HANNAH: THE WOMAN AT THE GATE

A Circle of DOOM Story Hannah had married Daniel when she was nineteen, despite everyone telling her she was too young, and for five years she had enjoyed proving them wrong because Daniel had been gentle, funny, patient and kind, the sort of man who still occasionally came home with cheap flowers simply because he had seen them and thought she would like them. Then, one rainy November evening, a truck crossed the center line. There was no goodbye, no hospital room and no final declaration of love, only a police officer outside their apartment with rain dripping from his hat while Hannah waited for him to stop saying words that could not possibly be true. For almost three years afterward she existed rather than lived. Then Adrian arrived with flowers. He listened when she talked about Daniel, remembered little things, noticed when she was cold, and when Hannah once apologized for mentioning her dead husband too often, Adrian covered her hand with his and said, “You loved him. Why would I ask you to pretend you didn't?” Eight months later she moved in with him. Four months later most of her friends were gone. Another six months and Adrian controlled her money. The first slap came later. The first apology ten minutes afterward. The first expensive gift the next morning. The first time he told Hannah to entertain one of his friends, he called it a favor. The second time she refused, he hit her. The third time she did not refuse. Three years later Adrian called her his best girl because she earned well, rarely fought anymore and smiled whenever he told her to smile. On the night Hannah finally ran, she had already seen two men before midnight. The third wrapped both hands around her throat. When he finally released her, laughing while she struggled to breathe, Hannah fled back to the apartment Adrian was using that week. He sat looking at his phone. “I'm not going back.” “You are.” “No.” His thumb stopped moving. “What?” “He strangled me.” Adrian sighed. “He paid.” “He said he was going to kill me.” “And you're standing here talking.” Hannah stared at him. “I just need tonight.” “You need tonight?” “Please.” He put down the phone. That frightened her. “You know what I need?” Hannah glanced toward the door. Adrian stood. “Don't.” “Adrian—” “Don't look at that f***ing door.” “I wasn't.” “You think you're leaving?” “No.” He crossed the room. Hannah stepped backward. His expression changed. “You scared of me now?” She said nothing. The first blow sent the side of her face into the wall. She remembered falling, remembered Adrian shouting that she had embarrassed him and cost him money, remembered curling her arms around her head while his shoe struck her side. “Stop.” “You don't tell me no.” “I'm sorry.” “Look at me.” Hannah lifted her head. Adrian crouched. For a moment his voice became almost gentle again, the voice of the man who had once brought flowers. “That woman I met wasn't stupid.” Blood touched Hannah's lip. “I know.” “She wasn't useless.” “I know.” “What happened to her?” Hannah looked at him. “She died.” Something changed in his face. Afterward she remembered only fragments — the lamp breaking, the floor beneath her shoulder, her own voice begging him to stop — and Adrian standing over her breathing hard. “Look what you make me do.” Twenty minutes later he left. “Clean yourself up.” Hannah said nothing. “You have an hour. He's still waiting.” The door closed. Eventually Hannah dragged herself into the bathroom. One eye was swelling. Her lip was split. Blood stained the cheap black dress Adrian made her wear because men liked it. Her phone vibrated. GET MOVING. Then: DON'T TEST ME. Hannah stared at the screen. Then at the unlocked hallway door. Adrian had not even bothered locking it. Why would he? Hannah had not run in three years. She took nothing. No handbag. No coat. No money. She walked through the door. By the time she reached the street, she was running. One heel disappeared near a dumpster; Hannah kicked off the other and continued barefoot, cold pavement cutting into her feet while her phone vibrated again and again. Then a dark sedan slowed beside her. Hannah stopped. The car moved ahead and stopped too. A woman stepped out. She was tall, perhaps late thirties, strikingly elegant and dressed entirely in white beneath a long white coat, from the dress beneath it to the heels that looked impossibly expensive for that street at one in the morning. “Honey?” “Don't come near me.” The woman stopped immediately. “All right.” “Go away.” “I can.” Hannah waited. The woman's eyes moved briefly over her bare feet, bruised face and bloody dress. “Ambulance?” “No.” “Police?” “No.” “Hospital?” “No!” “All right.” “I said go away.” The woman slowly placed a white business card on the hood of the car. “My name is Elara. If you decide you want help, my number is there.” “I don't need help.” “No,” Elara said softly. “Of course not.” “Fuck you.” Elara nodded. “That too.” She returned to the car. The sedan began moving. “Wait.” It stopped. Elara lowered the window. Hannah wrapped her arms around herself. “Where would you take me?” “Somewhere safe.” “Where?” “My home.” “Who lives there?” “Women.” “Men?” “No.” “Husbands?” “No.” “Boyfriends?” “No.” Hannah stared at her. “What are you?” “At the moment? A woman hoping you'll get into the car before you collapse.” Hannah began crying. Her knees gave way. Elara came out again but stopped several feet away. “He'll find me,” Hannah whispered. “Maybe.” “He always finds me.” Elara regarded her calmly. “Then perhaps tonight he finds someone else first.” She opened the passenger door, placed a folded blanket on the seat and stepped away. Hannah made the decision. She climbed inside. The city slowly disappeared behind them. Hannah's phone kept vibrating. Finally she looked. WHERE ARE YOU ANSWER ME YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I FIND YOU Elara glanced toward her. “Him?” “Yes.” “Do you want me to take the phone?” “No.” “All right.” “You don't get my phone.” “No.” “You don't get my money.” “No.” “You don't tell me who I have to see.” “No.” Hannah swallowed. “You don't sell me.” Elara looked at her. “No, Hannah.” “You swear?” “Yes.” “How do I know you're not lying?” “You don't.” Hannah stared. “So watch me,” Elara said. “Decide tomorrow.” Ahead, enormous black iron gates appeared. They opened automatically. Beyond them stood a mansion. Stone walls, three stories, long dark wings and tall windows glowing amber through the trees. Women moved behind them. Only women. “What the hell is this?” “A Circle.” “A what?” “A Circle of DOOM.” “Doom?” “Daughters of Our Moon.” Hannah stared at the mansion. “That sounds like a cult.” Elara smiled. “We hear that surprisingly often.” Inside, Hannah saw women in long white gowns moving quietly through the halls, and when Elara removed her coat Hannah realized that she too wore a flowing white gown beneath it. Nobody explained anything. One woman brought a blanket. Another brought water. A doctor examined Hannah after promising not to call police, photograph her injuries or take her anywhere she did not want to go. Eventually Elara showed her to an enormous bedroom. Hannah looked at her gown. “Why is everybody wearing white?” “That is a longer conversation.” “What are you?” “A White Dame.” Hannah blinked. “You're serious?” “Yes.” “That is ridiculous.” Elara laughed softly. Headlights suddenly crossed the curtains. Hannah froze. “He found me.” “No.” “You don't know that!” “He will not.” The voice came from the doorway. Hannah turned. Every woman she had seen since entering the mansion wore white. This woman wore black. A long, elegant black gown, dark heels, understated jewelry, nothing theatrical about her except the immediate certainty with which Elara stepped aside. “High Priestess.” The woman looked at Hannah. “I understand a man may come looking for you.” “He will.” “What is his name?” Hannah hesitated. “You don't have to tell me.” “Adrian Cole.” The High Priestess took a phone from Elara and made a call. “It's me.” Pause. “I have a name.” Another pause. “Adrian Cole.” She listened. Her eyes met Hannah's. “No. I don't particularly care how.” Silence. “I care that it ends tonight.” She disconnected. Hannah stared. “That's it?” “Yes.” “Who was that?” “Someone who can help.” “What are they going to do?” “I didn't ask.” “You didn't ask?” “No.” “He won't listen.” The High Priestess handed the phone back. “Then they will explain it more clearly.” Hannah stared at her. “You don't know me.” “No.” “Why are you doing this?” “Because Elara brought you through my gates.” “That means something?” “Yes.” “What?” “While you are a guest beneath my roof, you are protected beneath my roof.” Hannah almost laughed. “What do you want?” “Nothing.” “Bullshit.” “Nothing.” “Nobody does this for nothing.” “Perhaps nobody you have known recently.” “You expect me to believe you?” “No.” That answer stopped Hannah. “You may stay tonight,” the High Priestess continued. “Tomorrow you may leave, or stay another night. Nobody will ask anything of you while you are frightened, injured or dependent upon this house for safety.” “Ask what?” “That is another conversation.” “About DOOM?” “Yes.” “The cult.” A tiny smile. “If you insist.” The High Priestess turned toward the door. “What if Adrian comes anyway?” She stopped. For the first time Hannah saw something cold in her expression. “He won't.” “You can't know that.” “No,” the High Priestess said quietly. Then she looked directly at Hannah. “But Adrian will.” She left. At four seventeen in the morning Hannah woke screaming. Her phone lay beside the bed. No calls. No messages. Adrian never stopped messaging. At four twenty-three the screen illuminated. Unknown number. You are safe. Sleep. Hannah stared at it. Beyond the locked bedroom door was a mansion full of women dressed in white gowns, strange titles she did not understand, rules nobody had explained and a woman in black who apparently could end three years of terror with a telephone call. Hannah knew almost nothing about DOOM. Tonight she did not need to. Nobody was waiting outside the door. Nobody had purchased the next hour of her life. Nobody could order her back. She touched the little silver nameplate Daniel had given her years ago. “Daniel,” she whispered. Then, after a long silence: “I ran.” And for the first time in years, Hannah was proud of herself.