Talitha

by Rachael Rawlings

  Satisfied at her redecorating, sleep came quickly, and she slipped into peaceful dreams.

  An hour later, a subtle tap, tap roused her out of her drowse. It was a cautious sound at the French doors with none of the flurry she had heard the other night. She tugged back the blanket and slid out of bed. Her feet were noiseless against the wooden floor as she stepped to the balcony doors. She carefully pulled back the curtain, gingerly peering through the gap.

  A pale shape, a bird, was perched on the railing. From that distance, she wouldn’t have heard its movements, but she felt sure this was what had woken her. She carefully released the latch on the door and cracked it open, letting in a breath of wind, damp from the overhanging leaves.

  The bird stood very still. A low murmuring sound caught her attention, a coo. It was some kind of dove, creamy brown shade flecking its smooth feathers. It gave an impatient fluff and resettled its wings close to its body.

  “What are you doing out here?” Claire’s voice was soft, meant to be soothing.

  The bird seemed to look directly at her as thought considering the question. Then without a sound, it spread its wings and seemed to catch a breeze, the movement throwing its body into an arc that swooped toward her. She stepped back from the door quickly, the wind causing the glass and wood panels to swing wide, allowing the bird to flutter into the room with a dry rustle of wing.

  Claire had only scant experience with birds. She hadn’t ever had one as a pet, but the errant house wren had habitually built their nests in the planters on her mother’s front porch, and she had spent many hours of her childhood watching the birds gorging at the feeders when the snow blanketed the backyard at her home. She had photographed her more colorful visitors, and as a college student, had enjoyed feeding the fat strutting pigeons that ruled over the campus grounds.

  This bird had drifted to a graceful perch on the footboard of her bed and was eyeing her with surprising calm. The low coo hinted at contentment over its current circumstances.

  “I don’t remember asking you in,” Claire said wryly. Her heartbeat was finally slowing. The bird was unexpected, but considering the other creepy things that had occurred in the house, this late-night visitor was almost normal.

  The bird cocked its head and shuffled its wing feathers with a puff and soft rustle. Whatever its reason for coming in, it now seemed disinclined to leave.

  Claire looked toward the doors, now flung wide and offering a panoramic view of the night. What to do? If she closed up the room, she would be left with an overnight guest who might, despite the dignified demeanor, poop on Claire’s belongings. But she couldn’t leave the doors open to the air all night, the wind felt damp and the rain might come again. If she tried to corral her guest to force it to leave, she might end up scaring the thing, and she would hate to see it hurt itself.

  She sat on the side of her bed and looked at the bird as it observed her. Its feathers were scalloped in a lovely pattern, its eyes dark and somehow wise, its beak slender and sharp. It wasn’t frightening; not in the least. Claire crawled a little further into the bed and tucked the blankets around her. She was so tired. To her surprise, she was feeling sleepy again, which she couldn’t believe considering she was currently being watched by her uninvited guest. She felt her eyes blur and her lids drop as she leaned against the headboard, the hard knobs of the carving pressing into the back of her skull. How would she get the bird out? How would she deal with all the weirdness in the house? How would she…

  She wasn’t aware of falling asleep or her continued watcher as the bird settled in for the night, a silent observer as she slept.

  On Sunday morning, Claire rose slowly, feeling an odd feeling of loss. The doors to the balcony were shut tight, the curtain dropped over the glass although she could swear she hadn’t done it herself. Besides that, she couldn’t recall how the bird had gotten out of her room either. Curiouser and curiouser.

  Added to that, she was feeling a heavy loneliness. She yearned for the familiar Sunday breakfast with her family after going to the 8:00 mass at their local parish. She longed for the bustle of the family, the sounds of other lives being lived around her, the familiar routine of life. She checked the clock. Maybe she would go to church. Although her family was a couple hours away, the familiarity and reassurance of church was just what she needed.

  She sat up and put her feet on the chilly floor. Her braided rug had been pushed away from the bed again. Claire frowned, not remembering ever moving the thing. Then her eyes moved up.

  "Oh, no way," she exclaimed aloud. Her framed poster sat on the floor; leaned up against the wall as it had been just the day before. And on the wall in its place was the portrait, the eyes again boring into hers.

  Fighting the urge to panic, Claire got up slowly and straightened her shirt hem over the shorts she wore to bed. Her hands were chilled. She checked the French doors first, then the hall door, knowing before she touched the knobs that both would be locked. She looked down at her hands, reassured when she saw the red place where the splinter had been thrust in her skin. Her hands looked a little dirty too, with a line of color, probably from the frame when she lifted it. It hadn’t been a dream. She had moved the painting. She muttered an expletive under her breath and turned away from the painting. She wasn’t going to talk about this to anyone. No one. If the dreams were coming back, she wanted to handle it. And hopefully, she could.

  Briskly, she gathered her clothes and set out towards the bathroom. What she needed was a little sanity, and getting out of the house would be the best thing for her.

  Two days later, Claire was jarred out of her trance of scrubbing and wiping in one of the newly renovated bathrooms by John.

  “Hey, um, I have a question for you. You don’t paint, you know, paintings, do you?”

  Claire looked at him blankly for a moment. “Paint?” She had the sudden fear he had learned she had moved the painting in her room and was upset by it. But no, he wasn’t asking about that.

  “Yeah, we’ve found a painting someone has been working on. It’s not that it’s bad, it’s just,” his pause was somehow meaningful, “unusual. None of the other workers have ‘fessed up to painting it, so we thought...”

  “You thought I painted it?”

  “You or Noel,” he replied, one brow raised.

  “Not me and not Noel. We don’t paint.” She looked at him curiously.

  There was the clatter of shoes on the floor and Noel slipped in. “I heard my name. And I heard painting. What’s up?”

  “Someone has been painting a picture,” Claire began.

  “No one has admitted to it, none of the other workers, no one working in or around the house.” John left the words hanging as though he thought one of them would suddenly admit they were secretly dabbling in a new hobby.

  “Really?” Noel asked, clearly intrigued by the thought. “Why do you look like that? Is the painting scary or something?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just the fact someone has decided to start a painting project in the middle of the construction, and in a really strange place, and won’t say who they are.” John shrugged. “We have some kind of secret artist, looks like.”

  “Where is it?” Claire asked, interested but feeling a bit of unease.

  “Down in the basement,” John replied. “Another weird thing. Have you been down there? The basement is basically an unfinished storage area. Very rough. It has the old coal furnace and the fuse boxes, the heating and air stuff, some plumbing, the hot water heater. There’s no reason to go there unless you needed to look at some of the mechanicals. And you certainly wouldn’t want to go there to hang around.”

  “We’ve never been down there,” Claire said thoughtfully. There was no reason for them to ever venture to that area. They didn’t have any interest in the guts of the house, the inner workings of the electrical or heating system.

  “We’ve had a lot of structural guys down there, and the heating and air guys. But the place where the painti
ng is,” he paused and pursed his lips, looking thoughtful again, “it’s pretty out of the way. You wouldn’t go there unless you had a reason to.”

  “Can we see it?” Noel was smiling, totally enjoying John’s obvious discomfort now that they were off the hook.

  “Well,” he hesitated. “Sure. I don’t see why not. I’ll get Joe, and he can walk us through.” He turned slowly. “Do you want to see it now?”

  “Sure,” Noel exclaimed, and grinned crazily when he turned his back.

  They followed him down the stairs to the main floor and waited as John went in search of Joe. Some of the other workers filled him in, explaining that Joe was already downstairs working on repairing some of the stonework in the basement.

  “Come on down here.” John led the way through a narrow hall that ended with a plain wooden door. “The basement, or cellar,” he explained, gesturing to the closed door. “It’s locked up during the weekends and when people aren’t down there. Not a good place to go wandering. Not particularly safe.”

  As they ventured down the unfinished stairway made from wooden planks, some obviously newly laid, the smell of damp rose from the depths of the lower level. At the foot of the stairs was a wide room, long shelves lining the walls. In the back, Joe was standing with another worker, buckets of gray goo, trowels, and other tools Claire couldn’t name lay on the stone floor.

  “Hey Joe!” John called. “We came to look at the new art.”

  “Yeah?” Joe responded. “Who’s goin’?”

  “Just us.” John gestured to the little group.

  “Okay, sure. Let me just get him started,” he cocked his head toward the young guy kneeling on the floor. He took a moment to give some instructions, bending down to point out something unseen on the wall. He rose with a grimace, one hand to his back. “ ’kay, you ready?”

  John nodded moving behind Joe, and Noel and Claire nodded along like bobble head dolls. Joe put a weathered hand to his face and mopped away some invisible sweat. They moved in silence to the other end of the room.

  The two men led the girls into a tight hallway that ended in a thick rough hewn door. It wasn't like the rest of the house. The finishes were nowhere near so fine. It was a door meant to keep things out... or hold things in, Claire thought gravely. She peered at Noel, but her friend appeared to be enjoying herself. This little adventure, this little mystery, was a good diversion from the manual labor.

  The key for the door was typical for the period, but again, it was a much more utilitarian piece than some of the other keys that fit the locks in this fantastic house.

  The lock turned with ease, surprisingly quiet, and the door swung open with just a draft of chilled air.

  “These are mostly cellars,” Joe explained. "Good for keepin’ wine but not much else." He hit a switch on the wall and a bare bulb blinked on, hanging from a wire above their heads. "We rarely come down here,” he continued. "There's no need for us to be unless we're workin’ on plumbing or the furnace.”

  They followed him further into the big room, their steps oddly muffled. The light seemed to spread only to the center of the room, and the corners were shrouded with shadows. It was not a comfortable place.

  "So, who found it?” Noel asked, peering over Joe’s shoulder.

  "We heard some sounds comin’ from down here late last night. Workin’ late,” he shrugged casually as though to say this wasn't an unusual event. "A couple of us came down to check it out.”

  Claire wondered if that was deliberate. Were they uncomfortable in the house? Did they instinctively want to travel in groups?

  "We found this door open and went on in. It seemed like it was left open on purpose like someone wanted the painting to be seen. Most of these doors are kept closed on a regular day when we’re not workin’ in those rooms."

  They had entered a hallway with cool crumbing brick floors. On three of the walls were doors, just blank planks of wood with knobs, no locks. One was open.

  "No lights in these yet, " Joe explained, holding his flashlight high. "We've been usin’ these battery lanterns when we have work to do.” The harsh glare of a work lamp almost blinded them as the dark was wiped away in one great sweep of illumination.

  "Wow,” Noel breathed, standing in the doorway.

  The painting was huge. It covered half the length of the wall. They stepped just inside the door and spread in an arch for better viewing.

  "It's painted on a piece of subflooring we were usin’ upstairs. The pieces are more awkward than heavy, but it wouldn't have been easy to get down here. "

  Noel stepped into the room and Claire followed.

  "The paint is ours too. Looks like someone helped themselves. "

  "It is!” Noel agreed. "Look at the cans."

  Claire followed her gaze. The cans were the small sample pots the painters were using for touch ups. She recognized a few colors from the upstairs bathrooms and bedrooms and even a few new ones that were just opened. The original colors, however, had been mixed and toned so that a million shades seemed to blend into the painting.

  "What is it?” Noel asked, tilting her head to the side and angling closer.

  "It's a woman at the window,” Claire responded in a faint voice. The words seemed to slip out without conscious thought. But she could see it, the square of the window, the outlines blurred by the blowing curtains. And in front of it, her back to the painter, was the willowy form of a woman.

  "Oh, I see it now,” Noel agreed. "There's the window, her arm raised here, her hand...” she gestured to where the woman's fingers seemed to brush the glass.

  "If you say so,” Joe agreed. John, their silent companion, had circled around the room, looking at the other walls, the floor, like a detective looking for clues.

  "But why here?” Noel gestured to the damp room, the light only serving to emphasize the grubby walls and mud stained floors. "Why would you want to paint down here?”

  "They didn't want it found?” Claire guessed.

  "It's just weird," Noel said firmly.

  But Claire was looking at the painting. It seemed so familiar to her. Was it a copy if a more famous work she had seen elsewhere or studied in school? Or was it similar to something she had seen in the house? Her mind catalogued the pieces she had seen in rooms she had cleaned.

  "I feel like I have seen this before," she murmured. "Does it look familiar to you?” Noel shook her head but remained thoughtful. "It's good,” Claire said. "Whoever painted this has a lot of talent. But I don't think I have seen the painting here before.” She approached and put her hand out, her fingers brushing the sweep of the woman's skirt. "It's tacky!” she exclaimed. "It's not even fully dry yet! How long does it take for this to dry? "

  "Overnight,” John finally spoke up from where he stood at the opposite side of the room. "This must have been painted last night. Or at least someone worked on it.”

  Claire drew closer to the painting, amazed by the details on the wood. The wood itself was sitting on the dirty floor and leaned casually against the wall. Around it was the small pots of paint including a larger pint of white that had been used for mixing. There was a second piece of wood to the side where dabs of paint had been mixed, darkened, or lightened. Claire knew very little about painting, about art in general since her talents definitely didn’t lie in that area, but the method looked right.

  “So, what are you going to do with it?” Noel asked.

  “Do?” John looked a little surprised. “I guess we hadn’t thought that far ahead. No one is using this space. It’s not like they are destroying property.” He thoughtfully gazed at the picture. “We didn’t need the subflooring, but the paint is going to cost us.” He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I don’t know if there is much we can do about it right now. Until we know who the painter is, we probably will just let it be.”

  “Too many other things to do than to worry about this,” Joe agreed. “I’ll just have the boys bring up the paint they need. We can clean up the place
later.”

  John nodded. “Yeah, let’s do that. No reason to mess with this until we have to.”

  Both men seemed satisfied and turned to go back down the hall. Noel exchanged a look with Claire, and they headed out of the room.

  “Grab the light, will you?” John asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

  Claire went back into the room. The high-powered lantern was propped on a stool. She wrapped her hand around the handle and hefted its bulk, looking back toward the painting. The figure in the picture seemed to sway in the unsteady light, the light of the painted moon subtly changing, dimming, brightening beneath sketched clouds. Stranger and stranger, she thought, and followed the rest out the door.

  Chapter Seven

  The next week progressed smoothly with Claire spending an extra amount of time writing reports and completing projects for classes while work at the house continued at an increased rate with men working after dark most weeknights. Noel took care of most of the cooking for the household, and the number of diners varied from just the girls and John, to up to ten men when Charles called one of his meetings. Noel had grown in confidence and was using much of her free time to look up new recipes to try out on her new victims, or diners.

  Preparation for Mr. Edwards' arrival continued, and Claire was given the job of caring for his room. He was staying in the newer, right wing where the previous owners had built the updated master suite. His room was in the same style as her own, comfortable with a large fireplace and balcony, however, it was almost twice the size of Claire's room. The colors were neutral earth tones that only served to accent the gorgeous woodwork and finishes. It had an adjoining sitting room as well, with a new walk-in closet and the only other functioning bathroom on the second floor.

  As Claire opened the door, she was happy to note the room had been left in neat order after Mr. Edwards' last visit, and she had only dusting and sweeping to finish. She put fresh linens in the bathroom and changed the bed, noting the beautiful carving on this bed as well. She worked quickly and finished in only an hour. Later she would add a vase of fresh flowers from the market if they had any warning of Mr. Edwards' arrival, just like they might in a high-end hotel.