The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

33

My jaw drops as Jonathan's house comes into view.

The confines of a dark forest wind alongside the driveway, pine trees bristling in the nighttime air. We pause in front of ornate wrought-iron gates, larger than two cars and almost as tall, haunting. Jonathan presses something in the car and the gates open.

An old Victorian-style house stands alone beside the forest, and through a brief flash of the headlights, I can make out a river way back on the other side of the tree line. Vines of ivy creep along the walls of the house, and on the southern side I see an expansive greenhouse.

"This is where you live?" I ask.

"So hard to believe?"

I think for a moment. "No. I don't suppose it is."

"I like it," Harleen announces with enthusiasm.

Jonathan parks inside the garage. The engine shuts off. The lights fade out. Even with Harleen in the backseat — sorry, Harleen — the chemistry is palpable between Jonathan and I.

It hits me. I'm in his home.

Doctor Crane says, "I'll give you a tour."

The place is dark and brooding, with navy blue and forest green and deep burgundy everywhere, with deep mahogany and walnut paneling and floorboards. Heavy curtains cover the windows, and haunting landscapes and unsettling portraits adorn the walls. There's bleak lakes and ice storms, a man with what looks like a metal spider crawling from his head. I stop to gaze at each one in wonder.

"I thought you might like my art collection," Jonathan murmurs.

I run my fingers across the shelves, housing preserved insects, different types of arachnids and beetles and moths. There's anatomical models on dark wooden tables, and a glass cabinet showcasing vintage medical equipment — dark amber bottles of opium, electroshock wirings, enormous metal syringes and mercury thermometers.

He lights the house as we go, picking up antique candelabras and hoisting down chandeliers. I stare at a collection of artefacts in the gallery — masks from what I presume to be Aztec rituals, wooden stakes, crystal skulls. Anything that might induce fear.

"My laboratory," he tells us, waving a careless hand to the room.

I step inside and find walls lined with bookshelves, filled with leather-bound volumes on psychology and neuroscience and chemical compounds. There's an ornate writing desk, various scientific instruments, charts, and an enormous glass reptile enclosure with what looks like a python, curled up and sleeping in a corner.

"The living room," he gestures, just as carelessly, while I'm entirely enthralled, Harleen curious behind me.

Plush couches and armchairs surround an expansive fireplace. There's old leather-bound books, mostly classical literature and horror, I note. A large globe in one corner, with a hinged lid that must open to a bar.

"The cinema room."

Dark walls and plush velvet chairs, with an old-style projector at the rear of the room. There's too many tapes to identify them all — mostly horror films, black-and-whites, silent movies and remnants of Hollywood's golden age. No wonder he said he likes watching films on the weekends. I'm amazed he can bear to leave this house to go to work each day.

"The bedrooms. Pick any room you choose."

Harleen peers into each of them, then walks the perimeter of one that's almost coastal. Blues and navies, cream bedsheets, weathered nightstands.

"I'll sleep here," she decides.

I wait for Jonathan to ask me which room I choose.

He doesn't.