SLIPPING INTO THE DARKNESS

Tuesday, February 1st

Location: Home - Los Angeles

Dear Diary,

A long time ago, I don't remember when I found you my beautiful diary at a flea market in downtown Los Angeles. I put you in my desk drawer to use one day. Today is that day. I am leaving on a trip this morning, and I will take you with me; it will be our little secret. Please allow me to share my thoughts. I will be honest and fair.

Most days, I can only recall the past in flashes of colorful, striking images that appear and consume me in their voracity for only moments and quickly fade, leaving me weary for hours, sometimes days.

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Friday, February 5th

Location: Air space somewhere over the Indian Ocean

Checking my watch, I find the flight has been in the air for an hour and is still over the Indian Ocean. We departed from Sir Gaetan Duval Airport

Port Mathurin on Rodrigues Island, Mauritius. I know what you are thinking,

What the hell is 43-year-old Bethany Molly Walker, paralegal, living alone in a great apartment in Los Angeles, California. The former, now divorced for three years, Mrs. Craig Keelan, voted"Most Likely to Succeed" at Coleridge High School in Seattle, Washington, on her way home from Mauritius and small black box sitting on the airline seat next to me.

We all have regrets in life; I certainly do. Eight years ago on a whim, I entered a thrift store on Mott Street. If only I had gone directly to my intended target, Ms. Tillie's Coffee and Donut shop on the corner, perhaps I would not be in this predicament. I chose to veer from my preselected intention, and my careless decision changed the course of my life.

Once inside the thrift store, I passed a frail elderly man dressed in a dark blue Kutra Pajama seated in a chair to the side of the front counter. His small, black, beady eyes were surrounded by an unsettling mass of dull red veins.

His gaze upon the world of the thrift store was leveled and unforgiving. Walking past him, he leaned slightly forward in my direction, tilted his head, his eyes narrowed, his bushy eyebrows becoming a single line across his forehead. He abruptly straightened and leaned back in his chair. It was then that he offered a slight nod. I tried to acknowledge him with a smile, but my stomach tightened, and I grimaced; he seemed not to notice.

The thrift store looked like it had been in its location for decades; it was dark and dank, smelled of sweat, unfamiliar cooking odors, and a heavy dust layer covering every surface. Walking slowly, I was drawn to a long counter at the rear of the store. Above the counter were stacks of oddly shaped glass containers precariously arranged, assorted tchotchkes, and an array of rings and trinkets.

I wasn't exactly sure what I was looking for, but I knew it was nearby. Rising up on my tiptoes, my eyes searched the menagerie, and then I saw it. A powerful blast of energy surged from my toes to my brain, ending in an exploding red light. Immediately, I knew my purpose: I was looking for that Music Box, but, for a reason I did not yet know. I rescued the Music Box.

I dug into my purse and found a cotton handkerchief, a gift from my grandmother; I had taken to carrying it to honor her and for good luck. Slowly, I wiped the dust from the Music Box. In awe, I examined the magnificent outer rosewood carvings, patina, and craftsmanship of the exquisite piece. On the front of the Music Box was a small gold plate that read "Validus." I knew it was Latin but I was not sure what it meant. Quickly I took out my cellphone and typed in the word it meant "powerful." I heard my inner voice it sounded so far away "Put it back." Pretending I did not hear the words I proceeded to the front of the store.

For some reason, I had no desire or inkling to open the Music Box, hear the music, or see the tiny ballerina typically found inside music boxes. My mission was to rescue and protect the Music Box; I had to get it to my home where it would be safe.

At the store counter, I paid the $25.00 marked on the white round sticker on the top of the Music Box. The clerk started to put the Music Box in a white plastic shopping bag but stopped short when the elderly man in the chair turned and glared at him. The clerk handed me the Music Box put his hands together and bowed. Leaving the shop I hurried to my car, ceremoniously placing it on the front seat. A fleeting thought occurred to me. It was that I was now a part of a partnership in whatever endeavor was to come. Struck by the thought I sat unmoving staring at the Music Box for at least a half hour. Finally, I put the car in gear and drove home.

The first night the Music Box was in my apartment, I had a heart-stopping nightmare. I woke up panicked and confused. I had to remind myself that it was February 1st, the day after I found the Music Box.

I fought, opening my eyes; I wanted to stay invisible to the world but mostly from the Music Box. Still, in the mental fog of twilight sleep, I was startled by a 9:30 AM alarm. My bedside clock buzzed for a few seconds, then shut itself off. I lay curled up, trying to recall when and why I had set the alarm and wondering how it had shut itself off.

I tried to remain in bed; it was Saturday, but a powerful energy surged from my life, making me rise and throw back the covers. That is when I saw the Music Box sitting on a large white envelope on my bedside table. I remember being petrified, my mind whizzing to understand what was happening.

In spite of my trepidation, there was a profound thought that all of that was happening was exactly as it should be in this world. Picking up the sealed envelope, I opened it, hoping to not destroy my manicure, and dumped the contents into my lap. There were two round-trip airline tickets, both in my name, from Los Angeles to some place called Rodrigues Island, Mauritius, a two-night voucher for the Hotel Bendin, $500 in small bills, my passport ( that was stored in my bottom dresser drawer), and a visa in my name.

I examined the airline tickets. Why were there two tickets? One was for me; the other, I paused, not wanting to accept the thought. One was for the Music Box. The idea sent a shiver up my spine. I felt goosebumps rise on my arms. Noting the flight would leave in less than five hours, I dressed and packed one suitcase. It appeared we would only be in the country for 24 hours then return to Los Angeles. I was unsure how to transport the Music Box, so I found a small carry-on bag in my closet. Several hours later, I found myself and the Music Box seated aboard the aircraft. I was in one seat, and the Music Box was in the other.

Getting to the island was/is not an easy task; two airline transfers in foreign cities, 38 ½ hours of flight time one way, and 11,848 miles later, we landed at the tiny Sir Gaetan Duval Airport in Port Mathurin on Rodrigues Island in the middle of the Indian Ocean. The small airport terminal was stiflingly hot, humid, and crowded. Unbeknownst to me, major soccer round-robin games were being played throughout the island causing a major increase in tourists.

Outside the terminal, it was summer in the tropics; the humidity was high and the sun was blazing. A light ocean breeze gently ruffled the sun hats of the ladies, mostly

tourists, as they strolled along the crowded sidewalks looking for bargains before the vendors closed up shop at 6:00 PM.

A small crowd of cabbies stood in front of the airport terminal, calling out their availability and jostling for fares. Out of nowhere, a young man in a bright red shirt rushed up to me and, in Creole, offered to take me directly to the Hotel Bendin; somehow, he knew the destination before I told him.

Although many islanders speak English, I asked and answered the cab driver in Rodriguan Creole, the French-based Creole language spoken on the island. I spoke to him in fluent Creole amazing to me since I had never heard the language before that moment.

The driver did not hesitate to get me, my suitcase, and the carry-on bag into his ancient cab. He gunned the engine, causing a giant plume of black smoke to explode from the exhaust pipe. The driver forcibly merged into the busy thoroughfare traffic. Within minutes, we exited the city and were on a dirt road deep into the beautiful lush green jungle. We arrived at the Hotel Bendin an hour later.

The classic Hotel Bendin is of the 1960s vintage and has only five floors; its expansive roof overhang provides a cooling shade to those sitting in its shadow in modern lawn chairs and enjoying the balmy summer weather.

On every visit I have taken to this hidden paradise, one thing has been consistent; upon entering the small, well-kept lobby, sitting alone in a giant fan chair, is the diminutive elderly man with dark beady eyes whom I first saw at the thrift store in Los Angeles. Even though I have seen him many times since our first encounter I never have spoken to him.

I look back on the first time I saw him at the Hotel Bendin; I boldly decided I would ask him to help me get rid of the Music Box; after all, I reasoned, I had purchased the Music Box in his store. I started to walk in his direction, and in a flash, my lips seemed to lock shut. My limbs became immobile, defying my will to move. His dull eyes stared at me, and then unexpectedly he turned his head away, a clear sign that there would be no communication between us.

4:55 PM – Hotel Bendin, Rodrigues Island Time

I recall on my first trip with the Music Box to the island, carrying my suitcase and the Music Boxin in the carry-on bag up three flights of stairs to the hotel room; I vacillated between impressions of heightened excitement followed by a downward spiral of unexplainable doom. I wanted to scream, cry, yell, and beg to be released from the internal confinement that was now my way of life.

Dragging my suitcase up the white and blue tiled staircase; I managed to keep a death grip on the handle of the carry-on bag. I stopped for a few moments to catch my breath. I was overheating but I was almost to the third floor. I began thinking about how my relationship was deepening with the Music Box. I admitted I was dealing with an energy or force that was dark and sinister. I was slipping into the darkness. The darkness is the world of witches, warlocks, and demons. When the full scope of my life-altering dilemma became crystal clear in my heart and mind: I became dizzy, my stomach churned, my sight blurred, and I felt as if my head were about to explode. A feeling of absolute terror washed over me.

The shock caused me to miss my next step on the staircase, and I fell hard on my left knee; the sharp pain caused me to let go of my suitcase and grab hold of the metal railing.

I heard my suitcase bounce and tumble down the staircase, landing with a heavy thud on the first level. Despite the pain and confusion, I still held on to the carry-on bag containing the Music Box.

It was then, that I knew I would never be free from the force of the Music Box. On the staircase, at the height of the tropical summer, in an old hotel in the middle of the Indian Ocean, I accepted the truth. An energy or force had taken control of my mind and body in other words I was possessed.

Entering the hotel room, I knew my first action was to place the Music Box in its proper place. Still holding the travel bag, I walked across the spacious, homely-furnished main room to the double louvered doors leading onto a long, narrow balcony. I noticed a red-painted straight-back chair with pink and yellow flowered cushions on the far left side of the balcony near the wall. I knew that was to be my seat for the evening.

Cautiously, I removed the Music Box from the travel bag, placing it on a small

table several feet to the side of my chair. The hand-carved wooden table held a

thick glass top covered with a simple, black cotton cloth that fell to the floor. From a place of knowing, I instinctively positioned the Music Box precisely in the center of the table with the front gold tag facing the ocean.

I remember that there was a soft knock at the door. I opened it to find a young shirtless boy hardly bigger than my wayward suitcase, a wide toothy grin on his face, my bag at his feet; I gave him a generous tip for his service. Closing the door, my thoughts went back to the Music Box.

5:55 PM – Hotel Bendin - Rodrigues Time

I lay on the bed trying to will myself to sleep or eat, but my body resisted the thought. Instead, I tossed and turned restlessly. A cold chill shot up my spine to my

brain, causing me to snap out of my mindset of dread. Checking my watch, I realized I had to prepare for the coming.

I changed out of my travel outfit of slacks and shirt and took a quick refreshing shower. I donned a long-sleeved and floor-length black cotton dress. I had found the dress neatly folded on top of my suitcase in Los Angeles. I noticed the fabric was exactly the same as the black cloth covering the balcony table where the Music Box was resting.

6:14 PM – Hotel Bendin - Rodrigues Time

Returning to the balcony, the sun was still bright and overhead. I sat on the red chair and closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the island. I love the fun and excitement of summer the high-pitched giggles of children splashing in the pool, The sound of the sea as it rushes to and from the shore, the calming rustling of the jungle foliage, the mouthwatering aromas of meats and fish cooking over an open fire pit. The romantically intoxicating sweetness of the Lilly and flowered hibiscus.

Opening my eyes, I look beyond the balcony to an expansive view of the sparkling Indian Ocean.

6:28 PM – Hotel Bendin, Rodrigues Island Time

The sun had begun its farewell of the day. As if to announce its final departure, a

brilliant breathtaking flash of orange, yellow, and golden light spreads across the horizon and quickly disappears. The sky becomes inky black, and there is an unsettling lull. The world surrounding us grew quiet, and the children's revelry, native music, and chatter of boisterous tourists at the pool ceased. Birds stop singing to us and each other, taking immediate refuge in the jungle trees.

I sit motionless, my back ramrod straight, eyes focused on the black starless sky overhead and wait. I hear a soft creak as the top of the Music Box rises, revealing a black velvet lining. A petite wooden carved ballerina with painted blond hair, wide blue eyes, and a red pout is dressed in a black tutu and black-toe shoes, she snaps upright. The ballerina's dancing reflection is visible in the mirror beneath her. Lowering my eyelids I try covertly to get a look at her. Suddenly, she stops dancing and her head turns slowly in my direction. I quickly returned my gaze back to the dark sky. The ballerina began to dance around on her mirror stage and wondered if she had the power to kill me.

hear soft music coming from the Music Box; it is erratic and nonsensical. The little ballerina twists and twirls, her arms and legs akimbo flying this way and that oblivious to the incongruence of dance and music. My heart beats erratically. The hair on the back of my neck began to stand up, and instantly I knew it was time.

6:29 PM – Hotel Bendin, Rodrigues Island Time

The unholy event begins at precisely 6:29 PM, 60 seconds after sunset.

The sun began to rise from the horizon, moving slowly across the now-gray sky

and radiating intense heat.

As the sun rises higher and higher into the gray sky, so does the temperature. I can feel beads of sweat running down my face. More than anything, I want this satanic phenomenon to end. Out of nowhere, I think about Dorothy from The Wizard of OZ. I begin to chant my own mantra in my head: I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home. The sun remained fixed over our heads for five long, agonizing minutes.

Then, slowly, the sun begins to descend, disappearing unceremoniously below the horizon, leaving behind a black night and an uneasy feeling. Within a few minutes of the sun's final descent, the island appears to begin its reformation.

It's nighttime, the time for gatherings, under hanging twinkle lights, laughter, and frivolity. The dark clouds dissipate, leaving behind a clear night, revealing a glorious array of brilliant twinkling stars. A full moon appears, shining its light on the island and its people. Lovers again stroll along the shoreline. Island residents and tourists gather to drink, dance, sing, play cards, sip homemade Mamajuana, and feast on the mouthwatering catch of the day. At the same time, children return to their games on the hotel lawn.

Dear Diary, I write to you with absolute conviction that after we arrive and I am

home again, I will open my diary to review the words describing my experiences during that February ritual will find the ink, and my words will have already…vanished from the page.