last night. To avoid them both, especially after that hateful quarrel, Sandra bunked on the couch, even though she hates sleeping alone.

In the bathroom, Sandra turns on the shower, waits for the water to get scalding hot, and then climbs in.

She knows that she should leave, that this relationship isn’t working anymore, but where could she go? She’s been with the boys for six years, since she met them at her first rave. The boys, already a couple by then, had seduced her as a joke—a let’s f*ck the awkward, insecure virgin and make her cry thing—but they ended up really liking her, and the three of them had become inseparable. Two years later, at sixteen, they ran away together, away from their intolerant families and from everyone else who claimed to know what was best for them.

As the steam soothes her, calms her, she watches her skin turn from olive to pink under the hot water. From the waist up, her entire body, including her face, is tattooed with stars, suns, moons, and planets of various sizes and shapes; dark green snakes coil upward from her ankles to bite her on the ass.

She’s startled when Tom suddenly steps into the shower, followed by Kevin, who comes in from the opposite end. They both wince at the scalding water.

She feels vulnerable and threatened, her five-foot-three self sandwiched between these six-foot giants.

Kevin, behind her, presses down on her shoulders, his strong, dark fingers gently massaging her. Her back is so taut that even such mild pressure hurts.

Tom—of the quick temper and hateful words; of the tall, gaunt frame; of the eerily pale skin—is careful not to touch her. Looking at her with surprising tenderness, he says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk to you that way. Not ever.”

Sandra, emotionally exhausted, slumps against Kevin’s firm, dark-brown flesh. He holds her and whispers her name. Tom steps toward them, enfolding both of them in his long arms. The tension drains from her, and she almost lets out a sob. Although she’s squeezed tightly between the boys, she no longer feels trapped. She breathes in the musk of their smooth chests, breathes in the steam and the sweat, and she feels safe, at home, where she belongs, the only place she’s ever belonged.

It’s only late October, but a freak winter storm rages through the city. It’s minus twenty degrees, with the wind-chill factor bringing it down another fifteen. According to the weather report, eighteen centimetres of snow have already fallen by three o’clock in the afternoon, with at least another thirty expected in the next twelve hours.

Sandra is consumed by worry about Aydee. As she piles on the layers and wraps scarves around her neck and head, she tells herself that it’s stupid to go out in this storm—but she knows the pain in her gut won’t go away unless she makes sure that her friend is safe. Friend. She’s never thought about Aydee quite like that before today. For Sandra, Aydee has always been that crazy homeless lady with the dog. But Sandra realizes that, in fact, Aydee is her only friend. They spend time together almost every day, and Sandra has come to depend on the casual intimacy of their interactions.

Outside, Sandra instantly despairs. How will she ever find Aydee in this dark chaos of snow and wind? Sandra almost runs back in, but worry gnaws at her.

Calling out Aydee’s name, Sandra walks toward The Small Easy, only two blocks away; Aydee usually loiters near that corner. In this weather, it takes Sandra almost fifteen minutes to walk there. She encounters no-one on the way, and neither is there anyone on the streets near the restaurant.

It occurs to her to check the alley. Aydee and Russet get most of their food from the dumpster out back, and its bulk can offer some degree of protection from the wind. The storm’s getting fiercer, and Sandra knows that she’ll have no choice but to give up the search soon.

She finds them there: Aydee and Russet huddled against each other, barely visible under a blanket of snow. Sandra gets in close and shouts against the wind, “Why aren’t you in a shelter, Aydee? You can’t stay outside on a day like this.”

“Nobody’ll let Russet in. I can’t leave him alone. We always look out for each other. What kind of person would I be if I betrayed him? The other Aydee would never rescue someone like that.”

“Aydee, you have to get inside. You could die out here, and then who would look out for Russet? Come on—come home with me.”

“Can Russet come, too?”

Sandra thinks about the boys’ obsessive tidiness, and Tom’s need to be always in control. “No, the boys . . . they don’t like dogs. They’d never allow it.”

“Just go back home. We’ll be fine, Russet and me. We’ll keep each other warm.”

Sandra can’t bear the risk of losing her friend. She doesn’t know how she’ll make Kevin and Tom accept having Aydee, let alone Russet, in the apartment, but she’ll have to find a way. She’s freezing out here, and she just wants to get inside . . . but not without Aydee.

“Okay. Russet can come, too. Just hurry.”

“No, we’re staying right here. I don’t want to go anywhere where we won’t really be welcome. Don’t worry about me. Just go home. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“No! Not okay. Not okay at all. You have to come with me. Please. Please, come. For me. For Russet.”

“Don’t be patronizing. I’m not stupid.” She looks away from Sandra, toward Russet. She rests a hand on his back, and he looks up at her—shivering. “But, okay, I’ll come.”

Sandra takes Aydee’s hand, and runs home. Russet follows them.

It takes a bit of arguing, but Sandra convinces Aydee to take a hot bath. It’s the bubblebath that did it, Sandra thinks; Aydee’s eyes lit up when she mentioned that.

With Aydee sequestered in the bathroom, Russet has settled on the couch—the dog is so huge that it’s almost too small for him—and no amount of coaxing on Sandra’s part can get him down. It’s going to be hard enough to convince the boys to let Aydee and Russet stay, but she knows it’ll be impossible if they find the dog like this.

Maybe if she offered him food? He must be hungry—a big dog like that, with nothing but garbage to sustain him. She gets some chicken from the fridge and puts it in a plastic bowl. She places it on the floor, calling Russet’s name. He sniffs the air, steps down from the couch, and trots over to the food.

Success!

But the dog grabs the meat in his mouth and saunters back to the couch, slobbering all over the upholstery as he eats. And that’s when the boys walk in.

Soon after the yelling and the barking start, Aydee steps out of the bathroom—dripping wet in her dirty, tattered clothes. She calls Russet to her, and, without even glancing at Sandra, leaves.

Sandra yells at Aydee to stay, tries to run to her friend, but Tom grabs her.

Kevin shouts, “How dare you bring that street trash in here? And that filthy dog! They probably have lice and shit knows what else! What were you thinking? This is our home! It’s not a zoo, for f*ck’s sake.”

Sandra struggles free, but by that time Aydee and Russet are gone.

“How can you throw them out in weather like this? How can you be so cruel?”

Kevin says, “They’re not our responsibility. We should rescue all the homeless people? There’s no end to that if we start. We look out for each other, the three of us. Nobody else ever has; why the f*ck should we give a damn about anyone else?”

“Because they’re my friends!”

Tom says, “Why don’t you go out there with them, then? Maybe that’s where you really belong. With the dogs.” His disgust is written all over his face.

Sandra remembers what Aydee said about never abandoning Russet, and she feels like a coward for not rushing out to join them. She runs into the bathroom and locks herself in, traps herself there.

She suddenly feels nauseous and throws up in the sink. While she cleans her face, she hears Tom say, “This cozy ménage with the fag hag has gone on long enough. We don’t need her anymore. F*ck knows what other crap she does behind our backs.”

Later, Kevin’s voice comes through the bathroom door. “Sandy, baby. Look, I’m sorry things got so ugly. Tom knows he was way out of line. All we have is each other; we can’t throw it all away because of a beggar and her dog.”

Sandra doesn’t say anything. All she can think about is that she let Aydee go out in that storm. She doesn’t care about the boys anymore.

Kevin tries to cajole her for another ten minutes, but then he gives up. “Could you at least come out of there so we can use the can?”

Sandra does come out five minutes later, but she avoids the boys, doesn’t say a word.

The boys go into the bathroom together; Kevin tells her they’ll take a shower and then all three of them will talk later. She knows they’ll use the noise of the shower to cover their conversation about her. Probably, they’ll jerk each other off to calm themselves.

Sandra goes into the kitchen and throws some food in a bag: granola bars, raisins, things like that. From the bedroom closet, she grabs the biggest, thickest blanket she can find—an old, ratty quilt.

She puts on her winter gear and leaves.

Sandra’s been out in the storm for hours. The cold has seeped into her bones. She can’t find Aydee anywhere, and her legs hurt from overexhaustion. Visibility is much worse than before: she can’t see farther than an arm’s length; she’s utterly lost.

She slips and falls. She loses the bag of food to the storm, but she manages to hold on to the quilt.

She doesn’t have the strength to get up. Once more she yells, “Aydee!”—but the wind drowns her out.

She wraps herself in the quilt to take the edge off the wind. Within seconds, she’s completely covered in snow. She tries to struggle free, but all her energy is spent and she loses consciousness.



The morning sunlight rouses her. The sky is cloud-free, and the wind has died down. It’s much warmer—the snow around Sandra is moist, melting.

Sandra is astounded to be alive. She feels giddy, joyful.

She stands up. It hurts; her legs are stiff and cold.

Across the street, she sees a woman fiddling with the books in a store’s window display. She looks up at the sign, green and blue letters painted onto a brown background: Lost Pages.

Inside the bookshop, Sandra is too nervous to face the woman. Browsing through the shelves, she notices that most of the books are in languages she can’t even identify. Her eye falls on a tome whose jacket painting resembles her tattoos—twin snakes spiralling upward into the air against a backdrop of planets and stars—but she doesn’t understand the strange script above the illustration.

She reaches out to pick up the book, but then she remembers why she’s here. She looks up at the woman and blurts out, “You’re Aydee,” astonished at the sight of this clean and healthy version of her friend.

“Yeah, that’s me. You looking for something in particular? Chances are we have it.”

“I’ve walked down this street hundreds of times . . . I’m sure this store was never here before . . . I can’t believe you’re real. That this place is real.” Sandra had been right: her friend Aydee must have been younger than she appeared. Looking at this Aydee—a little taller than the Aydee she knows—Sandra can tell that she can’t be more than twenty-five, maybe even only twenty. She’s exactly like her friend described: long, braided hair; beautifully smooth creamy brown skin; strong shoulders.

“Don’t tell me you’re from one of those worlds where I’m a comic-book character or something. . . .” The bookseller lets out an irritated breath. “Look, you can click your heels all you want, but this place is real and so am I.” She collects herself and continues in a friendlier tone. “Sorry. There’s been a bit too much of that recently. Let’s start over. . . . What can I do for you?”

Sandra looks around, and she’s struck by a missing detail. “Where are the dogs? She always told me this place was full of dogs.”

“She?” Aydee scrutinizes Sandra. “I’ve seen you . . .” Aydee shakes her head, and her eyes narrow suspiciously. “No, the dogs . . . I don’t mind them, but that’s always been more Lucas’s thing. They’re with him, and he’s not here anymore. You know him?”

“I’ve heard about him.”

There’s an awkward silence.

Aydee says, “You’re shivering. Do you want a cup of tea?”

Aydee sips her tea, listening quietly to Sandra’s story.

Sandra repeats, “Say something. Do something. We have to help her. You have to find her. Save her.”

Her voice simmering with anger, Aydee says, “I think you should leave.”

“What?”

“Leave.”

“But—”

Aydee gets out of her chair, grabs Sandra by the arm, pushes her outside, and locks the door to Lost Pages.

Sandra scours the neighbourhood for Aydee—her Aydee—while city trucks clean away the mountains of slush and snow. Sandra doesn’t return to the apartment. After the storm, the temperature warmed up to above freezing, even at night. The quilt keeps her warm enough. She knows she should go to work, but she can’t stomach the thought of cleaning up the mess at the tattoo parlour anymore. It’s time for a change, even though she has no idea what that might entail. First, she has to find Aydee.

That other Aydee is no hero. My Aydee would never treat anyone like that. She’s loyal and brave and strong of heart and . . .

A group of kids in the park—homeless ecopunks who hang out with a pack of dogs—say that they know Aydee and Russet, but they, also, have not seen either of them recently. The punks are mad about the dog stabber, about how the police aren’t making any effort to solve the crimes. They’ve lost five of their dogs to the stabber in the last year; most recently, one was killed the day of the storm.

One of the girls—she can’t be more than twelve—takes Sandra aside.

The girl whispers, “Do you have tampons or something? I’m bleeding.”

“I think so. . . . Is this your first time?”

“Yeah.”

As Sandra digs a handful of tampons out of her purse, she realizes that it’s been more than two months since her last period.

That night, Sandra almost goes back to the boys—it’s their baby, too—but in the end she decides it’s better for everyone if the boys never know about this, better if she never sees them again. She’s still not sure whether she’s keeping the child or not. Probably not, though.

The last few days, Sandra has been too focused on finding Aydee to be afraid for her own safety. Now, realizing that she’s pregnant, Sandra has become hyper-aware of her body and of its fragility.

She can’t find a place to sleep. Everywhere there are men who look at her as if she were a piece of raw meat. She understands how vulnerable Aydee would have felt without Russet to guard her.

It’s been almost a week, and there’s still no sign of Aydee.

After yet another night during which she doesn’t allow herself to sleep, Sandra hopes, now that the sun is up, she won’t feel so much like prey.

She goes to the park where the ecopunks hang out during the day. Maybe she can nap next to them. They’re nice kids. She wishes she knew where they went at night. Maybe she’ll ask if she can tag along, at least for a while.

When they see her, the girl who asked about the tampons yesterday runs toward her, yelling, “Aydee’s back!”

Sandra finds Aydee and Russet foraging in the dumpster behind The Small Easy. She hugs her friend. “I looked all over for you!”

“We hid out in that Greek place with the orange awning. It closed for a family emergency or something, and they didn’t lock the back door properly. There was tons of food. Russet loved it! We hightailed it last night when we heard someone unlocking the front door.”

Aydee extricates herself from Sandra.

“Plus, I stayed away because I was still ticked at you.”

“I’m so sorry. I don’t live there anymore. I . . .” Sandra doesn’t know where to begin. Or what to say about the other Aydee, if anything at all.

Aydee cuts in, saying, “So you met her, huh? I know you used to think I was just this crazy lady, but you were nice to me anyway. You always listened.”

Sandra is shocked. “Did you meet her, too?”

“No. I told you, I know everything that happens to her, and now she’s very angry, very confused. All these years, she thought that my life was just a nightmare that haunted her: her worst fears of how her life would have turned out if the lioness hadn’t intervened. She’s terrified that her whole life is a fantasy. That only I’m real. It’ll be better for her if we never meet.”

“But I thought you wanted her to save you?”

“No . . . I was wrong about that. I’ve got my own life. And I’ve got Russet. We do well together.” Aydee laughs, opening her arms to let Sandra in. “And we have each other too, now, right?”

In Sandra’s dream, she and Aydee are playing with her child—she’s not sure if it’s a boy or a girl—in a big park full of dogs, including Russet. Everyone is happy and playful. Russet rushes up to her and licks her face. He steps back and barks, then licks her again. He does this several times until Sandra wakes up to the real Russet’s tongue on her face.

In the dark, she reaches out to pet him, and her hand falls on something sticky. Sandra immediately thinks of the dog stabber and knows that this is blood. She shouts, “Aydee! Russet is hurt! Aydee!” Where is she? The last thing Sandra remembers before going to sleep is resting her head in Aydee’s lap right here next to the dumpster.

The dog starts running; Sandra has no choice but to follow. She’s not fast enough for him, so he keeps having to stop and run back to her to make sure she’s following.

Russet reaches Aydee, who’s on the ground, leaning against the wall of an alley. He whines desperately, kissing her face, darting quick, worried glances at Sandra. She realizes that Russet isn’t covered in his own blood.

There’s blood pooling around Aydee; she’s holding a hand against her ribs. She holds Sandra’s gaze and says, “Take me to her.”

“Her? Who? . . . That other Aydee? No! I have to get you to a hospital.”

Aydee coughs blood. “Too weak to argue. Do as I say. Please. She knows we’re coming. Knows what to do.”

Sandra is anxious to get Aydee looked at by a doctor, but she doesn’t dare betray her friend’s wishes again. As Sandra kneels down to wrap Aydee’s right arm around her shoulders, she sees a man lying face up on the ground next to the opposite wall.

There’s just enough light for her to see that his throat is ripped open. Next to his chewed-up right hand, there’s a bloody dagger.

Weakly, Aydee says, “Russet had run off. I found him—” Aydee coughs again, and Sandra winces at the pain on her friend’s face. Aydee continues in a whisper: “Guy was giving him steak while pulling a knife on him. I screamed. Ran to save Russet. Guy stabbed me. Then Russet got him.”

The other Aydee is waiting for them outside the door to Lost Pages. When she sees them, she rushes over and helps Sandra carry the wounded and barely conscious Aydee into the shop.

Russet sniffs the other Aydee. His tail perks up, wagging enthusiastically, and he runs rings around the three women.

Inside, the other Aydee says, “This is my fault. If only I’d . . .”

Sandra doesn’t trust this Aydee. Her Aydee is going to die, and she’s powerless to prevent it. Unable to keep the anger out her voice she says, “So, how are you going to save her? She always told me you were a hero. But you’re just a coward.”

Before the Lost Pages Aydee can reply, the wounded Aydee opens her eyes and says, “It’s you. It’s really you.” Blood gurgles out of her mouth; she coughs, spitting out more blood.

The other Aydee says, “Yes.” Tears stream down her face.

The blood-stained Russet sniffs both Aydees intently.

The Lost Pages Aydee pulls a pendant from under her shirt. The palm-sized jewel reflects shades of green, blue, and brown. She clasps it in the wounded Aydee’s hand, then enfolds that hand with both of hers. She bends down, brushing her face against her doppelganger’s. She opens her mouth and kisses her double’s bloody lips and . . .

. . . green, blue, and brown light explodes into the bookshop.

Sandra loses all sense of herself; she experiences life—simultaneously, chaotically, blissfully—through the bodies of countless creatures: flying in strange skies, swimming through primordial oceans, worshipping monstrous deities, smelling alien flowers, hunting elusive prey, hiding from ravenous predators, giving birth to a litter of exotic animals . . .

As the Godlight fades, Sandra feels that a lifetime of ignored wounds have been healed. With calm joy she looks at Russet licking the other Aydee’s hand. But panic rises within her when she notices that her Aydee has disappeared.

Sandra screams, “Where is she? What have you done to her?”

There are tears on Aydee’s face. She moves closer and opens her mouth, but she seems unable to speak.

Baring her teeth in fury, Sandra pushes her away. Then Aydee erupts with laughter, crying even harder. “Sandra, it’s me! It’s both of us. We’re one person again. Finally.”

Aydee lifts her shirt, and there are fading scars where she’d been stabbed. Sandra looks at her face, and it’s true: the new Aydee’s face is a composite of both their faces, not as worn as the one, not as smooth as the other.

Aydee says it’s good to have a dog in the bookshop again. It amuses her when Russet intimidates customers by following them around.

These strange books about secret histories, lost worlds, and weird gods; the otherwordly clientele; the tenuous connection with any one reality—Sandra’s fascinated by it all, and amazed that she’s really working at Lost Pages.

As Sandra leafs through the book whose cover painting bears a curious resemblance to her tattoos—admiring the ornate hand-drawn illuminations but still unable to decipher the writing—she hears Russet snore from the foot of the bed. She yawns, puts the heavy tome aside, and gently presses her hands against the not-so-subtle bulge of her belly.

Sandra blows out the candle. She lies down and spoons Aydee.



The Daily Star, November 15

News Briefs, page A7

The body of the heavily tattooed young Caucasian woman discovered wrapped in a quilt on Green Avenue in the aftermath of the freak snow storm that hit the city in late October has still not been identified. The coroner’s office has found no evidence of foul play and has concluded that hypothermia was the cause of death. The young woman was pregnant.


Coda: The Lost and Found of Years


Phone rings. It’s Jasper. Says he wants a Montreal story for a new anthology he’s preparing, something about cities. Go crazy, he says.

Big money, he says. Hard/soft deal with Knopf/Vintage. HBO planning mini-series based on his concept, adapting stories from his book for TV. Put in all the sex you want, he tells me. It’s cable TV. Money, he says again.

Right. Money. But any of it for me? I ask.

Tell Jasper about Bestial Acts deal. The first story about my fictional bookshop, Lost Pages. Haynes bought the rights, made a film with Depp playing Lucas. Big indie hit. Didn’t see a dime. Not even a penny. Pringle took it all. Read your contract, he said. F*cking publishers.

Tell Jasper I’ll think about it.

Money sounds like a good thing. No story ideas, though.

Take the dog out for a walk. Look around. Maybe something in the neighbourhood will spark an idea or two.

Girlfriend always says I never notice anything. Always in my head. Stores go out of business. New buildings go up. And I’m just clueless.

I’m not really that bad. But she’s not wrong, either.

Walk around with the dog, look at stuff. But I get no story ideas.

Long walk, though. Makes the dog happy, at least.

Girlfriend says, Take that camera I got you for your birthday last year. You know, the one you never use. Take pictures of the neighbourhood. It’ll rev up your imagination. You’ll think up a story in no time.

Yeah, right.

I go out with the dog again. And the camera.

Meet lots of people from the neighbourhood. Portuguese grandmothers who can speak neither French nor English. Cute McGill students. Other dog walkers. Clerks from the neighbourhood bakeries, the newsstand, the used bookstores. People who know me ‘cause they see me walk the dog all the time.

They all fuss over the dog. They always do.

Dog just soaks it all in. Wags his tail. Smiles. Pants.

I don’t manage to shoot any pictures. No inspiration. Getting depressed. Go to the park to play with the dog.

Betcha Jasper never thought about how happy his stupid anthology would make my dog.

Lots of dogs in the park. Dog loves it. Humps a bunch of them.

F*ck it, I’m too depressed. Can’t play anymore. Head back home. Dog’s not too happy about leaving the park.

Girlfriend gives me a good pep talk. We gab about Montreal. What’s fun about it. What’s special about it.

All the different kinds of people. Culturally diverse. No violence. People holding hands and kissing in public. Gay. Straight. Whatever. Lots of sexy girls. Great city to walk around in twenty-four hours a day. Easy to make friends. And the food. People love eating. All kinds of food. And bakeries everywhere. Bagels. Croissants. Baguettes. More.

Then, bad stuff. The paranoid Anglos who think their culture is threatened. Yeah, right. The gullible Francophones who believe all that tripe about being oppressed. Yeah, right.

Nowhere near as many people like that as the media makes it appear. Most people just like to get along. Québécois. Anglos. Jews. Arabs. Blacks. Asians. Latinos. Whatever.

More bad stuff. Everyone f*cking smokes. Well, not everyone, but, f*ck, it sure feels like it sometimes. And everyone’s always late. Always. Montreal custom. Hate that.

Well, so what. Still no ideas for a story.

F*ck.

Temperature shoots up ten degrees today. The sky is clear, and the sun is hot. It’s just a few degrees above freezing, but, for us Montrealers, so eager to leave winter behind, it’s like the first taste of summer.

Go out to Rue St-Denis with the girlfriend.

Same as every year on the first day with even a hint of spring. All the terraces are open for business. Everyone eating outside, everyone underdressed, everyone checking each other out, everyone happy and chatty.

F*ck, there’s a lot of beautiful girls in this city. And it’s nice to see a bit of flesh again, after months of winter.

Girlfriend notices me noticing.

She laughs. She always does.

I love it when she laughs.

She gives me that look. I love that look.

We go home and f*ck. We have so much fun we can’t stop laughing, even while we’re cumming.

Still no idea for a story, though.

I decide to try again with the camera. I don’t bring the dog this time. I give him a cookie instead. He takes it in his mouth and plops himself on the couch.

Okay. I’m outside. I’ve got the camera.

Take pictures. Lots of pictures. Old school. With film.

Buildings. Skylines. People. Dogs. Trees. Stuff on the ground.

Run out of film pretty fast. Fun, though.

Dunno if it’ll help me with the story or not.

I go buy more rolls of film. Lots more. What the hell.

I feel good.

I go home and write.

I write a whole story in one sitting. But it has nothing to do with Jasper’s anthology.

I reread my new story. I’m pretty happy with it. Needs only a bit of editing. A big turning point in my Lost Pages mythology. I send it off to Klima at Electric Velocipede.

I try the camera thing again. Use up another whole roll. Fun.

But no new story ideas today. Not for Jasper, and not for anything else.

I do the camera thing every day now. Sometimes I bring the dog, but it’s too distracting.

I end up taking lots of walks. Camera walks; and dog walks. I try to leave enough time for writing.

Story for Jasper. Book for Savory. Novella for Kasturi.

Today, I notice something weird. But it’s too freaky. I’ll look at the pictures again tomorrow. Probably too tired. Seeing things.

Halpern on the phone. Wants a new Lost Pages story for a Di Filippo tribute anthology.

I ask about the money.

Print on demand, he says. No money up front, but higher royalties. Royalties. Yeah, right.

I tell him I’ll think about it.

In bed. Trying to sleep. Girlfriend snoring. It’s kinda cute. Makes me smile. But restless anyway.

Didn’t use the camera today. Dog walks only. Didn’t write anything.

Didn’t look at the pictures.

Don’t want to deal with it. Too weird.

Can’t get to sleep. Get up. Go look at the pictures.

I look at the pictures. Of the row of houses across the street from our house. I spread them on my desk. Compare them. And there it is. I can’t deny it.

I look out the window of my office. Across the street. To that house.

And there it is.

F*ck.

Should I wake her up? F*ck. That makes her grumpy. She’d bite my head off.

I’m gonna wait till morning.

Go back to bed.

Try to sleep.

Can’t sleep. I have to tell someone. Show someone.

I whisper girlfriend’s name. Touch her shoulder.

She mumbles. Doesn’t really wake up.

I try harder. Say her name. Once. Twice. Little shake.

She mumbles again and turns away from me.

I shake her harder. Say her name and, You have to wake up. I need to talk to you.

She turns toward me. Opens her eyes. She’s not happy.

She gets up. Reluctantly. Puts on a T-shirt.

Dog lifts his head to see what’s going on, but then he moves around and settles on my pillow.

I drag the girlfriend into my office.

She is annoyed, but not biting my head off.

Good.

She can tell that I’m really upset. Takes it seriously. Takes me seriously.

I show her.

Look, I say. Look. Look.

I point to that house, on a whole bunch of different photos.

She doesn’t get it.

She says, It’s that house across the street. So what?

I say, Don’t you notice something weird?

She doesn’t get it.

I drag her to the window. I point to the house across the street.

Look. Look!

I hold a picture of that row of houses in each hand. Pictures from two different days.

Look at these. Then look outside. That house. There! Don’t you see?

No, she doesn’t.

F*ck.

Why the f*ck did you wake me up, she says. Is this another of your stupid jokes, she says.

No.

We fight.

It gets ugly.

She gets dressed and storms out of the house.

I shouldn’t have woken her up.

Okay. Calm down.

F*ck. F*ck. F*ck.

Stupid house.

F*ck you, stupid f*cking house across the street.

Girlfriend always says I don’t notice anything.

But now she’s the one not noticing.

Not seeing. But why not?

F*ck. This is too weird. Plus, she’s mad at me.

I hate it when we fight.

This is all Jasper’s fault. Stupid f*cking anthology.

Okay. Calmer now.

I look at the pictures again.

Then I look at the house.

F*ck.

Every day, it’s a different house.

Every day, that house changes.

It’s not the same house from one day to the next.

Okay. Stop reiterating. No matter how I say it, it still sounds crazy.

One day, it’s a well-kept red-brick duplex.

The next, it’s a triplex, with one of those famous Montreal outdoor staircases.

And then, it becomes an ugly 1970s apartment building, with half the windows boarded up.

And then, a gorgeous old-fashioned place with big, grey stonework.

Then, a yuppy townhouse.

Then, a croissanterie.

A travel agency.

A condo development.

A pet shop.

An empty lot.

A small park with nice big trees and a couple of benches.

A narrow renovated house with a driveway on the side, in the same style as ours.

I look out the window again.

Right now, it’s a barber shop.

Can’t sleep.

Get dressed. Go for a nighttime walk with the dog.

He growls at me when I get him out of bed. By the time we’re outside he’s happy enough. Wagging. Running. Sniffing.

I do not look at the house across the street.

Breakfast. I make pancakes. Sausages. With maple syrup. Girlfriend is back. Not talking to me. But sits with me while we eat. So things not too bad.

Tea for her. Orange juice for me.

I don’t mention the house.

I don’t say anything.

We eat.

She has to go to work.

She almost gives me a hug.

Stops herself.

Then hugs me anyway.

Okay. Things are good.

I decide to never mention that house again.

When I sit at my desk, I can see that house through the window.

Today, it’s a teepee.

Maybe I should move my office around. So I don’t see outside while I work.

I stare out the window all the time. I try to see the house change. To witness that moment of transformation.

F*ck.

I always miss it.

I go to the bathroom. I yawn and blink for a second too long. Whatever.

I always miss it.

Changes getting weirder. Bizarre architectures. Foreign. Or something.

One night, I recognize it. From one of my stories. Not a house that time. But a vast, dark, deep hole in the ground, surrounded by a moat of water sparkling with green, blue, and brown light. Giant black tendrils erupt savagely from the hole in the ground, kept in check by the godly waters.

Too weird.

Not sleeping. Not writing.

F*ck.

Midnight. Can’t sleep. Girlfriend and dog curled up together, sleeping. They’re beautiful.

Get up.

The house looks kind of futuristic tonight.

I’m so f*cking tired.

Peculiar architecture. All curves and unusual angles. Don’t recognize the building material. Some kind of stone, but different. Weird.

Window slides open. Woman appears.

Naked. At least the part of her I can see.

Dark wavy hair to her shoulders. Light brown skin. Big eyes. Full lips. Svelte with soft curves. Full, firm, round breasts. Looks about twenty.

She notices me looking. Staring.

She laughs.

I love it when girls laugh.

She turns away for a second and gestures with her hand.

A second woman joins her.

They look exactly the same. Twins?

They laugh.

I love it when they laugh.

They touch each other’s breasts, looking at me.

I’m so hard I feel like a teenager.

They gesture for me to come join them.

On my way out I see the dog and my girlfriend on the bed. Sleeping.

I should stay here. I love her. She loves me.

I go outside.

The women are still at the window.

They’re the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. They look at me. Gesture for me come to them.

F*ck, I’m almost creaming just thinking about them.

I walk to the house. To the door. Strange futuristic door. Have no idea how to open it.

While I try to figure it out, it dissolves. And I see inside.

And the girls are there, on the floor. Naked. Looking at me with their mouths open just so.

F*ck, they’re gorgeous.

And then I think: What happens if the house changes while I’m in there? Will I vanish along with it? To another place?

With these girls.

But I love my girlfriend. And she loves me.

I hear the girls moan.

I’m trembling. My cock is almost ripping through my pants.

I look at them. They’re a fantasy.

I run back home.

Wake up girlfriend. Dog growls and jumps out of bed.

Take my clothes off. Kiss girlfriend. Have sex. I cum right away. But then I make her cum once, twice, three times. I love her.

I sleep for fifteen hours.

Lying in bed, waking up. I feel so good.

Then, phone call from Jasper. How’s the story coming along?

I lie.

Phone rings again. Kasturi. Where’s that Lost Pages novella I promised her?

I lie.

Phone rings again. Savory needs to know when I’ll hand in the manuscript. Book’s listed in the new catalogue, he reminds me.

The phone. Again. Halpern. Still wants a new Lost Pages story for that Di Filippo book.

F*ck.

I haven’t written anything for months. Way behind.

I don’t feel so good anymore.

Step out the door, walking dog.

It’s not a house across the street today.

It’s a lush garden, with a giant apple tree in the middle. With a naked man and a naked woman. They kind of look Jewish, except that the guy isn’t circumcised.

They’re contemplating the apple tree.

There’s a snake slithering around. A luminous, seductive snake.

This is too weird.

Girlfriend says she’s worried about me. I seem troubled, distracted. Asks about my writing.

We fight. It gets real ugly. She storms out.

I know it’s my fault.

F*ck.

Today, the house is a bookshop.

Not just any bookshop.

Lost Pages. The bookshop from my stories.

The stuff my dreams are made of. Cliché, but true.

I walk up to it. I peer through the window.

Inside, a man and a girl in her teens. Lucas and Aydee. My characters. Me.

I haven’t written anything for months.

I hear barking.

I look back toward my house. My dog is looking at me through my office window. Barking at me. Telling me to come back.

I think about my girlfriend. I love her.

She loves me.

I haven’t written anything for months.

I open the door to Lost Pages and step inside.





Acknowledgements

Portions of The Door to Lost Pages have previously appeared, in different form, in Interzone #178 (April 2002); OtherDimension.com (July 2002); Interzone #186 (February 2003); Intracities (Unwrecked Press 2003), edited by Michael Jasper; SDO Fantasy (April 2004); and The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 4 (Robinson 2005), edited by Maxim Jakubowski.



About the Author

Claude Lalumière (lostmyths.net/claude) is the author of the story collection Objects of Worship (ChiZine Publications 2009) and the chapbook The World’s Forgotten Boy and the Scorpions from Hell (Kelp Queen Press 2008). He has edited eight anthologies, including the Aurora Award nominee Tesseracts Twelve: New Novellas of Canadian Fantastic Fiction (Edge 2008), and he writes the Fantastic Fiction column for The Montreal Gazette. With Rupert Bottenberg, Claude is the co-creator of Lost Myths, which is both a live show and an online archive updated weekly at lostmyths.net.