The Honeymoon
Neither Megan Shelby nor Drew Widener worked at jobs with high salaries. They were not poor, but they were not wealthy either. Thus, when they decided to marry, the couple planned their wedding with a definite budget in mind. The guest list was kept to sixty people, the dress came from an outlet store in Boston and the cake was made by a stay-at-home mom with a talent for making sugar paste flowers. Even the rings were purchased at a bargain price since Drew's uncle owned a jewelry store and sold them to his nephew at wholesale cost.
"I stopped at the travel agent's and picked up some brochures after work," Drew announced when he entered the small apartment one Friday evening.
Megan was sitting at the kitchen table wrapping pastel colored Jordan almonds in a white tulle square and securing it with a pale blue bow.
"What do feel like eating?" she asked. "Frozen pizza or spaghetti with Ragu sauce?"
"Pizza's fine. I'll put it in the microwave," he offered, seeing that his fiancée was busy making a sample wedding favor.
"Thanks. What do you think?" she asked, holding up the package of almonds. "Do you like this better than the personalized chocolate bars?"
"I thought we were buying the small containers of bubble soap?"
"We are, but they're for after the ceremony. Guests blow bubbles instead of throwing rice. Now we have to decide on the favors that will be given out at the reception."
"If you want my opinion, I'd rather eat chocolate than almonds."
"But a lot of people keep the favors as mementos. The Jordan almonds can last for months."
"I'd still go with the personalized candy bars. If our friends and family want a souvenir, they can save the wrapper with our photograph on it."
"I suppose you're right," Megan agreed and then cleared the table off so the two of them could eat dinner.
As the couple ate their pepperoni pizza, they studied the travel brochures, all of which were package deals that fit into their budget.
"This cruise to Bermuda looks good," Drew said. "Seven days from Boston to Bermuda and back. There are several pools, a casino, shows, even a spa."
"It's okay," Megan replied unenthusiastically. "I don't suppose there are any reasonably priced trips to Hawaii."
"What's wrong with Bermuda?"
"Nothing. I was just hoping to go further away. What about Mexico? Wouldn't you rather go to Cancún, Puerto Vallarta or Cabo San Lucas? My cousin went to Cozumel on her honeymoon. If she could afford it, I don't know why we can't. Better yet, why don't we go to Punta Cana? My boss said it was lovely there."
"I've never even heard of Punta Cana. Is that in Mexico, too?"
"No, the Dominican Republic."
Drew frowned. He had no desire to go to Mexico much less the Dominican Republic. His parents had gone to Niagara Falls on their honeymoon. Why had the traditional destinations fallen from favor? Why would modern Americans rather travel to Thailand and Vietnam than to California or Florida?
"We still have plenty of time to make a decision on our honeymoon," he said, putting down the brochure and reaching for the television remote.
It's just as I suspected, Megan thought with a slight smile on her face. Deciding on the honeymoon will be the hardest part of our wedding planning.
The two lovebirds had many things in common, but whereas Megan was adventurous and longed to travel, her fiancé was a homebody who rarely left Massachusetts. No doubt he would be happy spending their wedding trip at Cape Cod.
I'm surprised he didn't bring home brochures on day cruises to Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket!
* * *
Megan Shelby sat in the Quik-Lube waiting room as a mechanic changed the oil on her Subaru Legacy. Bored, she turned to a stack of old magazines on the table next to her. The selection was limited: Car and Driver, Motor Trend and Autoweek. The man sitting at her right looked at the magazines on the table beside him and found reading material more suitable for a young woman.
"I have People and Modern Bride over here if you're interested," he said.
"Thank you," she replied gratefully. "I'll take Modern Bride."
As the man handed her the magazine, an advertising card fell out and dropped onto the floor.
"I hate those stupid cards," Megan laughed, assuming it was a subscription request.
When she picked the card up, however, she noticed that it was an entry form for a contest. The grand prize was a two-week-long, all-expense-paid dream honeymoon. She read both sides of the card, but could find no details concerning the location of the trip.
Surely a "dream" honeymoon must be to somewhere exotic, she reasoned.
Having never won anything except a Bath & Body Works gift basket at a tricky tray school fundraiser, Megan considered her chances of winning miniscule. Still, what did she have to lose by entering? She reached into her purse, took out a pen and filled in her name, address, telephone number and the date of her wedding.
I'll probably be bombarded with junk mail and telemarketer calls now, she thought pessimistically. But if there's even the slightest chance of winning a free honeymoon, I'd be foolish not to take it.
On the way back to her apartment, she drove past the post office and dropped the completed entry card into the mailbox, giving no further thought to the contest during the following six weeks.
* * *
One Saturday morning, during the second week of October, Drew suggested that he and Megan take a relaxing drive to the country.
"It's a beautiful day. The fall foliage is at its peak. I'd like to stop at a farm stand and buy a pumpkin and some apples, maybe even a jug of cider. Afterward we can have a late lunch/early dinner. How does lobster sound?" he teased.
"Terrific," Megan admitted. "But I just don't have the time today. With the holidays coming up and the wedding four months away, I've got a million and one things to do."
"What's so important that it has to be done today?"
"This morning I have an appointment with the printer to choose the invitations and thank you cards. Then I have a fitting for my wedding gown at one. I also want to stop at the mall and set up a gift registry account. With both of us working all week, I have to do most of the running around on Saturdays. Why don't we go look at leaves tomorrow instead?"
"Because it's supposed to rain all day."
"Next Sunday then," Megan suggested.
"If the leaves haven't already started to fall off the trees," her fiancé replied with a childlike sulk.
"I don't have anything planned for this evening," she said, trying to cheer him up. "We can go to the Sons of Liberty Tavern for dinner."
"Can we afford it?"
"I'm sure we can squeeze it into our budget."
After finishing breakfast, Megan put the plates, cups and dinnerware into the dishwasher, got dressed and headed toward the door. As she picked up her car keys from the kitchen counter, she saw the pink postal card from the mail carrier, informing her that she had a certified letter at the post office.
"Damn! This notice came in the mail three days ago, and I forgot all about it. I'd better stop at the post office before someone returns the letter to the sender."
Knowing it was only open until noon on Saturday, Megan made the post office her first stop. In a rush to get to the printer, she signed for the letter and put it into her handbag without taking the time to look at the return address. Whatever it was, it could wait until she got home later in the afternoon.
Just after three Megan returned to the apartment to find Drew relaxing in the recliner, reading the newspaper. Tired, she lay stretched out on the sofa.
"You look like you could use a cup of coffee," her fiancé said, putting down his paper.
"You must be psychic."
"Did you manage to accomplish everything you set out to do this morning?"
"Yes. In fact, I even stopped to see the caterer and picked up the menu and price list."
"Anything look good?"
"Yeah. There's a three option package that's reasonably priced. People can choose from chicken, fish or vegetarian pasta."
"No beef?"
"It would cost two dollars a head more."
"No beef then. What was the certified letter from the post office about?"
"You know, I didn't even open it yet. I stuck it in my purse and forgot all about it."
As Drew prepared the two cups of coffee, Megan retrieved the envelope from her handbag.
"It's from Modern Bride magazine," she announced with surprise.
As Megan scanned the contents of the letter, her eyes widened and she let out an involuntary scream, not of fear but of astonishment.
"What's wrong?" Drew asked.
"Nothing's wrong. Everything is absolutely great! I won the contest."
"What contest?"
Megan quickly told him about the card that fell from the magazine in the waiting room at Quik-Lube.
"I won the grand prize: a two-week, all-expense-paid dream honeymoon!"
Drew had a mixed reaction to the news. On one hand, he was delighted that they would be spared the expense of paying for their honeymoon. On the other, he was not exactly overjoyed with the idea of spending two weeks in some godforsaken country where he couldn't eat the food, drink the water or understand the language. As Megan had suspected, he would have been much happier going to Niagara Falls like his parents had. At least Canadians spoke English.
* * *
"This must be it," Megan announced as they neared the small storefront on a little-travelled side street in a less fashionable section of Boston.
"I don't like the look of this place," Drew said, peering through the smudged glass window at an old wooden desk that looked like it came from a Good Will store, a few filing cabinets, an outdated photocopier, a pair of lopsided revolving wire book racks displaying travel brochures and two mismatched visitors' chairs.
"Obviously, the place has seen better days. So what? With most people making their vacation arrangements on the Internet, I'm sure travel agencies are hurting for business."
"I still think it's some kind of scam. People do it all the time. They offer you a free trip and then try to pressure you into buying a timeshare unit."
"I don't care. I can resist a sales pitch, just as long as they make good on the free honeymoon."
"Which we know nothing about. That should have been the first clue that something's not right about all this. We don't even know where they want to send us. Dream honeymoon, indeed! More like a nightmare, if you ask me."
"Why are you being so pessimistic? We haven't even walked in the front door yet, and you're already convinced we're on our way to the Bates Motel. Let's see what the travel agent has to say before we jump to conclusions. Okay?"
"All right," Drew muttered, "but don't say I didn't warn you."
As the couple walked through the front door, a bell jangled overhead.
"Hello?" Megan called into the empty room, her voice echoing back at her.
A rear door opened and the travel agent entered, either in response to the sound of the bell or the bride-to-be's greeting.
"Hi, there," a young man said as he entered the room. "I'm Artie, and you must be Miss Shelby."
"Yes, I am, and this is my fiancé, Drew Widener."
"Nice to meet you," Artie said, as he leaned forward and shook Drew's outstretched hand.
The agent looked as though he were a high school student too young to have a driver's license let alone be of a legal drinking age.
"Why don't you sit down so we can discuss the arrangements for your honeymoon? Would either of you like some coffee before we begin?" the clean-shaven young man offered.
"No, thanks," Megan replied.
"Let's get started then. I made the arrangements based on the date of your wedding. Valentine's Day, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Which works out perfectly! The Carnevale di Venezia begins on February 18."
"Where is that?" Drew asked suspiciously.
"Oh, forgive me. I slipped into Italian. You and your bride will be going to the Carnival of Venice."
"Italy?" Megan asked with a look of wonder on her pretty, young face.
"Not Venice, California," Artie replied with a boyish grin. "So if you don't have an up-to-date passport, you'd better apply for one soon."
"And what exactly is this carnival?"
"It's similar to the American celebration of Mardi Gras, only much older, dating all the way back to the eleventh century. Basically, it's an annual festival that takes place during the ten days before Shrove Tuesday, the beginning of Lent. It's celebrated with costume balls, wine tasting, fine dining and live music."
"It sounds like fun!" Megan exclaimed, unable to believe her good fortune in winning such a honeymoon trip.
"Now, since you're getting married on the fourteenth, you have a few days to fill before the start of the Carnevale."
Oh, no. Here comes the sales pitch, Drew thought.
"So I've booked you into a hotel in Rome."
Rome! Megan was speechless. The trip kept getting better and better.
"On the fifteenth, you'll fly Alitalia from Logan to Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino Airport. While you're in Rome, you'll have a tour guide show you the usual sights: the Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Roman Forum, Trevi Fountain, St. Peter's Basilica, the Vatican museum and the Sistine Chapel. Then on the seventeenth, you'll take a train up to Venice."
"And as far as optional costs ...," Megan began.
"There are none. All expenses are paid. That includes airfare, hotels, meals, taxes, gratuities. The only thing we don't cover is the purchase of any souvenirs you decide to buy."
"Where's the catch?" Drew asked, finally voicing his concern.
"There is no catch, Mr. Widener," Artie replied. "Your fiancée won the grand prize. You and she will be going on a dream honeymoon—no strings attached."
* * *
The next four months passed quickly. It seemed to Megan that she never had an idle moment during that time. Not only was she kept busy with last minute preparations for the wedding, but there were also a number of social functions she and Drew had to attend: Halloween parties, Thanksgiving dinner, two bridal showers, holiday parties, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day visits with both families, a New Year's celebration and finally the wedding rehearsal dinner.
"Now I know why people elope," Megan said on the eve of their wedding day. "I'm so exhausted, I don't know if I can manage cutting the cake or tossing my bouquet tomorrow. I keep telling myself it's just one more day, and then we'll be off for two weeks in sunny Italy."
"Don't get your hopes up," Drew cautioned. "The average temperature for Rome in February is only forty-seven degrees Fahrenheit."
"That's still better than the weather here in Massachusetts. At least we won't get any snow in Venice."
"That's my girl: always looking on the bright side."
"Why shouldn't I? You and I are getting married tomorrow, and the following day we're going on a dream honeymoon, the trip of a lifetime. I'll bet even you, Mr. Pessimistic, can't find fault with that."
Knowing his fiancée was right, Drew didn't bother to argue. Instead, he silenced all further conversation with a kiss.
Thankfully, the wedding and reception went as scheduled without a hitch. The weather was cold but clear, and everyone made it to the church on time. Most surprising of all, no one drank too much and caused a scene at the reception. It was nearly midnight when Megan and Drew bid farewell to their few remaining guests and headed for the Holiday Inn near Logan Airport.
The following morning after a late complimentary breakfast, the newlyweds gathered their luggage, checked out of their room and hopped on the free airport shuttle. As they headed toward terminal E, international departures, Megan again checked her handbag for their travel documents, credit cards and passports. She also made sure she carried her camera on her, just in case she wanted to take a photograph in route to their hotel in Rome.
"Don't forget to set your cell phone on airplane mode," she instructed Drew. "We don't want to have to pay for roaming charges while we're in Italy."
"I left my phone at home because I don't have an international plan. Why bring it if I don't plan on using it?"
Minutes later, she opened her purse, making sure she remembered to bring everything with her.
"Relax! You didn't forget anything," he said.
"I know. I'm just so excited. I've never been out of the country except that time we went to Nova Scotia."
Not even the long wait to check in for their flight or the hassle of going through airport security dampened Megan's spirits. As far as she was concerned, her dream honeymoon began when Drew carried her over the threshold of their room at the Holiday Inn.
* * *
Although Megan was eager to visit Venice, she hated to leave Rome. As an American, she considered a historic building to be one dated before the colonies declared their independence from Britain. The oldest building she had ever been in was the Fairbanks House in Dedham, Massachusetts, built sometime between 1637 and 1641. The Roman Forum, on the other hand, existed before the time of Christ, and the Colosseum was nearly two thousand years old.
"Looking at your photos again?" Drew asked as his wife reviewed the images on her camera.
"Too bad we couldn't take pictures inside the Sistine Chapel. I'd love to have a close-up of God's fingertip giving life to Adam."
"I'm surprised you were allowed to take pictures inside St. Peter' Basilica."
"So am I. I've got a great shot here of Michelangelo's Pietà."
Roughly five hours after leaving Rome, the newlyweds arrived in Venice. As they exited the train at the Santa Lucia Station, the couple was met by Amalia Lucchese, their personal tour guide, a vivacious young Italian woman with long hair dyed a honey blond.
"I thought you might be tired after your journey, so I didn't schedule any sightseeing for you today," she told them as they collected their luggage. "I'll take you right to your hotel where you can rest awhile before dinner. I've prepared a list of local restaurants. You can choose whichever one you want, and I'll make the arrangements for you."
Amalia reached into her purse and took out two prepaid cell phones for their use.
"I put my number in the contacts, so you'll have no difficulty getting in touch with me. Call me anytime, night or day, if the need arises. I'm here to see that you get the most out of your stay in Venice."
On the way to the hotel, they passed revelers wearing colorful costumes and carnival masks.
"This is like Halloween back home minus the pumpkins and the scary decorations," Megan observed.
"There is nothing frightening about the Carnevale di Venezia. Everything is done in the spirit of fun."
"Is there a place to buy one of those masks? I'd like to bring one home for my sister as a souvenir."
"Yes, of course. You can find them in nearly every gift store. Naturally, some shopkeepers like to take advantage of America tourists by overcharging. Tomorrow, I will show you a place that has an excellent selection of masks for reasonable prices."
"Thank you. I'd appreciate that."
Depending on how reasonable the prices are, Megan thought, I might even get a mask for myself. It would be a beautiful memento of our dream honeymoon.
* * *
The sightseeing trip the following day started in the Piazza San Marco, the main square in Venice. Megan had her Nikon Coolpix camera out, snapping photos of exteriors of St. Mark's Basilica, the clock tower, the campanile (bell tower), the Palazzo Ducale (Doge's Palace) and the Ponte dei Sospiri (Bridge of Sighs).
"Can we go inside any of these buildings?" Megan asked, trying not to get separated from the guide as a throng of tourists descended upon St. Mark's Square.
"I've purchased tickets for the two of you for a guided tour tomorrow afternoon of both the basilica and the palace," Amalia answered. "There'll be no need for you to wait on the long lines."
"That's wonderful."
"For now, why don't we make our way over to the Ponte di Rialto, the oldest bridge that spans the Grand Canal?"
Around noon, Drew announced that he was getting hungry and wanted to stop and eat.
"I know a place where you can get an excellent lunch, and it is near the shop I promised to take you to," the guide said.
"The one with the inexpensive masks?" Megan asked.
"Yes. It's not far from here."
When they arrived at the restaurant, Amalia spoke to the waiter and gave him a payment voucher for the cost of the meal. Then she told the couple that she would meet them later in the afternoon.
"Relax. Enjoy your lunch, and rest your feet. You have ten days to see Venice."
After she was done eating, Megan wanted to go to the gift store. Not much of a shopper, Drew opted to have a second cup of coffee rather than accompany his wife on her shopping expedition.
"I won't be long," she promised.
"Take your time. I'll wait here for you."
"May I help you?" the shopkeeper asked in accent-free English when Megan entered the building.
The man, apparently an American, was quite elderly, close to ninety if not older. Although she was certain she had never met him before, Megan could not help feeling there was something familiar about his face.
"I was told you sell carnival masks at reasonable prices."
"Yes, I do," he replied. "What kind of mask are you interested in?"
The selection took the American tourist by surprise. There were literally hundreds of masks to choose from.
"I'm not sure; there are so many."
"These here," the shopkeeper said showing her a number of full-faced masks, "are of the bauta variety. Notice the squared jaw, the large chin and the absence of a mouth. They are usually gilded or white in color."
"I think I'd prefer something a little more colorful."
"Certainly. These are all done in the colombina style. They are half-face masks that cover a person's eyes and sometimes the bridge of the nose. As you can see, they are colorful and usually heavily decorated. This full-face harlequin-like mask is known as arlecchino. It resembles a joker and often has an elaborate collar or headpiece attached, sometimes both."
"What about that one?" Megan asked, pointing to a white mask with glittery blue and gold designs, its face framed by leaves of the same color.
"Ah, that is one of my volto masks. They are of a simple style that cover the entire face and have basic facial features such as a mouth and a nose. These are quite popular and come in a wide range of colors and decorations."
"How much do you want for that one?"
"Twelve euros."
Megan mentally calculated the cost to be a little more than thirteen U.S. dollars. She had expected the price to be much higher.
"And what about the purple one with the plumes on it?"
"That is the same price."
"I'll take the both of them," she said and opened her purse to get out her credit card, fighting the urge to buy a third one.
* * *
The following day after the Wideners finished their guided tour of the Doge's Palace, Amalia Lucchese suggested they visit Burano, another island in the Venetian Lagoon.
"I've never heard of it," Megan said.
"Oh, it is quite lovely and not nearly as crowded as Venice. It is known for its brightly painted houses and its talented lace makers."
"It sounds interesting," Drew announced, wanting to get away from the swarm of tourists, at least for a little while.
It was a perfect day for a boat ride. Although it was February, the sun was shining brightly and the air was warm.
"This place looks like something out of a Disney cartoon," Drew said when he saw the bright green, yellow, blue, pink, orange, purple and red buildings.
"It certainly is cheerful," his wife added, taking several photographs as the boat neared the dock.
Like the main island of Venice, Burano had canals, boats, restaurants and gift stores. After a brief stay on the delightful island, which included a late lunch, the couple returned to the boat where their tour continued with commentary by one of the ship's crew, who pointed out several other islands including Murano, Torcello and Lido.
"Coming up on your left," he said in a thick Italian accent, "is the island of Poveglia. This eighteen-acre island, located between Venice and Lido, has a macabre history. When the Bubonic Plague first swept through the city of Venice, thousands of bodies were thrown into mass graves known as plague pits. As the death toll continued to rise, the city became overwhelmed, and authorities decided to transport the sick and dying to Poveglia. Thus, in 1403 the island became a lazaretto, a quarantine site for those who showed symptoms of the dreaded disease. It is estimated that the remains of more than a hundred thousand victims are buried there. Hence, it earned the nickname 'the Island of No Return.'
"As if that were not bad enough, a mental hospital opened on Poveglia in 1922. Legend has it that in the 1930s a mad doctor conducted cruel experiments on the defenseless patients. Some even say the ghosts of his victims drove him mad, leading him to climb to the top of the asylum's bell tower and throw himself onto the pavement below. Whatever the truth of the story, the hospital closed in 1968, and the uninhabited island has been off limits to the public ever since."
Megan raised her camera and captured the abandoned hospital buildings in the Nikon's LCD display. As her finger squeezed the shutter release button, a figure appeared on the picture. It was a person wearing a long black coat, a tricorn hat and a rather unusual carnival mask.
I thought the island was uninhabited, she thought.
When she pressed the button and observed the actual photograph, however, there was no one in the scene—just a dilapidated hospital building amidst overgrown weeds.
* * *
That night Megan had the first nightmare. She was on a narrow, crowded street in Venice surrounded by masked carnival revelers. Although painted in bright, cheerful colors and adorned with plumes, glitter and faux jewels, their silent, emotionless features disturbed her. One, in particular, a man wearing a long black coat, a tricorn hat and a white mask with an unusually long nose, frightened her.
It's the same man I saw—or thought I saw—on Poveglia, Megan realized.
If the mysterious stranger had remained a figment of her dreams, he would not have terrified her so; however, she soon began having brief glimpses of such a person in the crowds during her waking hours. She saw him peering through the window of the Bridge of Sighs, sitting in a passing gondola, standing outside the Doge's Palace and even exiting a restaurant where she and Drew dined. For some reason she could not comprehend, Megan associated his visage with death.
It must be because of the tragic history and awful legends associated with Poveglia coupled with the fact that I thought I saw someone with such a mask on the island, she assumed.
After nearly a week of waking up in the middle of the night with her heart pounding in her chest, Megan returned to the gift shop where she had previously purchased the carnival masks. The old man recognized her at once.
"Have you come back for another souvenir?" he inquired.
"No. I wanted to ask you about a mask I saw a few days ago. It had a long nose."
"There are several different types that fit that description," he explained as he took her to a back corner of the store. "Here we have a pantelone. It is a half mask with a sizeable hooked nose that looks like a bird's beak."
"No, this isn't it. The one I saw had a much larger nose."
"You must mean the zanni," he saw, pointing out a mask with a very long, crooked nose, bulging eyebrows and low forehead.
"No, that's not it. The one I mean was more ... sinister in appearance."
"Ah, yes. I think I know just what you mean. Unfortunately, I don't have any in stock at the moment."
The old man went to the counter and removed a catalog from beneath the cash register. After finding the correct page, he handed the book to Megan.
"That's it," she said, feeling a shiver of revulsion run down her spine.
"Medico della peste. It's quite a popular mask with carnival goers."
"Really?"
Perhaps that was why she kept seeing the face in the crowds. Was it possible it was not one man she saw, but many, all with the same costume?
"Medico? Does that mean it's supposed to represent a doctor?"
"Yes, but not just any doctor. It is the medico della peste, the plague doctor."
* * *
"Did you see that?" Megan asked her husband as she witnessed a man in a plague doctor mask seemingly vanish from the center of the Ponte del Diavolo (Devil's Bridge) later that night.
"See what?"
"That man in the mask standing on the bridge."
"No. I didn't see anything. What's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I think that might be exactly what I saw—what I've been seeing since we took the boat ride to Burano."
Over a cup of cappuccino, Megan told Drew about the dreams she had been having every night and the glimpses of the masked man she had seen every day.
"I'm beginning to think it's a not a real man at all but a ghost," she concluded.
"A ghost?" her husband repeated, not sure whether she was joking or being serious.
"It's the only possible explanation. Why else wasn't I able to take a photograph of him?"
Not one who put much credence in the supernatural, Drew did not have an answer for her.
"If only I knew whose ghost it is," Megan continued, more to herself than to her husband. "I've seen him on the Bridge of Sighs, so he might have been one of those convicted of a crime by the doge and sent over the bridge to prison, never to be seen again. Of course, since I first saw him on Poveglia, he might be a plague victim or one of the patients from the mental hospital. He might even be the evil doctor himself."
"Hold on! Don't get carried away. You're an intelligent woman. You can't possibly believe you've seen a ghost!"
"Then why didn't you see the man on the bridge?"
"Between the holidays and the wedding, you've been running yourself ragged these past few months. The stress you were dealing with was tremendous."
"So you think I'm imagining it all?"
Drew did not reply. He did not have to; the answer was in his eyes.
* * *
Two days before the end of carnival Megan was barely speaking to her husband. She was still seeing the man in the plague doctor mask, and her husband continued to insist it was a matter of an overactive imagination aggravated by the stress of planning a wedding.
"How long are you going to stay mad at me?" Drew asked as they got ready for bed.
"I'm not mad," she replied coolly.
"The hell you're not," he laughed. "But we'll be going home in two days. Do you really want to spend what's left of our dream honeymoon arguing over whether or not you saw a ghost?"
A smile appeared on Megan's face as her anger slowly faded. It was hard to stay mad at the man she had been hopelessly in love with since the seventh grade.
"No," she replied sheepishly and welcomed his embrace.
It was after four in the morning when she woke, her body bathed in sweat despite the chill in the air. The bed was empty, and she concluded her husband must be in the bathroom.
"Drew?" she called out to him.
There was no answer. She walked toward the bathroom and noticed it was empty.
Where is he?
She dressed quickly and went down to the lobby. Not surprisingly, no one was at the desk.
I've got to find him.
There were few people out on the street as she searched for her husband. Those that she passed wore full-face masks and costumes. As she neared the Rialto Bridge, she saw the plague doctor looking down at her. She turned and ran in the opposite direction.
Ahead of her she saw what looked like a Red Sox jacket.
"Drew!" she shouted.
Suddenly a group of people came out of a restaurant, and Megan lost sight of the man she believed was her husband.
"Excuse me," she said, pushing forward to follow the familiar baseball jacket.
One tall man in a zanni mask with a comically long and crooked nose blocked her path.
"Excuse ...."
Fear clutched Megan's heart and stopped her tongue when she looked up into the masked face. There were no eyes beneath the holes in the mask, just an eerie black emptiness. The other revelers circled around her, pressing forward.
"Get away!" she cried, feeling threatened by their closeness.
Her arms flailed, trying to ward off the masked beings that threatened her. In trying to push them away, she knocked a silver and red volto mask off a woman dressed in a seventeenth century Venetian ball gown. Megan screamed in terror when she saw the decayed flesh of the woman's face. More masks came off revealing the hideous visages of the dead, some with denuded skeletal bones, others with rotting flesh swollen with pustules.
In the presence of such horror, the newlywed bride forgot about finding her husband and turned and ran from the gruesome creatures that stood in her way. Although the monsters pursued her through the winding, dimly lit streets and over the many bridges that crossed the canals, Megan managed to outrun them. When the last of them ceased to pursue her, she stopped to catch her breath.
Another bridge lay directly ahead of her.
Which one is that? she wondered, realizing she was hopelessly lost.
It looked to her like one of those associated with Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy, but was it the Ponte de l'Inferno, the Ponte del Purgatorio or the Ponte del Paradiso?
Suddenly, she heard the sound of approaching footsteps and, tense with fear, prepared to take flight again. Megan's heart then leapt with joy and hope when she saw the man in the Red Sox jacket approaching the bridge from the opposite side of the canal.
"Drew! Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you!"
From out of the shadows stepped the plague doctor, deliberately putting himself between Megan and her husband.
"It's pointless to run," he said in a muffled voice.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
His hand reached up and removed the medico della peste mask, revealing the face of the old man from the costume shop.
"You!" Megan cried.
"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Artemas Firth, or if you prefer ...."
The years suddenly fell away, and the man looked decades younger.
"... you can call me Artie."
"You're the young man from the travel agency. What game are you playing? What is this all about?"
"I am neither a travel agent nor a shopkeeper. I'm what you would probably refer to as an angel, but I like to think of myself as a fixer."
"What do you want with me?"
"I'll try to explain it in a way a mere mortal can comprehend. When a body dies, the soul is meant to travel to another plane of existence. Sometimes a soul is unaware that the body is gone, and it needs a force such as me to set it back on its intended course. Other times a soul stubbornly clings to life. Instead of moving on, it enters an unborn fetus and is reincarnated. Again, a fixer must step in."
"Is that why you've been ... haunting me?" Megan asked with a quivering voice. "Am I dead?"
Artemas Firth once again became the kindly old man from the gift shop.
"Not you, my dear."
Megan's eyes went to her husband who was standing on the bridge, looking down at the canal as though in a catatonic state.
"No," she sobbed. "Not Drew!"
"Your husband was born in fifteenth century Venice. He had everything to live for: wealth, a good family, a woman he loved. All that was taken from him once he became ill. When the symptoms appeared, a plague doctor ordered him removed from Venice. His face was covered, he was thrown in a boat, rowed over to Poveglia and left to die on the dock. Once a day attendants removed the dead bodies from the dock and the surrounding areas, tossed them on a pyre and set them ablaze. Unfortunately, Drew—or rather Giacoma as he was called back then—was, like many other tragic victims, consigned to the fire before he was actually dead."
"He was burned alive? How horrible! No wonder his soul clings to life."
"I've come to set things right, but he refuses to go. If he stays he endangers his immortal soul. I need your help in saving him."
"What can I do?"
"If you go first, he is bound to follow."
"Go first? You want me to kill myself, don't you?" Megan asked with a shudder.
"I know it is a lot to ask, but Drew's soul hangs in the balance. If his soul doesn't come with me now, it will be forever lost once his current incarnation comes to an end."
When Artemas Firth stepped aside, Megan made her way to the bridge. A sign identified it as the Ponte del Soccorso (Bridge of Salvation). She walked up to her husband, threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly.
"I love you," she whispered.
Then she climbed up onto the side of the bridge, said a silent prayer and jumped into the canal below. The last thing she saw before disappearing beneath the water's surface was Drew diving in after her.
* * *
Dazed, Megan walked along the empty streets of Venice in the direction of her hotel.
Am I dead? she wondered, noting that her clothing, hair and body were dry despite her plunge into the canal. And what about Drew? What's become of him?
The first rays of dawn shone through the window, as she unlocked the door and entered her hotel room. She was not surprised to find herself alone, but she was curious as to why his luggage and personal belongings were removed from the room.
This was supposed to be my dream honeymoon! she thought bitterly, her eyes filling with tears.
She picked up her camera and scanned through the photographs she had taken since leaving Logan Airport. Everything was still there: the ruins of Rome, the magnificent artworks of the Vatican museum, the gondolas of Venice, the colorful houses of Burano, even the deserted island of Poveglia. However, in every instance, her husband's face had disappeared from the picture.
It's as though he never existed.
Exhausted, Megan closed her eyes and slept. When she finally woke up more than eight hours later, she had no recall of being married or of ever having met a man named Drew Widener. She believed she had won a trip and was traveling alone. Thanks to Artemas Firth, the wrong had been righted.
While packing her bags in preparation for her return to Massachusetts, Megan opened the dresser drawer and found a medico della peste mask inside.
"Whatever possessed me to buy this ugly thing?" she asked herself and then tossed it into the wastebasket.
While on a boat ride from Venice to Burano, I passed Poveglia Island. The guide told us about its history as a quarantine site for plague victims and later as the location of a mental hospital. People who were still clinging to life were tossed into the fire, and there are stories about a doctor who experimented on his patients until he was driven mad and jumped off the bell tower to his death.
The plague isn't the only frightening thing in Venice!
