Touch Me in the Dark

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “We’re not, exactly,” Pete said. “Not Jody’s cousins, anyway. My wife is related to Ian through his grandfather. In any case, after I retired, Bella and I decided to pursue our interest in the occult. That’s why we moved in here. There’s supposed to be a ghost, you know.”

  “There are matters yet to be brought into the light,” Bella murmured with a perfumed wave of her hand. “We seek to understand and therefore to heal.”

  Members of Bradley’s family had moved into this house. The scenario got more and more bizarre, Sharon thought. However, from the way Greg was hugging his gift, she decided against declining outright.

  “How kind of you to think of us,” she said, drawing him away. “Nice to meet you both.”

  “We’ll be seeing you soon,” Bella intoned as if revealing some profound truth.

  “I expect so,” Sharon returned dryly. “Since we live down the hall.”

  “They’re awesome!” Greg announced as they retreated toward their apartment. “Can she really tell the future?”

  “Nobody can tell the future,” Sharon said as they passed Ian’s door. “But it’s fun to pretend.” She unlocked their apartment and checked the rooms before letting Greg inside, just in case the face they’d seen had belonged to a real person. As far as she could tell, however, the place lay empty and undisturbed.

  The front room looked even smaller now that they’d placed their television set on the stand. Still, although she hadn’t had time to decorate properly, the apartment felt more like home with a few impromptu touches she’d added—a crocheted comforter tossed across the sofa and, directly above, a photograph of Greg and Jim at Niagara Falls.

  Right now, upstate New York felt very far away.

  Greg let the balloon float to the ceiling as he opened his box on the couch. With a few moments’ tugging, he pulled out a rectangular game board and a flat plastic heart set on three legs. “Where’s the rest? Do you think the other pieces fell out?”

  “I suspect that’s all there is.” Sharon examined the board. At the top lay the words Yes and No, and the alphabet curved across the center. Below that came the numbers 0 through 9, and the word Goodbye.

  Four drawings decorated the corners—the sun in the upper left, the moon at right, and, in the lower corners, identical but reversed images of a woman touching a plastic heart while a disembodied head floated above her.

  Sharon found the directions on the back of the box. “We’re supposed to rest our fingers on the heart-shaped thing—it’s called a planchette—and ask a question. Supposedly it will move to the letters and spell out the answer.”

  “Oh, yeah? How?”

  She shrugged. “Honey, I don’t know. The Gaskells are nice people but this does seem silly. Maybe we should give it back. I don’t think Daddy would have approved of this toy.”

  Greg considered the comment thoughtfully. Even at age seven, he liked to figure things out for himself. Although he solicited input, once he made up his mind he was difficult to dissuade, and Sharon saw from the determined set of his jaw that he’d made up his mind about the Ouija.

  “I’m tired of my other games. I played them in the car all the way here.” Greg lifted the board onto his lap. “Let’s try.”

  She yielded to the inevitable. “Why not?” Without the Gaskells around, she didn’t see how a sheet of hardboard and a few bits of plastic could do any harm.

  Sharon sat down and they balanced the board between them. As she draped her fingers onto the plastic, she felt a slight vibration. Probably from Greg, who wiggled on the couch impatiently. “What do you want to ask?”

  “I know!” He addressed the board. “Who did we see in Mom’s window?”

  Sharon caught her breath. She wished he hadn’t asked that. Not that she believed the Ouija would answer, but the question seemed ill-advised.

  Her gaze fell on her son’s hand, and she noticed the bandage had come off. Friday night’s wound appeared firmly knitted and she decided Ian had been right. It would leave little scar, if any.

  Seconds ticked by. In the quiet, Sharon heard the murmur of a recorded piano concerto across the hall. Ian must be home.

  A board creaked in the attic. Just the normal sounds of a house settling, she told herself, annoyed by her instinctive sense of apprehension. What about this house made it seem filled with menace?

  Her mind flicked over the events of the past two nights. Arriving in a rainstorm had set an ominous tone, which hadn’t been improved by Ian’s eerie paintings. The incident involving the widow’s walk had been genuinely frightening, although at least there was a down-to-earth explanation— structural weakness. The bizarre part was her startling resemblance to the murdered woman and her discovery of a connection between them.

  As she waited for the Ouija to do whatever it was going to do, Sharon realized she was gazing at the painting of the woman in a field, the woman with red hair and an earlobe like her own. It bore Ian’s signature. Why was he obsessed with his grandmother? Did his fascination have anything to do with the fact that he himself was a dead ringer for Bradley?

  Her son’s disgusted voice interrupted her musings. “Aw, it doesn’t work.” Greg glared at the plastic wedge.

  Sharon wanted to push the thing aside and return it to the Gaskells. But she knew Greg’s curiosity hadn’t really been satisfied and he would want to try again if they quit too soon.

  “Let’s sit here for a while,” she said. “I don’t think anything’s going to happen, but let’s make sure. Like a scientific experiment.”

  Greg left his fingers in place.

  Sharon felt a vibration again in her wrists, as if energy were pulsing from the wedge. She was about to tell Greg to keep still, when she saw that he wasn’t wiggling. He was peering intently at the planchette.

  It jerked an inch to the right.

  “You moved it!” Greg said.

  “No. At least, not that I’m aware of.” Sharon supposed her muscles might have given a twitch after remaining immobile for so long.

  He craned his neck, trying to see beneath the flat surface of the heart. “Maybe there’s a battery.”

  The wedge swung several inches further right, so sharply that Greg nearly lost touch with it. Muscles tightened at the base of Sharon’s skull. “Did you do that?” She heard the feigned note of lightness in her voice.

  He didn’t reply. In his excitement, Greg focused entirely on the board. “Come on, Ouija, answer my question! Who did we see in Mom’s window?”

  The heart veered to the left and stopped on the letter B.

  “It’s answering!” Greg started to give a bounce but stopped himself in time to avoid jolting the board.

  “B for—“ The word that popped into Sharon’s mind was bogeyman, and she didn’t want to say that.

  The heart eased down, pausing on the letter R.

  “The Ouija’s talking to us!” Greg couldn’t tear his eyes away. “How can it?”

  “Some kind of magnetism, I guess.” Sharon wondered what word began with BR. Brother. Brooding. Brainstorm.

  The next letter was an A.

  “Branch!” she said. “Honey, it’s spelling out the word ‘branch.’ What we saw was a reflection of the tree!”

  “But how does the Ouija know that?”

  Sharon searched for an explanation. “We must be moving the planchette subconsciously. I’ll close my eyes so I can’t see the letters and you do the same.”

  “Then how will we know what it spells?”

  “We’ll open them when it stops.” She closed her eyes and waited, only opening them after the planchette shifted slightly.

  D.

  “The word isn’t ‘branch,’ ” Greg said.

  Abruptly Sharon knew what the board was saying. She wanted to stop this game now. When she tried to move her fingers, however, energy radiated all the way to her elbows and she couldn’t pull away.

  The fifth letter was an L

  She and Greg stared without speaking as the plastic tab
le completed its rounds. An E. And a Y.

  It shifted to the word Goodbye.

  “That must mean we’re finished. What did it spell?” Greg hadn’t been able to put the letters together. “Mom?”

  She didn’t want to pronounce the name but her son was waiting. “Bradley.”

  “Who’s Bradley?”

  “Nobody.” Sharon thrust the board into its box. “Look, I don’t think this is a good game. If the Gaskells don’t want it back, maybe we can find a store that carries these things and exchange for something else.”

  “I guess so. I don’t know any Bradley. Except this boy who used to be in my class, but he wasn’t one of my friends.” Greg turned toward the TV. “I wonder what’s on Nickelodeon. Where’s the remote?” His small body stiffened. “M—M—Mom!”

  Across the gray screen flickered vague images that slowly coalesced into a pair of eyes. They bored across the room at Sharon. She felt locked into place as something dark and malevolent transferred itself from the screen into her mind with a rush of fury and a clench of sorrow.

  Her nostrils filled with smoke. “Mom!” Greg shouted. “Mom, the TV’s on fire!”

  She jumped up. “Go get Mrs. Fanning! No, get Ian, he’s closer!” She grabbed the crocheted comforter and beat at the flames. “Fire! Help! Fire!”

  A door slammed open across the hall. A moment later, Ian burst into the room with a fire extinguisher. He braced himself, yanked on the device and sent a spray of foam blanketing the TV, the shelves and the wall. “Are you all right?” The scar stood out on his cheek as he kicked at the stand, checking for sparks. “What the hell happened?”

  “I don’t know.” Sharon tried to put together the rapid sequence of events. “The TV must have blown a fuse. I thought I saw a face on the screen right before it happened.”

  Jody arrived a few minutes later, after Sharon phoned her. “My goodness, what is this?” Hands braced on hips, she surveyed the damage. “Was anybody hurt?”

  They all started explaining at once. By the time things got sorted out, Ian had carted the ruined TV to the trash.

  “Something must have broken inside the TV when you moved,” Jody said.

  “I’ll pay for the damage, of course.” Sharon thought unhappily of her dwindling savings.

  Her landlady waved away the offer. “I’m insured. Besides, the damage doesn’t look bad. I’m handy at touchups.”

  “We have an extra TV you can use,” Ian offered when he returned. “Belonged to a former tenant who left owing rent.”

  Greg had recovered his spirits. “That was exciting! There was a guy inside the TV set. Was that Bradley?” A peculiar look flashed across Jody’s face, so fast Sharon nearly missed it. A look of stark terror.

  “Bradley?” The landlady no longer appeared frightened, merely curious.

  “This is my fault.” Ian dusted his hands against his jeans. “I told them about my grandparents. Because of how much Sharon resembles the painting. I hope you don’t mind, Aunt Jody.”

  “That was a long time ago.” The older woman smiled reassuringly. “Of course, I noticed the resemblance. When I saw you the other night, dear, for a moment I almost felt like I had my sister back.”

  Sharon explained about the scrapbook. “We must be third or fourth cousins, something like that.”

  “Good. I like having family nearby.” Jody put one arm around Greg. “Why don’t I take my young cousin downstairs? Together we might get to the fourth level of Laser Space Attack. You’ll want to air out in here before dinner, anyway.”

  “Thanks.” Sharon yielded her son, grateful for the distraction. He seemed to have recovered from the incident, but a delayed reaction might set in. Once absorbed in a computer game, Greg would be oblivious to anything.

  “They hit it off, don’t they?” Ian said as his great-aunt departed. “Jody was always fond of kids. She used to spend hours helping me with my Legos. When I got interested in painting, she paid for my classes.” He knelt and turned over the shelf unit. The underside was streaked with black. Now that her first shock at seeing the damage had passed, Sharon felt relieved that the fire hadn’t spread.

  Then she noticed the painting above the TV stand.

  Flames had blackened the edges, licking at the woman as she ran toward the house. Scarlet splattered her cheek and ear. “The picture. Ian, it looks like she’s been stabbed.”

  He straightened. “What the hell…”

  “That’s me!” Sharon couldn’t catch her breath. Words seemed to rush out of her without conscious intent. “He meant that to be me! Bradley was in the TV set!”

  Ian caught her shoulders to steady her. “You’re upset, and no wonder. I should never have taken you upstairs Friday night.”

  “You said I should leave,” she reminded him.

  “I told you, I get carried away sometimes.” He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, his fingers warm and gentle. She felt the heat from his body envelop her. “Since my accident, I can’t always control my emotions. The first time I saw you, I got the feeling you were in danger. I was just trying to protect you.”

  There was nothing domineering about his concern. Unlike with the Gaskells, she didn’t feel as if he were trying to pressure her or rush her into becoming a friend. She simply felt safe.

  Grateful for Ian’s presence, Sharon reexamined the painting. Under close scrutiny, the red splatter looked auburn, the color of the woman’s hair. “It’s just melted paint. Because of the fire. I don’t know why I got so agitated. Honestly, this isn’t like me.”

  “You don’t need to make excuses. An experience like you just had can be traumatic.” Ian tugged her toward the hallway. “Why don’t you come to my place and get your mind off things? You can listen to my CDs and look at my etchings. If you really need a distraction, I’ll make a pass and you can slap my face. How does that sound?”

  “Promising.” Sharon laughed, trying not to show that the prospect of having Ian make a pass seemed unexpectedly pleasant. “Let me open the windows first.”

  “I’ll do it.” By creating a draft between the two bedrooms, he managed to pull some air through the stuffy middle chamber. Sharon left the door ajar.

  They entered his studio between a shabby couch and shelves jammed with books, compact discs and audiovisual equipment. The room was irregular and sprawling, as if several rooms had been patched into one. One sloped area of ceiling had been replaced by heavy glass at the exterior wall, forming a partial skylight and window overlooking the front of the house. On a sunny day, it must admit plenty of light, although she doubted brightness improved the faded beige paint or the thin, nondescript curtains. Anyone attempting to decorate this place, she decided, would do well to strip the walls and start over.

  Along one wall lay a counter, a small refrigerator and a microwave. A utilitarian desk housed a computer setup.

  To her right, in an alcove, rumpled sheets and an old comforter topped a narrow cot. On the bare wooden floor, a handful of socks formed a trail to the adjacent bathroom.

  Ian switched on the overhead lights, which were the one gleaming improvement to the old space. From an array of ceiling-mounted hoods, fluorescents bathed a pair of easels hidden beneath drop cloths that, until now, had loomed as dark silhouettes. A rough table bristled with jars, tubes and brushes. Underfoot, the canvas protecting the floor was so paint-splashed it resembled a modernistic carpet. Flecks of color even speckled the sound speakers mounted on the far wall.

  The most impressive thing in the room was the man beside her. Sharon breathed in his nearness, not even trying to resist the warm sensations drifting through her.

  “Not exactly Better Homes and Gardens,” Ian said, as if trying to see the place through her eyes. “I’m a great believer in form following function.”

  “May I see your work?” She indicated the veiled easels.

  Ian frowned. “That stuff is hardly worth looking at. I’ve been trying to prepare some pieces for a show, trying out new ideas, but th
ey aren’t working.”

  He wasn’t being modest, Sharon could see. She doubted the man knew how to be either coy or boastful.

  “I can understand if having someone see your work in progress is uncomfortable,” she said. “Sometimes things don’t measure up to the way we imagine them.”

  He swung toward her, a spark of appreciation in his dark eyes. “You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.”

  “Very limited experience,” she admitted. “I do some crafts and a little decorating, just to please myself, but I like to get things right. And I know what my sister goes through when she writes songs. I grew up hearing her curse at the piano as if it were personally scheming to frustrate her.”

  A short nod must have indicated that she’d won Ian’s approval, because he crossed the room and pulled the drape off one easel.

  The picture showed a woman and girl feeding a squirrel. All three figures seemed trapped in a series of dark, interlocking geometric shapes that suggested shadows. The piece was eye-catching but failed to come to life. “It seems…opaque,” Sharon said, wondering how he would react to even the most oblique criticism.

  There was no flare of ego or artistic temperament. “You’re right. I can’t get beneath the surface.” He replaced the cloth. “Jane—the gallery owner I work with—says I’m in a rut. I keep painting the same images, the same people, the same settings as if I need to work them out of my system. This theme is getting old, but when I try anything else, my work goes flat.”

  She gestured toward the other easel. “May I see this one?”

  Ian hesitated. “I’m not sure. I don’t want to generate any expectations.”

  “Excuse me?” Seeing that he wasn’t about to clarify his point, Sharon took a guess. “You mean you like it but you’re not sure anyone else will?”

  A smile flashed across his angular face. Sharon’s palm curved, and she realized she was fighting the impulse to touch him.

  “Bingo,” Ian said. “It sort of created itself. Well, here goes.”

  He unclothed a canvas roughed out with curving shapes that might have been muscled bodies locked in combat or a man and woman making savage love. “This just came to me. I mean, I was fully conscious—did Jody tell you I have seizures?—but at the same time, it simply flowed out of me.”