Paper Tigers

by Damien Angelica Walters

Alison groaned. “Please, can we skip that today? I’m not feeling up to it. I promise I’ll stretch after I take a nap.”

  “If you didn’t have huge circles under your eyes, I’d say no, but I’ll let you go this once.” Meredith lifted one eyebrow. “Just this once.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled her careful, non-grotesque smile and linked her hands together while Meredith folded up the table.

  After Meredith left, she trudged upstairs, wincing with each step. She didn’t want to sleep—it was all she’d been doing for the past few days—but she was too tired and sore not to. The clothes she’d worn the other night were still puddled in the corner of her room. Sticky grey dust coated the fabric and several tufts of navy blue fiber were caught in the hem of the pants.

  Would she go back into the album if she had the chance? Knowing she’d hurt this much afterward? She traced the scars on her cheek. Heard Meredith’s words. The skin tugged as she smiled. If there was even the slightest possibility the album was healing her, of course she would.

  CHAPTER 10

  The brisk October air stung Alison’s unscarred skin, stars glimmered in the sky, and the full moon gave off a brilliant light. Her soft-soled shoes whisked across the pavement with hardly a sound. As soon as she crossed the first street, a deep, relentless throb built in her hip.

  Her limp turned into a lurch after she crossed the next street, but she kept going. The walks had been Meredith’s idea, and it had taken Alison months to sum up the necessary courage.

  Courage, something she’d once taken for granted.

  After the fire, her mother had wanted her to move back home, but she’d refused. She knew once there, in the rooms of her childhood, she’d never leave. And her mother would take care of her, never complaining, but how much of her own life would she give up to care for her daughter? Too much. But more than that, Alison had wanted a space where she could forget she’d ever been

  anything

  anyone other than the Monstergirl.

  Her mother had arranged for the house. “Consider it a gift from your father. He was a strong believer in life insurance, and I’ve been careful with the money,” she’d said, when Alison pressed for details.

  Of her father, Alison had no memory at all. Growing up, he’d simply been a photograph on the fireplace mantel. The photos all showed the same smiling face and laughing eyes. Her mother told her how he’d read to her every night before tucking her into bed, and how, after she learned to walk, he’d taken her for walks through the neighborhood with her tiny hand in his. When Alison was young, her mother would tell her the stories and she would smile and clap her hands and say, “Yes, yes, I remember,” but any memories she’d truly had vanished over time.

  Not until much later did she find out her father had been involved in a head-on collision with a drunk driver. She had one memory of a crowd of people with somber faces touching her head and speaking in hushed tones. Whether it was a true memory or a dream plucked from how she knew a funeral to be, she didn’t know.

  Her feet came to a stop at the elementary school. She didn’t even remember making the turn in its direction. No teenagers were on the grounds tonight. Swings swayed in the breeze and a cat, too well-fed to be a stray, loped across the grass. She looped her fingers through the chain-link fence surrounding the playground and closed her eyes. She could almost hear the children laughing, the crunch of wood chips beneath their feet, the squeak of tennis shoes on plastic, and the creak of swings.

  She wanted so much to open her eyes and see the children for real, wanted to hear them calling, “Miss Reese, Miss Reese,” wanted to turn the clock back and erase what had happened, wanted to be free from the self-pity and the fear.

  She scrubbed at her eye with the back of her hand, wiping away the tears before they could fall, and gave the playground one last glance.

  When she stepped down from the curb to cross the next street, sharp pain drove from her heel to the middle of her back. She gasped, retreated, and grabbed the street sign, her heart racing. Too much pain.

  A tightness shifted in her abdomen, a hard knot of go-home-now-go-home-now worse than the pain. A scarf-hidden Monstergirl might pass by someone without being noticed. A hunched-over, limping Monstergirl wouldn’t. The quiet streets gave lie to her fear, but the walks never hurt this much. Was this another gift from the album? If so, it was a gift she didn’t need, but if it was the price she needed to pay…

  With a sigh, she turned around and hobbled home.

  She carried the album into the living room with hope on her lips. The ache in her muscles had ceased, but the knot in her abdomen remained. Balancing the album on her lap, she opened to the inscription page. The pages rustled as she turned to George’s photo, then to the house, and back to George. An odd warmth tingled deep under her skin when she set her hand down on the pages, but nothing else happened.

  “Please,” she said.

  It would let her back in. It would. It had to. How many times would she have to go into the paper world before she was healed? Five? A dozen? A hundred?

  As many as it takes, a voice piped up. Not the Monstergirl’s voice at all, but her voice from before the fire and smoke. A tiny part she’d thought was dead and gone. Like her fingers.

  She shouldn’t get her hopes up. Maybe it had been a fluke. But Meredith had seen a change in her scars, and scars didn’t change on their own. At the very least, she’d get to wear her old face again, and maybe it would stay this time.

  She was still staring at George’s photograph when her phone rang. (And she should be doing something else, something other than sitting, but what if the album opened its door and she wasn’t there?) She jumped, saw her mother’s name on the display, and was about to answer when the page holding George’s photo lifted of its own accord.

  She dropped the phone. The page continued to lift up, up, and over, settling down with a tiny, rustle. Her hand shook as she held it over the photo of the house, but before her skin made contact, that page lifted, too. It brushed against her hand, pushing, insistent. On the edge of the page, tiny depressions appeared—fingertip shaped depressions.

  With a jolt, she yanked her hand back. The page hovered, floating half-up and half-down, and then lifted and flipped over. The depressions in the paper disappeared.

  The new photo showed a narrow room with flowered paper on the walls, a daybed with tasseled pillows, a tall wardrobe, and a small bedside table holding a glass vase of roses, their full petals glistening with dew, apparent even within the sepia tones. Lace curtains hung at the tall window, slightly parted to reveal the top of a tree. And at the far left edge, a tall, man-shaped shadow hovered, darkening the wallpaper.

  “We’re waiting…”

  Alison brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, closed her eyes, and started to lower her hand. Then she paused, her mouth dry,

  Why are you being such a scaredy cat? Footprints in dust and cold ghost hands can’t hurt you, you know.

  then lowered her hand on the photo.

  A low laugh. A distant piano note. One dark and discordant note, droning on. Soft murmurs of conversation, the sound of liquid pouring into a glass, quiet clicking steps, a snick-snick sound she couldn’t identify. Laughter again. A child’s voice, crying out. Another. And the music note played again and again. A bracelet of cold wrapped around her wrist.

  Alison held her breath and her fingers twitched, but when she opened her eyes, her gaze met the walls of her own living room. She groaned, pushing the album off her lap. And one last music note echoed away.

  Alison carried the album with her upstairs and placed it on the back of the toilet while she showered. Twice she thought she heard a faint whisper, but when she peeked out, only the water bouncing off the porcelain gave reply.

  She took it with her into the kitchen when she heated a can of soup. No unexpected sounds broke the quiet. The microwave hummed, the refrigerator kicked on, and somewhere in the neighborhood a dog barked for several long minutes, then f
ell silent.

  With the album on the table an inch away from her elbow, she ate without thinking, without tasting, taking care not to look at the spoon, even though chunks of vegetables and broth concealed the shiny metal. After she emptied her bowl, she sat with her hands in her lap and her head bowed. One little Monstergirl all alone. Hurt and waiting.

  When she called her mother back, the sun had begun its descent from the sky, draping her living room in shadows. Outside, her next-door neighbors were engaged in loud conversation, their jovial tones punctuated with bright peals of laughter. Alison kept her right hand on the photo album, tucked close to her on the sofa, and held the phone in her left.

  “I tried to call earlier to see if you wanted me to bring over dinner.”

  “I was in the shower when you called. Sorry,” Alison said, stroking the open page with her fingertips. Pins and needles crawled beneath her skin.

  “Not to worry. I’ve already eaten dinner, but I bought an amazing Key Lime pie. Do you want me to bring it over and we can at least have dessert together?”

  Alison’s fingers twitched. The pins and needles intensified.

  “I’m not really feeling up to company, Mom. Save me a slice, though, and maybe you can come over tomorrow night?”

  “Oh. Okay then. Is everything…”

  “Everything’s fine. I’m

  waiting to be swallowed up, swallowed whole

  a little sore and a little cranky. I wouldn’t be good company.”

  “I understand.”

  Her mother didn’t understand. No one stared at her when she went outside, no one whispered behind their hands.

  She felt the pins and needles deep in her palm, and she wiggled her fingers. The sensation grew then receded.

  The scent, no, the taste, of tobacco pushed up and out of the photo, and the dark moved beyond the edge, disappearing from sight. Alison let out a gasp.

  “Alison? Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine, Mom. I’m going to go and take a nap now. I’m tired. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Alison disconnected the call without saying goodbye. The shadow retreated back into the picture, but the smell of tobacco lingered. The music note intoned, low and melancholy. An arm lifted, one sepia-toned finger curled in, out, in. Beckoning. A cold chill ran down her spine.

  Don’t you dare chicken out now, Red said.

  Close it and forget about it, Purple said. You don’t need this.

  One more time to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. Wasn’t her imagination.

  Alison took a deep breath, lowered her hand on the album and stifled a gasp as the tiger wrapped its paws around her and pulled her down once more.

  CHAPTER 11

  As awareness returned, Alison took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. She was inside the album again and there was nothing here that could hurt her.

  She flexed her hands and rose on tiptoe. No trace of pain in her muscles. Once again, she was in the foyer. The air was cool but not quite cold; the silence, a weight. As soon as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, she headed for the door to the turret room. The closed door. She twisted the knob to no avail and pressed her ear to the door. No ticking. No whisk-whisk of a swinging pendulum.

  A giggle sounded from behind. She spun around, fingers trembling. A silvery column of dust motes, vaguely child-shaped, shimmered near the archway leading back into the foyer. Then it vanished.

  A tiny smudge on the floor was all the ghost-shape had left behind. When she stepped through the space a cold chill wrapped around her ankles, but like the motes, it, too, disappeared. She shivered. Took a step forward. Then another. Both steps were smooth and even. All the scars were in their proper places, but her walk had most definitely changed.

  “Tiger, tiger,” she murmured.

  A long ribbon of cobweb loosened from the chandelier and drifted to the floor. She craned her neck and felt the scar tissue pull, a reminder that the house’s magic extended only so far. At least while she was on the inside. One faceted crystal sparkled clean; the others remained dull behind their grey cloaks.

  The photograph had shown a long, narrow room with one window. Maybe the door would be open. The wood creaked on the third step and she jumped. Stripes were partially visible beneath the grime on the wallpaper, and she wiped a section clean with the side of her hand. The striping might have been navy blue or black, but it was impossible to tell in the murky light.

  Maybe next time, she’d bring a flashlight. She let out a quick laugh. Would the tiger let her bring something into its lair? Halfway up the stairs, she paused. On the stairs below, her shoes had left impressions, but on the stairs she’d yet to climb, the dust obscured the wood with an even, unmarked veil. No trace she’d ever been there at all.

  Her shadow on the wall waited patiently. She didn’t think the house held enough light, yet there it was. Undeniable. Wrong. Or perhaps not. The house played by its own set of rules.

  She continued up, but before she passed beyond the open railing, she cast another look toward the turret room. Until the door opened, she

  was trapped

  might as well look for the room in the picture. She tiptoed down the hallway on the second floor. No carpet cushioned her steps; each time her foot landed on the wood, a tiny sound echoed back. Four doors lined each side of the hall, directly across from each other with sconces in between; at the end of the hallway, wreathed in dark, another door. All closed.

  She stopped before the first set of doors and brushed her hand across the wall, revealing more of the same striped wallpaper, yellow splotches of age resembling sickly flowers. A long strip hung a few feet away. The smoke-darkened glass in the nearest sconce was broken, the pieces scattered on the floor below.

  The door on her right was locked, as was the door on her left. The next set of doors, the same.

  When she approached the next door on her right, a tiny sound cut through the quiet. A muffled plink, like dripping water. She leaned closer until she heard the sound again and confirmed it didn’t come from behind the door. In the center of the hallway, she stood facing the door at the end, her head cocked to one side. Waiting.

  Soft and distant voices slipped out from under the last door on the left. Alison came to a halt just short of the doorframe.

  “So lovely.”

  A man’s voice. George’s voice.

  A rustle of fabric. A footstep.

  “I only wanted to…”

  The dripping sound returned. Ignoring the desert in her mouth, Alison opened the door. The room held an old spiderweb hanging in the space between ceiling and wall in the right corner. No furniture. No bright, happy flowers bobbing in a vase. The lace curtains at the window were shreds of torn fabric. She crossed the threshold and the air became an early winter’s chill. Goosebumps rose along her left arm, her nipple pebbled hard and hurtful, and her breath turned to a frosty plume. Then the cold rushed past—through—her. She sagged back against the doorframe. Neither footprint nor streak marred the floor. The tiny sound of dripping water had gone away with the

  ghosts

  voices. Beyond the tattered lace at the window, grey mist swirled. Beyond that, formless white.

  A flurry of movement flashed past and she spun around, hands to her throat. The room was still empty, the floor marked by only her footprints. Dark spots speckled the wallpaper to the left of the door. The air pressure changed, her chest tightened, and a shadow flickered across the wall. She blinked. Tipped her head. Shapes swam into view, transparent suggestions of a daybed and tall wardrobe, but when she blinked, the illusion vanished and the moving silhouette was closer now.

  Purple spirals wound their way around her core. The shadow came closer still, and fingers of cold brushed against her cheek. She smelled pipe tobacco, thick enough to taste.

  A voice said, “Alison.”

  She bolted from the room, feet heavy on the wood, and cold caressed her shoulder and cheek, but once in the hallway, both the cold and the smell
of smoke disappeared. She bent, hands on her knees, breathing hard.

  I want to go home.

  Home, with real light and real warmth and real—

  Scars? Red cut in. Sure, go home and wallow in your self-pity and your ugly. Nothing happened.

  “Leave me alone,” she said, turning toward the stairs.

  Look and see. There’s nothing there.

  She paused and gave the room one last look. Darkness and old walls. No smoke. No voices. Wrapping her arms around herself, she left the hallway behind and stood at the stairs.

  Go down, go down, Purple urged.

  Tiny footsteps pattered overhead and a soft giggle wound its way down the staircase. When Alison’s feet met the third floor landing, she heard the giggle again, hidden behind a hand or a door.

  The first door on the right, the first door on her left, and the second door on her right were all closed. She stepped deeper into the gloom. Another shadow, this one small and narrow, flitted across the wall on her right, swept along the floor in a puddle of dark up to the wall on her left, and stopped there, staining the wallpaper with its presence. It shimmered and separated from the wall, forming into the shape of a child with shoulders and head down, translucent grey and featureless, save for a deeper shading that suggested eyes, nose, and mouth.

  “Please don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you,” Alison said.

  The ghost held out one unsubstantial hand. Alison took a step, close enough now to feel the air change to cold. She held out her own hand. A girl’s face came out of the grey, as though she were emerging from a waterfall. Wide-set dark eyes, elfin nose and chin, round cheeks, a tiny rosebud mouth. The girl from the photograph.

  “Are you Mary?”

  The girl nodded. Her face held no fear, no revulsion, only curiosity. Heavy footsteps sounded in the distance, panicked steps running across wood, thumping down stairs. Voices called out. The ghost’s eyes widened, her hand retracted, and she spun around, her features blurring back to grey. She melted back onto the wall, and then she was gone.