The Storyteller's Muse
Page 27
With that thought, Peter checked his messages and was ecstatic to find one from Gabrielle — she had the magazine featuring The Lovers painting and was on her way over.
‘Perfect timing.’
If Emanuel’s name was on the bottom corner in the photograph then they were onto something.
It was moments like this that made Peter realise how much of a blessing Gabrielle was. If he was totally honest, the idea that she had never come into his personal life had been the part of his nightmare that had panicked him the most. She never judged him, doubted him, or tried to change him. In fact, she’d been his greatest support through this whole writing process. It was plain to see why his nemesis had found it so easy to convince Peter that his present life was just a dream as his destiny had taken a truly idyllic turn. Now, if he could just get through the night without being harassed in his sleep, life would be perfect.
The buzzer alerted him to company at the gate. On the monitor by the phone he saw Gabrielle waving at him from a brand new car. He pressed the switch to open the gate and she blew him kisses and waved as she took off up the drive, and Peter headed out to await her arrival on the front stairs.
She’d bought herself a little convertible hatch in a vibrant shade of lemon–lime. Nothing too ostentatious, yet it stood out a mile — much like the lady herself.
‘How do you like my new accessory?’ She appeared completely smitten with it as she climbed out, closed the door, and grabbed bags and folders directly from the back seat.
‘It looks good on you,’ Peter awarded.
‘I thought so.’ She grinned and headed up the stairs. ‘I wasn’t going to come over, but I thought you’d like to be present when we discover the truth.’
‘As chance would have it I’m at an impasse and would welcome your input,’ he assured her with a smile.
‘How fortunate . . .’ She reached him. ‘I have loads to share. Do you have cake?’
‘Passionfruit cheesecake,’ he boasted, hoping Fred had left some.
‘Mmmmmm!’
He wasn’t surprised to receive a kiss for that news.
‘Sounds good. Let’s get started then.’ Gabrielle moved off ahead of him, bubbling with excitement.
Peter couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face. To solve the mystery of the story would be something, but what really struck him in this moment was his first glimpse of the bigger picture, beyond this story.
Gabrielle loved chasing research, and he loved writing; in the long term their relationship might actually work. Personally, they got along great, their sex life was fantastic, but he had learned from Penelope that a writer’s life was insular, which usually resulted in the partner feeling locked out. But as his researcher and editor, Gabrielle was clearly as involved in his story as he was. She is the one. There was no doubt in his mind any more. He loved having her in his life, even if it meant living with all her deceased ancestors! After a few bouts with the supernatural himself, he now felt up to the challenge.
When Peter entered the library with afternoon tea on a tray, he found Gabrielle setting up her computer. ‘What are you up to then?’
‘Well, as expected, you can’t clearly make out the signature on the picture.’ She crawled out from under the desk after plugging in a cord. ‘So, I’ve scanned the image and downloaded a program that will zoom in and enhance the pixellation one frame at a time, which should give us a clear shot.’
‘You can do that?’
‘Yes indeed.’ She instructed her laptop to zoom in on the corner of the picture in question and ran the program. ‘It’s going to take a little while.’ She turned to Peter. ‘What’s news from the dream world? Did you see my abuelita?’
‘I did.’ Peter winced, not wanting to discuss it. ‘But I screwed up, I left the amulet on the bedside table when I should have kept it on me. Or so your grandma pointed out, after I was inside the dream.’
‘Peter!’ Gabrielle was disappointed.
‘You said, “leave it by your bed when you sleep”,’ Peter defended.
‘Okay, my bad.’ Gabrielle held her hands up in truce. ‘What else did Grandma say?’
‘Nothing much, she kept mumbling some prayer in Spanish, or maybe Mexican?’ Peter was no linguist.
‘Probably the prayer to the Most Holy Death.’ Gabrielle looked to Peter. ‘She only prays like that when someone is in danger.’
‘She seemed fine, and you see I am fine, so . . .’ Peter opted for a quick shift in subject. ‘What else did you find out? Let me guess, you couldn’t find a death certificate for one of the twins.’
‘I couldn’t find one for either of them.’ Gabrielle was frank. ‘Not really surprising considering the lengths they both went to to disappear. Both their births were recorded, but the cause and exact dates of death are unknown in both cases. People went missing throughout the war years; many deaths were unaccounted for.’
‘And Henry Chesterfield?’
Gabrielle dived into her folder and pulled out some hard copies of her data. ‘Henry died in prison.’
‘He was convicted of murder?’ Peter had become rather fond of Henry; as a guardian, the man had worked tirelessly all his life and Peter had liked to think the unsung hero of his tale had lived out his retirement happily in the country.
‘I know it’s not the ending you wanted.’ Gabrielle was sympathetic. ‘He was convicted of murder, and upon being unable to find any trace of the Lord and Lady Fairchild, or his adopted mentally ill son, he was to be questioned about their whereabouts, but he hanged himself in his cell before the investigation was approved.’
‘Oh damn.’ Peter took the old news articles in hand to look them over. There, in one of the articles about the case, was a black and white photograph taken of Henry before his arrest, and he was just as Peter had imagined. A working-class, older chap, Henry had a distinguished air about him that would have commanded respect. Yet there was also a kindness in his face, which made him appear a likeable fellow.
‘So, was Henry framed by Pettigrew? Or is Pettigrew now being framed by Henry?’ Gabrielle posed. ‘We shall soon find out.’ She was bursting with anticipation, and Peter was in complete empathy with that sentiment. ‘Thank goodness we have cake for the wait. No peeking.’ She diverted his attention from her computer screen to afternoon tea.
‘So tell me then, what’s your grandmother’s name?’ Peter thought to ask as they ate.
Gabrielle served him a questioning look.
‘Well, I keep bumping into her in my dreams, it might be nice if I could address her by name.’
‘Her name is Alejandra,’ Gabrielle informed him proudly. ‘It means la protectora.’
‘The protector.’ Peter felt the name suited her grandmother very well.
When Gabrielle’s computer chimed they were both up in a flash, it had gone into screen saver mode while processing the picture, so they could not yet see the outcome. ‘You ready?’ Gabrielle playfully stalled before touching the keypad.
‘Abso-fricking-lutely.’ The suspense was killing him.
Gabrielle swiped her finger across the trackpad, and in gold across the open picture file was written Emanuel. ‘Oh my goodness!’ Gabrielle gasped, not quite able to believe it.
Peter was quietly reeling in the exhilaration of vindication. ‘Henry is innocent.’
‘We have to discover what happened to the Ems.’
A power surge startled them both and they jumped back from the laptop, as the surge burnt through Gabrielle’s computer and it died.
‘Son-of-a-bitch! I should have put a protection spell on it too.’ Gabrielle’s comment struck the fear of God into Peter.
‘The manuscript!’ Peter ran into the lounge where he’d left his computer, and fell to his knees in thanks when he discovered he’d left it unplugged. ‘That wasn’t Em.’ Peter was convinced of that now. ‘There’s only one villain in this story, and I want to know how the fuck he got into this house. Don’t ghosts usually attach themselves to people or
things? They can’t just dash about willy-nilly.’
‘It’s true.’ Gabrielle was breathing easier when she saw Peter’s computer was unscathed. ‘That’s the other thing I found out; Pettigrew died in the apartment, so he could have attached himself to anything, maybe even to Penelope, via Em.’
‘No.’ He was suddenly very certain of where the spectre was hiding out. ‘I’ll bet you anything that he’s attached himself to the bloody evidence.’ He stormed across the foyer and into the front sitting room.
Once inside the room Gabrielle focused inward to get a sense of the space they rarely used. ‘I’m no parapsychologist, but there is definitely something off-putting about this room, despite the fact that it is rather lovely. Hmm.’ She turned and left the room.
‘That’s all you’ve got to say? Hmm?’ He followed her back to the library where the horrid smell of fried plastic hung in the air.
She placed a finger to her lips. ‘Patience. All shall be revealed.’ She dug through her bag and pulled out a bundle of dried herbs. ‘I brought this for you, for just such an occasion. Call it a house-warming present.’
‘How is cooking going to help protect my work?’ Peter was perplexed.
‘It’s a smudge stick. White sage and lavender.’ She passed the item under his nose.
‘Lovely,’ Peter warranted. ‘But I still don’t see —’
‘Just trust me.’ She grabbed one of the emptied cake plates and some long matches from by the fire, then led him back into the sitting room.
‘Close the door,’ she instructed once he’d joined her.
‘That’s hardly going to stop a spectre escaping if that’s what you’re hoping.’ Peter was surely pointing out the obvious.
‘Not without a bit of fortification,’ she commented back. ‘Go and stand by the window, but don’t open it until I say.’
As disturbing as the response was, Peter did as instructed. ‘Is something adverse going to happen?’ He had a bad feeling about this.
‘Hopefully not,’ she made a bad attempt at sounding reassuring. ‘But if it works, we might both get a decent night’s sleep here.’
‘I’m down with that,’ Peter decided, as it meant she planned on staying the night — pretty brave considering what happened last time.
Gabrielle sat the plate at the back of the door, and holding the herbs over it, she lit one end of the bunch with a match and smoke began to billow out from the bundle, which she encouraged with gentle blows. She then took the smoking stick and traced a path of smoke around the door jamb. ‘Blessed Protector Death, that God has made Immortal, and the Queen of the Darkness Unknown hereafter . . .’ Gabrielle began to move around the room in semi-circular motions, from one side of the room to the other, steering clear of the painting over the mantelpiece while she filled every other corner of the room with smoke. ‘Protect this house and all that dwells within from evil, danger and sickness. And bring instead luck, health, happiness, prosperity and justice.’ Once a good heavy smoke hung in the air, she looked towards the painting. ‘May the spirits of this house be freed from their earthly woes and return to source —’ Gabrielle caught her breath when suddenly the painting shook. ‘Bring only friends to this door, and free us from our enemies.’ She fanned more smoke in the painting’s direction, and it shook harder.
Peter could hardly believe how fearless Gabrielle was — just like her grandmother — she wasn’t backing down. It was one thing to confront the supernatural in dreams, and quite another to do it in a fully conscious state; his heart was beating ten to the dozen.
‘Oh, Sovereign Lady! With your great power, which you have over all mortals and earth-bound spirits, I ask you to banish Reginald Pettigrew from this house!’ The painting gave one final thump and then all was quiet.
‘The smoke.’ Peter could see an invisible force disturbing the haze as it cut through it, doing circles of the room.
‘Open the —’ Gabrielle gasped, as the window beside Peter suddenly shattered.
‘Holy crap!’ Peter, dumbfounded, staggered backwards to where Gabrielle was standing. ‘That shit really works?’
‘The reaction was a little more adverse than I expected, but I feel we can assume the manuscript is safe.’
‘You were amazing!’ Peter hugged her, and she was shaking.
‘Well, show fear and you lose. Sorry about the window.’
‘Forget the window.’ He hugged her tighter, and her shaking subsided. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Mmm-hmm.’ She released him and flashed a cheeky smile. ‘Truth be known, I love it when weird shit happens.’
‘Well you kicked spectral butt today!’ Peter had to laugh about that. ‘Next time I encounter my nemesis in a dream, I’ll just threaten to send my girlfriend to kick his arse.’
‘Happy to be of service. But you’re learning; you didn’t freak out either.’
‘That’s because I was too freaked out to actually freak out.’ But Peter wasn’t taking the warning lightly.
‘I’m printing out what I have of my manuscript right now! I’m copying the file onto a memory stick, and locking it and the manuscript in the safe. Along with the journals and that magazine you found.’ Peter coughed, waving his hand about to encourage the smoke out the window.
‘That’s hardly going to stop a spectre getting to them, if that’s what you’re hoping,’ Gabrielle mocked.
‘Not without a bit of fortification.’ Peter was indeed learning.
‘It will be interesting to see how this event affects the state of play in your dreams tonight,’ Gabrielle posed. ‘We’ve got Pettigrew off your case, but have we got him off Em’s?’
‘What do you mean?’ Peter was confused. ‘Didn’t you just banish him?’
‘From this house,’ Gabrielle clarified. ‘I can free him to go back to source, but a spirit must choose to give up his earthly concerns and move on. Somehow I feel Pettigrew is not going to give up so easily.’
‘Well there’s only one other place that we know he’s attached to.’ Peter realised that Pettigrew would be waiting for them at the apartment tomorrow. ‘I think we’re going to need more of those sticks.’
That night when Peter sought his muse, he lay flat on his back with the effigy in his hand, rested on his heart. Gabrielle had insisted on sleeping in the guest room across the hallway as she didn’t want to disturb Peter accidentally as they slept. The doors between the rooms were left open, so that she could keep an ear out; although neither of them expected any life-threatening events tonight.
It was Peter’s intention to join his muse at the warehouse, but when he heard the sound of Gabrielle’s grandmother praying, he focused on that and found himself returned to the cab. Emanuel was staring at Peter with a concerned look upon his face, but when the Lord opened his mouth his speech was again mute, only now Emanuel seemed fully aware of his impediment. Peter realised he couldn’t even hear the sound of their vehicle’s engine, only the sound of the voodoo woman’s chant. He was there in the cab, and yet was also aware of lying in his bed.
Alejandra. Peter said her name in his mind, hoping to distract the woman from her prayers.
She raised her dark eyes to look at him, and he saw Gabrielle in them. Why are you here? she asked, as if she could not imagine.
I wish to speak with my muse.
The woman frowned as though he was a little daft. There is a malign spirit attached and repressing your muse, is that not plainly obvious?
I am protected now.
But your muse is not, that is why I remain close by. I was wrong about just who was a threat to my granddaughter.
Peter looked to Emanuel, noting how tired and drawn the young Lord appeared. But how can one spirit attach itself to another?
As he asked this question, the cab they were in began to stretch like a rubber band, and the seat opposite was drawn further away from him, along with his muse and Alejandra.
That’s a good question. She disappeared from his perception altogether.
‘Hah!’ Peter woke with a start — feeling like he’d just fallen off one of those dream cliffs and body-slammed on the rocks below. ‘Damn!’ He was about to get side-tracked by a rant on how much he hated these instances, but instead he scrambled for the notepad he’d taken to leaving by the bed at Fred’s suggestion. He switched on the light and endured the pain while his eyes adjusted, then spotted the pen, which he took up to scribble down his note. How can one spirit attach itself to another?
‘Are you okay?’ A very sleepy Gabrielle wandered over to check.
‘Absolutely fine.’ He was eager to switch out the light and try something else.
‘K.’ She blew him a kiss and returned to bed. ‘Call if you need anything.’
In his mind, Peter was poring over what had happened in the dream. It may have only seemed a short visitation but it had told him much. I am protected but my muse is not. If he was protected that meant his nemesis could not interfere with Peter’s will, only Em’s. And if his muse was not protected, that meant that her former guardian’s spirit was elsewhere, and elsewhere was somewhere Peter might obtain answers without interference. A new tack.
Lights off, Peter lay back down as before, and bringing to mind the photograph of Henry from the news article, he set an intention to meet with Henry Chesterfield.
The expectation was that Peter would find Henry’s troubled spirit still wandering the halls of the prison where he’d hanged himself. But instead Peter found himself in a field of wildflowers, illuminated by a half-light that had no definable source, bar the vivid colour of the landscape itself. It was a pleasant distraction, although a little bemusing.
Isn’t this what you imagined for Henry?
He knew that voice, although it sounded so much sweeter than the last time he’d heard it. Peter turned to face a beautiful young woman, who looked like a movie star from the forties. Penelope. She appeared exactly as she had in the photograph he’d found and posted on her social media page, only this vision was not black and white, but vivid colour.