RoSalarian

The rest of the week went more smoothly, and the weekend was Val’s to use as she pleased. Jane had invited her over. Though it was just a casual lunch, Val wore a knee-length, full skirted taffeta dress, dark blue with pink flowers. She relished in the feel of nylon stockings sliding up her legs, clipped into her garters and nestled into pink satin heels with bows on the toes. She wore her hair down, and completed her look with eyeshadow #44 “Coconut” and lipstick #10 “Petal

It was foggy when they arrived for the first day of work, a thick, heavy blanket of vapor that obscured the narrow, winding road and made them late. Dorothea seemed not to notice the time, and greeted them at the door in a sweeping black nylon nightgown with a matching chiffon peignoir, her hair hidden beneath a gold turban that matched her slippers. There was not a thread out of place, not a wrinkle or tear or speck of dirt. So much attention was given to every detail of the

Ernesto let out a whistle. “When Val told me about this place, she said it would be a lot of work, but I must say, this is going to be more of a challenge than I expected.” Val and her father walked through the foyer with Dorothea. Today, the lady of the house was clad in a tiered dress made of ivory colored silk, her hair braided into a long plait, gold gloves on her arms that would look more at home in an opera hall. “Money is no object,” she said. “I just want to see Raven

Val felt on top of the world for three days before her mood was ruined by, of all things, a party hosted by one of her close friends. All of Val’s friends were people she had known since grade school. It was a small town, and while a new canning plant had caused a brief population boom in the 20’s, new residents were now a rarity, save for babies. Marge had two already, off with her parents that night so she and her husband Daniel could have a shindig with grown-ups.

There had been rumors about the mansion and its surrounding estate for as long as Val had been alive. Some said the tall manor set atop a hill just outside of town was haunted, or demonic, or owned by a powerful witch who sat at the left hand of Satan himself. Older folks claimed that the house hadn’t even been there fifty years ago, that it wasn’t real, couldn’t be real.

This is a chapter from my upcoming novel Cruel Muse, a gothic horror/lesbian pulp romance about the monsters that hide in the closet, keeping up appearances, pyramid schemes, and masterpieces. This is a polished draft, but passages may change for publication.

The prologue from my novel Cruel Muse