Dark Inspiration Page 11

  Doug had perfected his routine this week. He got up late, well after Laura left. A leisurely brunch would be followed by work, usually an hour or two pounding out a chapter of his unfolding Southern saga. He had to write in the turret room, and he got the feeling the room didn’t want Laura to know its inspirational abilities. He never even left the door open anymore, afraid to have to explain the taxidermied hawk from the attic.

  He’d do his afternoon errands then share dinner with Laura. Afterward he’d retire to polish the words he’d scribed in haste earlier in the day. He knew Laura understood. She was working on her class work for the next day anyway, and she had some tutoring thing going on after school that kept her out until after five p.m..

  This morning, after checking the internet news as he ate brunch, he took the laptop back up to the study and dropped it into the base station. When the AC power hit, the screen lit up to full intensity, as if saying, “Now let’s get some real work done.” Doug parked himself at the desk.

  The family in his tale of an 1850s Southern plantation had come to life. Patriarch Nathan Edwards ruled the cotton plantation with an iron hand and raked in profits from the burgeoning trade with British textile mills. His sons Randall and Samuel vied for control of their father’s estate as his health declined. The two brothers courted Veronica, the beautiful daughter of the town’s mayor. The plantation’s evil overseer hid the truth of the plight of the hundreds of slaves from the father, but the sons both understood plantation life. Doug could feel the characters, knew their motivations. It was like they were alive in his head. Novelist nirvana.

  Later, his shoulders ached from hunching over his keyboard. He pulled himself back one hundred and sixty years and rolled his chair back from the desk. His back creaked as he forced himself upright. The sun had gone from shining in the east turret window to the west. Where did the day go?

  He had written a lot but still felt pressed to do more since he’d have to forsake his morning ritual tomorrow. His agent had scheduled him for a slot on Good Morning America as an example of either the penitent face of reformed trash writers, or the latest high-profile exile from city stress. He wasn’t sure which. Whatever it was, it was good publicity for his novel. So Doug was going to sit in the local affiliate in Nashville, stare at a camera and pretend he was talking to George Stephanopoulos. Not bad except he had to do it at seven a.m., which meant spending the night tonight in the city.

  The hawk on his desk caught his eye. It certainly grew on him, this proud, regal bird. Quite a feat of skill, making it so lifelike, down to the tilt of its head, which he thought was cocked a little more to the left when he first brought it down.

  He hadn’t explored the attic once since that first time. His absence wasn’t because he hadn’t thought about returning. The attic had an allure he could not explain. He had just been so busy with household chores and this novel aching to be written. But today he’d done several thousand words, a personal record. He rated a break.

  He pulled the key from a desk drawer. He couldn’t explain why he thought he had to hide it, or why he had to lock the door at all.

  At the top of the creaking attic stairs, he shuffled through the dim room to the chest at the end of the attic. Doug went straight for it, through the gauntlet of taxidermied creatures and their glassy, staring eyes.

  He lifted the chest lid and the silver locket caught his eye. He opened it again and marveled at the exquisite detail of the lovely Sarah’s picture. She had an aquiline beauty ideal in any era.

  He realized he may have given short shrift to Mabron, the man in the other half. On second look, he had a dignity about him, a sense of purpose. There had to be a great story that ended with sharing a locket with your brother’s wife. An illicit love affair, perhaps?

  Doug returned the locket with the same delicate spiraling of the fine chain as before. He set the inner shelf aside. A tray of different-sized marbles blocked access to the books. Doug set them aside on top of a box. From that position they literally looked straight at him. Six pairs of various pupils sparkled in the sunlight. They were glass eyes for the mounted animals, different sizes for different animals. Fascinating.

  A larger eye sat in the end position, a yellow iris with a narrow black slit pupil that that seemed to open onto infinite darkness beyond.

  Doug pulled out the Methods in the Art of Taxidermy volume. The leather creaked as he opened the cover. The copyright on the first brittle yellow page read 1900. He flipped through the pages. The first paragraph read:

  The art of embalming was invented by the Egyptians for the purpose of preserving dead bodies from decay by means of aromatics, antiseptics or desiccation. It was an art created by the demands of the religious superstition of the times, and was practiced by the ancients from the earliest periods, but, unfortunately, was not calculated to enlighten and elevate. In their sepulchers, tombs and pits are found not only countless bodies of human beings, but also myriads of dogs, apes, crocodiles, cats, ibises, sheep, oxen and other animals.

  There followed a history of taxidermy through the nineteenth century, followed by instructions on setting up a workshop. Then came chapter after chapter on how to mount an animal skin. A few sheets had illustrations of recommended tools of the trade. All of them were in the canvas bundle Doug unwound the first day in the attic. Now he knew their specialized missions; cutting, scraping, sewing, even a specialized melon-baller designed to slice socket joints apart.

  Doug sat under the light and flipped back to page one. He began to read with slow deliberation, pulling apart every paragraph of the author’s stilted English. The more he read, the more intriguing the techniques became; scraping bones, tanning hides, molding clay mounts. The most gruesome references inspired reverence rather than revulsion.

  The illuminated edges of the boards over the windows grew dim and reminded Doug he needed to suspend his education. He repacked the chest.

  On the way down the stairs, Doug caught a glimpse of a mounted bobcat near the top of the steps. He scooped the diminutive feline up from around the waist like a housecat. He carried it down the stairs and put it on the floor at the apex of the three turret windows. When it hit the afternoon sun, Doug swore its yellow eyes glowed brighter. The fur seemed to ripple, the skin draw tighter on the body. Doug though what amazing things the right lighting could do.

  He shut the attic door and spun the key to lock it. This time he didn’t just drop the key in his top desk drawer. He approached the bookshelf.

  He slid out a copy of Keys to Creative Writing. He slipped the key into the binding and slid the book back. The motion left a clear trail in the dust. He cursed and wiped down all the shelves with the edge of his T-shirt. No evidence, he thought. No clues. The last bastion had to remain inviolate.

  “Where the hell did that come from?” he said to himself and gave his head a shake.

  As he closed the door to the turret room, he thumbed the handle over to the locked position without even knowing it.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Half a dozen watercolors lined the wall behind Theresa Grissom’s desk in the rear of Treasured Things. Dustin had put his home set of paints to good use, creating something every day after school. Some were pictures of happy times. Some were memories of the dark days of the divorce. The happy ones made the cut to the wall.

  But Theresa didn’t care if he painted Dogs Playing Poker. He found an outlet for the thoughts that raced around in his head. Dustin’s therapist had fruitlessly talked himself hoarse trying to get Dustin to say anything about his feelings. But as soon as he had a paintbrush in his hand, it all came rushing out of him. Then when he showed the picture to his mother, all she had to do was ask, and they could talk about everything he felt. Theresa wondered if Mrs. Locke had any idea what an impact she had on Dustin.

  Treasured Things had a slow afternoon and Theresa sat with her shoes off and stocking feet on the stool next to her chair. It was funny how she could gauge the day within the first hour and a half
of opening. This morning had been dead as road kill and she knew the rest of the day would be no better. If she had paid herself by the hour, she would have gone home to cut costs. She had balanced the books earlier, but now she was part of the way through a marginal novel called Retroactive, about a serial killer obstetrician who murders criminal adults he helped bring into the world. There were some strange books that made it into her shop when friends donated boxes of castoffs.

  A near-drained glass of lemonade sweated onto a coaster on her desk. Without looking up, she grabbed it and finished the remainder. As she finished, the ice clumped in the bottom broke free and slid down. A chunk hit her front tooth with what Theresa swore was the sound of a cannon. She felt a numbing cold spread from her mouth to her extremities. A sudden rush of claustrophobic panic gripped her. The air felt thick, almost chunky. She spit the ice out of her mouth and leapt to her feet. She shook her hands and then rubbed them together. They were stone cold.

  She stomped to the front of the store to distance herself from the location of the experience and to absorb some of the warm afternoon sunlight. She passed the box on the shelf where she left the picture of the Galaxy Farm champion horse. A feeling of dread hit her in the stomach like a prizefighter’s punch. She doubled over but kept going forward, now trying to outrun two premonitions. She grabbed a display case for support and nearly launched herself out the shop’s front door.

  The little bell on the door tingled behind her as if ending the round between her and her gift. She stood shoeless and gasping on the sidewalk. With her hands on her knees, she took deep breaths of the afternoon air until she felt her lungs warm up. She looked up just in time to see a little girl staring at her from the curb. The pigtailed girl was about five and had on a faded souvenir shirt from the Nashville Zoo.

  “You don’t look good,” the girl said.

  She gave the kid a scowl and went back in the store. There was no doubt about it. Another Scrabble piece just flipped over. And the way the premonition intertwined with the one from the Galaxy Farm picture, there was no way they were unrelated. She knew more than enough of the Galaxy Farm history to know its most famous connection with ice. The drowned twins in the frozen pond. Stories of them haunting the Galaxy Farm grounds had circulated since their deaths.

  She didn’t have enough information to see the whole vision, but she had enough to be scared. Something supernatural was stirring at Galaxy Farm, and whatever it was, it had evil intentions for her son’s new teacher. She could wait for more clues to surface and see the entire story, but she had the feeling that time was of the essence. She was going to need help.

  Theresa flipped the sign on the door over to read Closed. School was out in under an hour. She hoped Laura Locke would have time to talk. She also hoped Dustin’s teacher wouldn’t think she was crazy.

  “Mrs. Locke?”

  Laura looked up from her desk in the empty classroom. She gave Theresa a smile of recognition. Theresa was relieved. Her first fear was that Laura wouldn’t recognize her from Parent/Teacher night last week.

  “Ms. Grissom!” Laura said. “Dustin is already over in after care.”

  “I came a bit early to see you,” Theresa said.

  Laura smiled. “Come on in and please call me Laura.”

  Theresa approached Laura’s desk, feeling uncomfortably like a school kid before the teacher. She looked around for somewhere to sit and ending up leaning back against a pint-sized desktop. “I’m not interrupting you, am I?”

  “No,” Laura said. “I’ve been planning to talk with you about Dustin. His grades have turned one hundred and eight degrees in the last few weeks. He also plays with the other kids at recess now. You must be doing something great with him at home.”

  “It’s the painting,” Theresa said. “You got him hooked on it. He paints every night at home and it’s become a way for him to work through some issues he has around my divorce from his father. He’s turning back into the little boy I used to know. How did you know he would take to it?”

  “Sometimes I just get a sense for what flips a kid’s switch,” Laura said. “Something about Dustin said ‘artist’.”

  Theresa got a ray of hope. At least this woman has an appreciation for intuition. Maybe she could take her belief just one step further…

  “I came to talk about something else,” Theresa said. She’d only have one shot at this, one test well to strike oil. She thought carefully for a moment. “The address on your card is the old Galaxy Farm, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, though it seems to be more of a conversation stopper than the starter you’ve made it.”

  Theresa was afraid she’d lose her nerve if she beat around the bush.

  “Have you seen the girls?” she blurted out.

  Laura’s eyes went wide. Her pen went limp in her hand. Theresa hit a gusher with the first well.

  “What girls?’ Laura said with a complete lack of conviction. Theresa pulled the student desk up along side Laura’s and sat down.

  “You’ve seen the ghosts of the Hutchington twins,” Theresa said.

  “Who told you to…”

  “This is going to sound strange,” Theresa began, and she told Laura a short version of her life with her “gift” and how it worked. Through it, Laura nodded and listened, the opposite reaction Theresa got from the few locals she had ever told. Theresa finished with the two clues of the racehorse picture and her encounter with the ice.

  “But what connects those two premonitions to me?” Laura said.

  “At the Parent/Teacher night,” Theresa said. “We shook hands and I got the feeling that, well, you were in danger. Tell me about seeing the girls.”

  “Well, I didn’t see them actually,” Laura said. “They came to me in a dream. Then later I felt their presence in my study with me while I was working. Trust me, there wasn’t anything malicious in their visits. They rustled my papers. It was more like a prank. They even rolled a ball back and forth for me. They don’t pose any danger. I liked having them around.”

  “What does your husband think about these visitors?”

  “Doug?” Laura hesitated, as if weighing how forthcoming to be with the answer. “Let’s just say he’s a nonbeliever. Thought I was imagining things.”

  “We’ve ruled out this being your imagination,” Theresa said. “But I’m not ruling out that there’s something dangerous. I felt it and my premonitions are never wrong. I might take too long to figure them out, but they are never wrong.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause and Theresa knew she was failing to convince.

  “I’ve spoken a bit with Dustin on how things are at home,” Laura said. “You two have had a rough time of it recently. Maybe some of the stress there triggered your feeling of—”

  “No, no,” Theresa said. “I know the difference. You have to believe me. I wouldn’t expose myself like this if I wasn’t sure. If I could get closer to the source, I would probably get much better reception. I hate to be forward, but perhaps if I came to your house…” This was the big moment, she thought.

  “Sure,” Laura said without hesitation. “Doug is away tonight, come on over. You’ll find that there is nothing to be afraid of and you can rest easy.”

  They agreed on seven p.m.. Dustin would have to be looked after, but Theresa knew her mother would be happy to have her grandson spend the night with her.

  Theresa walked over and picked her son up early from after school care. That made him happy, but not as happy as the opportunity to spend the night with Grandma, who always had the best desserts.

  Theresa wasn’t sure whether to be excited about the evening or apprehensive. The night would either confirm or contradict her theory about a threat to Laura. Laura felt that the girls’ spirits were not evil, so maybe Theresa’s premonitions weren’t right. At the farm tonight, she’d probably find out she had nothing to worry about.

  Theresa found her rationalization completely unconvincing.

  Chapter Thirty

 
Theresa had a distinct feeling of foreboding as she drove up Galaxy Farm’s driveway. The setting sun left only a pink ribbon along the western horizon. Her headlights lit the main house and she had to admit it was classically beautiful with its turreted upper room and wraparound porch. A few of the shutters even glistened with a fresh coat of black paint. But there was nothing inviting about the place. She didn’t get the big slam she got with a premonition, but she felt an underlying current of evil.

  Laura met her at the front door with a big smile. “The first night I’m here alone and I invite over a neighbor,” she said. “You’ll think I really am scared of spirits in the house.”

  “No,” Theresa said. “I know I’m the one with issues there.”

  Theresa crossed over the threshold and felt no different. She looked around the main room and the impressive stone fireplace with the wrought iron tool set caught her eye. The sparse modern furniture looked like it would be more at home in New York City, and she guessed it had been. Laura took her on a tour of the downstairs. They ended up outside the old nursery.

  “Well,” Laura said. “Any bad vibes?”

  “Can’t say that there are,” Theresa answered.

  “I hope you stay as disappointed all evening,” Laura said.

  They entered Laura’s study. “This was where I met them,” Laura said. They both stood in the room. Laura watched for a reaction from Theresa. “Anything?”

  Theresa shook her head. She was starting to feel ridiculous. “What were you doing when they came the last time?”

  “Grading papers.”

  “And you felt them here before they manifested themselves?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Theresa silently cursed the lack of control she had over her gift. She’d have to try a less passive tack.

  “Let’s try what attracted them before,” she said. “I’ll sit over there and you go do whatever it is you need to do for school.”