Evil Evelyn’s Exotically Enigmatic Escapade (EEEEE!)

Evelyn Cavendish--aka, Evil Evelyn, Cadaverous Cavendish, or just Evie--was a likely suspect for a murderer. Everyone had said so ever since she was a little girl. "You'll be the next Mary Ann Cotton," her exasperated mother once told little Evie at a family party when she was six. Mary Ann Cotton was a 19th-century murderer, though this apt historical reference eluded most everyone in the room because, of course, men get nearly all the credit, even when it comes to the nasty business of murder.

It was, therefore, highly unusual and unexpected that two decades later, Evil Evelyn found herself in the awkward position of examining her own murder. What an untimely and embarrassing exit, Evie. It's simply mortifying! she declared as she inspected her corpse that somehow had ended up in twenty-two--no, twenty-three--pieces scattered and splattered across the temple floor (and ceiling). I'm beside myself! I'm such a mess.

Evie--or what was left of her mortal remains--was indeed a mess. The four square walls of the immaculately preserved tomb of an ancient Amerindian Emperor, along with its sacred glyphs and images, had undergone a ghastly redecorating: A leg here, an eyeball there, and blood, blood everywhere.

But to Evie's discerning eye (her ghostly eye, that is; her physical eyes were scattered about the room), the copious blood was not so much horrifying as beautiful. It's like liquid ruby, she thought admiringly. She always had a peculiar talent for putting a poetic spin on the morbid and macabre. The unnatural came naturally to her.

But what did not come naturally to her at this particular moment was her memory of how she had come to such a disturbingly inventive demise. The memory played elusively at the edges of her consciousness like an annoying little bird--just the sort that Evie had enjoyed shooting as a little girl.

She scratched her head. How did I end up here, anyhow?

It was only reluctantly that Evelyn had agreed to travel to the wild and barbaric land known colloquially as America. There were many colonies (or former colonies) that she had wished to visit, but America was not one of them. Horrifying reports had reached her ears of Americans' ruthless elimination of letters (curiously, curiousity was only curiosity there), as well as other disturbing trends, such as class mobility. The deadly Irukandji jellyfish of Australia and their nauseating venom were infinitely preferable.

It had all begun, she supposed, with Mr. Pennyworth. He was a portly, mustachioed bloke with a pricey suit and a rather dodgy smile (though judging by his tremendous girth, he would have had trouble actually dodging anything if it came to that).

On one miserable March morning in London--that is, on a normal morning in London--Mr. Pennyworth appeared in her office overlooking the Tower of London. Truth be told, she ought to have been working on the backup of client files, but instead, she had been fantasizing about the medieval torture devices and wondering how it had all come to this. This, being a mind-numbing job at a consulting firm that drove her to drink Irish Whiskey in large quantities after hours. What was the point of being born with landed titles, getting honors in Classics at Oxford, and being cleverer than everyone else in the room if life was such a bore?

An excellent rhetorical question, Evie thought. And it was because of this excellent rhetorical question that she was susceptible to the devilish offer that Mr. Mephistopheles Pennyworth was about to make.

"I'd like to proposition you," he said.

"I'm sorry, but I turned down five of the seven previous men who wanted to marry me and poisoned the other two." Evie displayed to Mr. Pennyworth her quintessential I am not amused smile.

Mr. Pennyworth gave a great, roiling, British laugh. "Ah ha ha! Splendid! Simply splendid!" After managing to rein in his laughter, which (along with his footsteps) had caused a minor earthquake in Evie's tea, he twirled his mustache and leaned closer as though confiding to an old friend. "No, Madam, I have a rather more unorthodox proposition for you."

"Unorthodox? Now that piques Evie's interest," she said, referring to herself in the third person like many self-obsessed and socially detached people are wont to do.

"I'd like to recruit you on an international quest to uncover the long-lost tomb of Unpronounceable the Second."

"His name is actually Unpronounceable?" Evie said.

"Well, no, but it is unpronounceable. Hence, we've taken to calling him Unpronounceable."

"I see," Evie said. "Well, what about Unpronounceable the First?"

"Ah, that's part of the enigma, wrapped in a mystery, inside of a—I forget the rest of the Churchill quote—but in any event, it will be a rollickingly lucrative adventure, and you should participate."

Evie was pretty sure that rollickingly lucrative did not make much sense, but she decided to let it slip. After all, she was in the presence of a man who had clearly let many things slip (his appearance, chief among them). And so, instead of rebuking his dubitable English, she struck a contemplative pose: crossing her legs and taking a long, deep drag from her cigarette. The doctors disapproved of her smoking habit, as did the smoke detectors in her office, but she counted that among the reasons to continue. Never trust a doctor, she quipped. They only get paid when you're sick.

"And why would you want me to assist you in your little quest?"

"Well, it turns out being posh is an excellent cover for conducting international relic theft and paranormal espionage."

Evie raised an eyebrow. "Paranormal espionage?"

Mr. Pennyworth gave a conspiratorial wink accompanied by a deliciously malicious little laugh. "Indeed," he said, his enormous, rosy cheeks and jowls jiggling.

He set down his briefcase on her desk—and as she was about to object, he suddenly removed an hourglass, a scroll of paper with a wax seal, and a metronome.

"The Hypnotic Society are not fond of indecision," Mr. Pennyworth said. "I shall return when the hourglass runs out. Have your decision ready by then."

He set the metronome ticking, placed a bowler hat on his head, tipped it to her, and then walked out of her office.

Evie's eyes fell on the metronome. It had a soothing quality; she could stare at it all morning.

What was she to make of the proposal? Clearly, Mr. Pennyworth was mad as a box of frogs. Paranormal espionage? What was that even supposed to mean? And what was this about international relic theft? That sounded a bit below board but also thrilling, exciting, and liberating. Maybe signing up for a safari to some unknown land to dig up and steal old artifacts would constitute just the sort of holiday she needed.

When Mr. Pennyworth returned, just as the last grains of sand fell from the hourglass, Evie told him her intention to accept his proposal.

"Huzzah!" He cried in a manner distinctively reminiscent of a bullfrog blowing a foghorn, which reminded her of frogs. That reminded her, in turn, that he was likely mad as a box of them. Frogs, that is.

Evie packed her bags that night, taking only what was strictly necessary. Mr. Pennyworth had assured her all the tools for engaging in paranormal espionage and international relic theft would be provided. All the really important things in her life could be squeezed into a carry-on bag anyway.

She sighed as she finished packing and surveyed her penthouse flat. It was a lovely flat: it had a home theater, marble countertops, a deliciously soft king-size bed, and, best of all, a golden toilet that overlooked the city. She often had her most profound thoughts about the frailty and futility of life while evacuating her bowls in view of Buckingham Palace.

It would be a pity to leave all this opulence that demonstrated her superiority over the sad little people that scuttled about the streets below. But Mr. Pennyworth's offer held a peculiar charm.

There was only one thing that remained. A call to the Iron Matron of her family, the formidable Mrs. Cavendish whose birth canal Evie had (regrettably) traversed some twenty-odd years ago.

She dialed the number, said the customary greeting, and waited for the predictable stream of insults and verbal injuries.

"Yes, Mum, I know you don't care about me, but I just wanted to let you know I'll be going on holiday. Yes, I know you don't care about that either. Well, you didn't have to hang up." Evie regarded her phone with a momentary dismal expression. Why does she hate me? And why am I still calling her, even after she's dead?

Isn't that an unexpectedly tragic twist to the story? Lonely little Evie still called her dead Mum's landline to re-enact the familiar patterns of bids for attention followed by brutal rejection. Evie's therapist probably would've said it was a form of trauma re-enactment, just like Evie's ill-fated love affairs with various villains from Marvel comic books. However, Evie did not have a therapist, because that would mean vulnerability, and so this is all really just hypothesis and speculation.

Mr. Pennyworth met her at the docks to bid her farewell. His parting words struck her as rather odd and obscurantist. "Remember, do not cross the Hypnotic Society," he said with a chuckle as he popped a chocolate and then another chocolate into his mouth. "The Grand Hypnode will be avenged."

The Grand Hypnode? Sounds like a type of inflammation. Well, I don't have any use for old relics, so double-crossing is a moot point. And with that, she dismissed the question.

The voyage across the ocean was unexpectedly bad. Mr. Pennyworth's ship turned out to be more of a boat and one of questionable seaworthiness. Mr. Pennyworth, indeed, she muttered as she stepped aboard the rusted, ungainly, and cramped vessel. More like Mr. Not a Penny's worth!

Later that evening, as the boat bobbed up and down ad nauseum (a phrase to be understood in more senses than one), Evie wrote in her diary. She did so above board (which was, in fact, one of the few activities conducted above board on this voyage) since below board stank so viciously of red herrings it might have been enough to lead an entire pack of bloodhounds astray.

Evelyn's diary, Evie's Conscience, was one of the few possessions she had taken with her on the voyage across the Pond. An excerpt subsequently found on the bottom of the ocean (to be explained below) reads thus:

I know that stealing ancestral artifacts of dubious provenance is wrong will probably be frowned upon by moralizing historians. But I'm British, for the Queen's sake! It's just what we do. And besides, I'll have you know, it's not as though I'm doing it on principle. I'm simply doing it for the money. And because my life has become intolerably empty and boring, and this will amuse me. And that makes it better, all right? Now toddle off, you, pesky puffin, you!

Those were the last lines Evelyn wrote in her diary. She promptly cast her Conscience into the sea (hence the above-mentioned location of the diary excerpt) and immediately felt remarkably unburdened. It had been something she'd been meaning to do for a while. Why did I ever bother carrying around a five-kilogram diary in the first place? she wondered to herself. I suppose it was good exercise, though.

The details after this point became progressively fuzzier to Evie. There were a few vague images of a railroad, a mountain range, and tunnels. But the more she tried to remember beyond that, the more the memories slipped away.

I'd best look for clues in my environment, she thought with a sigh of resignation. Not being able to access her memories sent a trickle of fear down her spine—how had she ended up here? Would she ever remember?

The long, stone tomb of Unpronounceable II stood in the middle of the square room. It was cracked, with sharp stones from it scattered about (not unlike Evie's appendages). The walls somehow converged slowly into a single point on the ceiling—it bent Evie's ghostly brain to stare at them. It reminded her of looking down at her hands in a dream, only to see six fingers.

More troubling than the paradoxical walls was the lack of exit. The walls were all solid, and the inside of the tomb was empty, with cracks or crevasses leading out here. She tried sliding through the walls like ghosts in the movies sometimes could, but they were as impassable as ever.

The only thing of interest in the room was a mirror on the far side. Despite the absence of sunlight, it somehow glimmered like a pool of silver glass. Its mystique beckoned, and she found herself drifting toward it until she stood squarely facing it.

Evie studied her ghostly complexion in the mirror. Her black hair fell along her shoulders, and her striking blue eyes glimmered like sapphires. She was wearing the slipper boots she had been fond of as a child, as well as a white gown and a red bow.

Huh, what oddly thematic and inappropriate choices for tomb-raiding. Also, egad, I'm still pasty, even in the afterlife, Evie said, turning away.

But as she looked down, she caught a glimpse of motion in the

mirror. She spun around, a cold chill running down her ghostly spine.

"Psst," a voice said. "Behind you."

 Evie spun around again, but this time with her fists up. Whatever was trying to scare her was about to get its face pounded in. But as she saw the regal, high-cheek-boned woman in the mirror, her arms fell beside her. She's so beautiful, Evie thought with a twinge of jealousy. She's what I wish I looked like.

The woman assumed an air of dignity, her shoulders set back, and her brow bent in a proud, tragic look. Her deep blue eyes seemed to be gazing at something on the far horizon, though in this gloomy cave, there was no horizon and not much to look at (besides Evie's remains).

"Hold on a moment," Evie said, the logical part of her disembodied brain finally engaging. "Unpronounceable II, is that you? And you're a… woman?"

"Yes. I am Unpronounceable the Second. I was the sole heir of my Father, Unpronounceable the First." She put a hand to her brow in a dramatic gesture of woe. "But alas! Now I'm just a soul heir."

"Um. I'm sorry," Evie said.

Unpronounceable II stepped from the mirror and drifted closer to Evie. Her face bore an anxious look as though her heart were full of so many things she longed to pour out in conversation. "Evie, how can I begin? Oh, I'll just say it! I, too, was murdered by my mother."

"How do you know my name?" Evie said warily. "And how do you know my mother killed me? And wait… my mother killed me? I thought she was dead! And why are we talking about our mothers? And why are you holding my hand like I'm an old friend? I must be mad as a box of frogs. I thought I was here to rob your grave. What is going on?"

"In a way, yes. Every day of your childhood, a little more of your bright, inquisitive personality was worn away by the incessant criticism and merciless perfectionism. It cut you like Chinese water torture—drip, drip, drip, the drops of water rubbing your psyche raw. Don't you recall at all?"

"No… I mean, I suppose that sounds right, but oh, I can't remember!" Evie squeezed her hands to her ghostly skull in frustration. "It's like I'm in a trance. I've been so scatterbrained."

Unpronounceable II glanced away uncomfortably. Her gaze traced a path over the walls, ceiling, and floor across which Evie's brains had been scattered. "I suppose that is forgivable given your circumstances."

"My circumstances… Wait, hold on a moment," Evie said, her ghostly eyebrows furrowing in thought. "My body is lying in deconstructed pieces. I'm wearing my childhood outfoot. I can't remember. A ghost who looks like an idealized version of myself is giving me sympathetic advice about my harsh mother. For some reason, I need to dig into my past in narrative form. And I can't cross someone called the Grand Hypnode. The Grand Hypnode? Seriously, brain?"

She glanced at the pieces of her splattered all across the room. "Ugh, I need to get myself together!"

Little Evil Evelyn smiled with her dull glassy gaze and crooked, mirthless smile, and took a deep breath. And then, she opened her eyes—her real eyes—and found herself back in her office in London, staring at Mr. Pennyworth. He was chuckling as he popped a piece of chocolate in his mouth, his mustache twitching with amusement.

"So, now that you've got yourself together… what do you say, Evie? Are you in?"

She blinked, her mind still reeling from the vivid trance. She looked at the hourglass and the metronome still ticking.

"Wow. You lot are good." She stared at the photograph of her Mum on the desk and contemplated her bleak absence of friends, adventures, and a million pounds in her bank. "I'm in, Mr. Pennyworth. Let us have this rollickingly lucrative adventure."

"Splendid," Mr. Pennyworth said, rubbing his chocolate-greased hands together. "Simply splendid! I'll introduce you to the rest of the Hypnotic Society this evening. Till then. Tah, tah!"

Mr. Pennyworth was halfway out the door when he turned about. "Oh, by the by, I would prefer if we thought of this as an enigmatic escapade."

"How exotic!" Evie exclaimed.

"Indeed," Mr. Pennyworth said with a delighted chuckle. And then with a twirl of his mustache, he was gone, leaving Evie to spend the rest of her day happily and unproductively fantasizing about the enigmatic escapade ahead.