The Time Stopping People

by Kristy Evans Beckwith

  *

  Some hours later we pulled into a slanted driveway. Pebbles crunched under tires, and shadows emerged from the glare of the moon, showing off a pointed rooftop and medieval statues. The castle-like mansion stood concealed behind an eerie group of oak trees with the attributes of a haunted house.

  “We’re here,” Kevin announced.

  Chris turned off the engine and slumped back. Everyone fell silent. They seemed to be contemplating, preparing themselves for something unknown. Their unbroken glances confounded me, and I wanted to know what mysterious subject lingered in their thoughts. I knew this was their home and training ground. Chris told me this was the place they came to most often. So I wondered why they looked at the house strangely, like it was a foreign place.

  Tre slid the door open, sniffing the air. “Mmm, smell that?”

  “Smells like rain.” Kevin lifted the bag over his shoulder.

  The air was crisp as I stepped onto the circular dirt trail. A small draft trickled down my back, and I clasped my jacket. “Is it always this cold?”

  Chris smiled. “Only in the winter.”

  It was mid-February, and I wanted to tackle him for the extra sweater he was wearing, but Blue rushed by so fast I nearly got whiplash. Her gray tank top showed off a cute heart-shaped belly ring with glittery stones. Loose gray sweats also revealed the butterfly tattoo on her left hip. She slowed down behind the guys and finally bullied her way through.

  “Move.”

  Leaves crackled under my shoes as I studied the new environment. There was nothing modern about this place – it looked like an old cemetery. Staying inside this house, deep in the woods of Ohio where no one could find me, was going to be an unusual experience for sure. On top of that, it was going to rain soon. This wasn’t what I had in mind when Chris first described his abode. I imagined we’d be training somewhere sophisticated with high-class equipment and nice marble floors, like how it was at his mansion in Laguna Beach.

  And yet, there was something engaging about its essence that I couldn't refute. I was utterly drawn to it.

  My attention waned from the crow statue, which was faced down on the doorstep, and I realized the others were inside already. Pushing the door forward and listening to old splintering wood, I noticed the interior was breathtakingly refined. Oak wood glistened, releasing the scent of ripe tangerines. Dim lights dazzled from the chandelier and filled the mansion with a low, mellow mood.

  The other musketeers shuffled along the log staircase, and I followed behind them. Our shoes squeaked, echoing against the walls. At the final step, they turned the corner, and I ended up following a subtle beam down the opposite end of the hallway. There was some light seeping through a cracked open room.

  “Hello?”

  I walked inside and blinked twice. My blood flow reversed and turned my head into a light air bubble. Low snarls escaped. A white tiger was crouched beside the bed. Its eyes widened. Its lips curled over razor sharp teeth. I blinked again. This couldn’t be for real. I did not just get sucked into the Discovery Channel. The wild animal looked at me, alert, agitated, and probably hungry.

  “Down, Girl,” the voice commanded, startling the both of us. A shadow magically emerged from the bathroom, and Chris walked in shirtless.

  I gulped.

  “Her name’s Missy,” he said. His back was broad, spreading out like eagle wings. Fur covered his chest and trailed down, and I wanted to twist my fingers in all of it. I felt savage watching this man like an obsessed onlooker, but I couldn’t turn away.

  He stroked the tiger’s coat while looking directly at me. “Easy, Girl,” he whispered.

  The command was for Missy, but the hairs on my neck prickled. The swirling warmth in my stomach made me feel enlivened, and I didn’t know whether it was coming from the vivacious white tiger, or Chris’s naked chest.

  I cleared my throat. “Whoa . . . she just popped out of nowhere.”

  “We have a caretaker, Ellen, who comes here to look after Missy whenever we’re out of town.”

  “Really? I didn’t see her anywhere.”

  He smiled. “She knew we’d be arriving soon. I told her to leave Missy in my room.”

  “Doesn’t Missy have a cage? I'm kidding. I really do like animals, especially the ones that are usually at the zoo most of the time. Anyways.”

  He stared up at me. “She didn't mean to startle you, Calise.”

  It was pure heaven to hear him say my name the way he did. There was so much warmth beneath his tongue when he said it, so much heat in this small confined room. For the first time, I drew in the roasted almond scent emanating from his burning candles on the nightstand. The wooden walls were covered in simple, earthy art. Antique vases stood in corners. His brown and gold bedspread was the highlight, complementing a tall triangular ceiling.

  My attention was gripped by the portrait hanging above his mantel. It was the face of a girl who had brown hair, round eyes, and not a year over twenty.

  She and I shared an undeniable resemblance, practically identical. I wanted to think more of it, to marvel at the coincidence of this girl hanging on his wall, but I was unabashedly absorbed with Chris pacifying the beast.

  I watched her. The tips of his fingers spread through her coat and rolled across her skin . . . I barely missed him slipping on a black shirt and lifting my luggage.

  “Come on,” he summoned, rambling down the hall and smacking his teeth twice for Missy.

  She obeyed and snickered at me under her snout.

  As we traveled up another staircase that was quite separate from the rest of the house, I realized we were drawing near an attic. At any other time, I would’ve been afraid; the path was so quiet and full of creaks. But Chris helped me overcome, as I stumbled here and there. Each time he rescued me from a wedge in the floor, he asked, 'Are you always like this?' before springing me up again.

  Finally I stopped and turned to him. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  He stared down. “Do you like me being nice to you?”

  "Yes,” I confessed. “I like you brought me all the way to Ohio . . . and I don’t know anyone else in this house but you.”

  He observed me with a careful eye.

  Finally we reached the attic. It was a lively and creative room. The bed was layered with colorful quilts, the top one being yellow-spotted. Every dresser was covered in scarves and fictitious plants, and a line of framed sketches hung on the walls. Though it wasn’t the work of a famous artist, it was definitely by someone who aspired in the profession. Medieval statues sat in every corner. One was a pair of V-shaped wings resting on a stone platter. Music stickers crowded the headboard, and a deep-seated reverence flushed Chris’s countenance the moment we walked in, like he just opened up a treasure chest.

  He stood by the door, waiting. “There’s another room downstairs if you’d like.”

  “No,” I said. “I like it here.” My fingers trailed over a sketch. It was the drawing of a lake surrounded by thick willow trees. “Beautiful,” I whispered, admiring the delicate shading. “Who drew this?”

  He posted one foot against the door. “Her name should be signed at the bottom. She was into pottery and sculpting as well. She liked making things on her free time.”

  I glanced at the initials, and then looked over at Chris. “J.E.”

  His eyes were tight lines, squinting, and seeking for something in my face.

  I looked away, setting the drawing down. “Thanks again for bringing me here like you said you would.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. We start in the morning,” he answered and waited for my reply. When I didn’t say anything else, he drew the door closed.

  That's when I noticed everything on the outside was vibrant and colorful, but something else lingered here . . . like an invisible current. The scarves, which were draped over the drawers, turned out to be head coverings. The scarlet silk piece appeared most worn around the edges. I tugged it from underneath the plant and
saw a black spade knitted on the center, almost like it’d been hand-sewn.

  “What’s up with that smell?” I grumbled.

  It reeked strongly of mildew, and I made a quick trip to the bathroom to give it a good washing. The spade was such an odd shape for someone to randomly knit that I wondered who came up with the idea.

  The scarf was a cute accessory, however, and an easy fit into my wardrobe. I played with the material some more, trying it on and making different styles in the mirror . . . until I ran out of ideas and snuggled under the covers, dropping the red scarf over my face. Then I dreamed.