by Matthew Fish
“I can tell,” Emma says as she looks about the different pieces of art. Every piece is very well defined in striking colors that one would not expect to be used. All of the jewelry contains colorful glass squares and intricate designs. “I mean that… in the best way possible. This is amazing really.”
“Corbeau is a very dark green—at least it was. It’s not really used anymore.”
“I really like this,” Emma says as she finds a brilliant yellow swirling design that resembles the sun on a length of black leather loop with a magnetic clasp. “I mean I know someone who would really appreciate this.”
“I’m asking twenty for it—it’s negotiable.”
“Twenty is more than fine,” Emma says as she gets into her purse and pulls out a small wad of cash. She then sees a darker painting that sits among the more light colored ones—it is of a girl wearing a familiar white dress sitting at the edge of a bed. She looks sad; the room is dark save for a single window that illuminates her brilliant white wings. “…how much for that painting as well?”
“I could go eighty?” Justine asks meekly. “If that’s not too much…?”
“Is there a story behind it?”
“Hmm…” Justine says as she eyes the painting. “I used to be—well still am… I suffered a lot from depression and I painted this one day as a way to make me feel better. One day though I gave up painting and I ended up burning the original… all of my original paintings. I’m doing better, much better, and these days so I paint more colorful things—this one though, just kind of came back into my mind and I put it back onto canvas.”
“I’ll give you two-hundred for it and the necklace.”
“That’s too much,” Justine protested.
“Don’t sell yourself short—take it from someone who has gone through…is going through a very similar journey to your own.”
“Thank you,” Justine says as she pulled the painting from the wall and handed it to Emma.
“Charlotte’s Feathers,” Emma says as she reads the title of the painting from the back.
“She looks like a Charlotte.”
“My room is lacking of any art—in a fit similar to yours I tore down all of my pictures. I don’t remember it too well,” Emma admits as she takes the painting and carefully places it beneath her arm.”
“I have a box for the necklace,” Justine says a she roots through a box behind the counter. “Here it is.”
“Thank you,” Emma says as she takes the boxed necklace in her free hand.
“No really, thank you,” Justine says with a smile. “If you need any more art you know where to find me—although I might not be here. The weather is supposed to get crazy hot after this storm passes. They say in a few days we will be well over a hundred degrees. Really unusual given our location…”
“Yeah…” Emma whispers in a half awake state as the realization washes over her that she is the cause. Hearing it from someone else—that this heat, obviously from the sun coming nearer to Earth was entirely her doing, made it all seem suddenly more real.
“….you alright there?”
“Of course,” Emma says as she nodded.
“Here’s my card,” Justine says as she hands a light blue business card to Emma and slides it between her fingers and the jewelry box. “I live in an apartment close to here—so if you need any more art, or need someone to talk to about the journey…you’ll know where to find me.
“Thank you so much,” Emma says as she nods once more. “I’ll definitely try and be in touch.”
“Have a good one—better get to your car before the rain does.”
“Of course,” Emma says as she attempts to smile as she heads out the door.
Emma makes it to her car and loads up the back just in time—a cascade of large raindrops fill the sky as the smell of rain overtakes the humid air. Emma rushes to the driver’s side door—feebly attempting to shield her body from the rain with outstretched hands. She pauses for a split second to look to the pier—it is empty. She climbs into her car. The sound of the rain against her roof is loud and constant, like a frantic drumbeat.
Emma takes out her phone; she uses a dry spot on her soft grey shirt to wipe away the moisture from her screen as she types in Justine’s contact info. Three contacts in one day—despite the fact that one of them is her therapist, she still considers it a success. There was a familiarity to Justine…not in the same way as Elizabeth or Hope, but still—Justine was someone that reminded Emma of herself…both her old self, and her new self, a kindred spirit… so to speak. Even if she was a bit odd and quirky with her love of colors, she was definitely talented.
*
Emma pulls the car as close to the door as she can manage without risking damage to either the porch or the vehicle. She tucks the painting beneath her shirt, thankful that she wore an abnormally large one this day. The sky is completely black overhead and the sound of thunder shakes the ground beneath her feet like an earthquake as she makes a mad rush for the door. She fumbles for a second with her keys and throws the door open, nearly stumbling upon the slick surface of the hardwood floors. Luckily, she did not fall—there was no Elizabeth to catch her if she did so this time.
“Anyone home…?” Emma loudly shouts. No reply is offered. “Well was worth a try…”
Emma sets the painting down at the edge of the spiral staircase and heads to the kitchen. She finds a folded note on the table that bears her name upon it.
“What’s this now?” Emma says aloud to herself.
‘Dinner is in the fridge—Elizabeth.”
“You’re kidding right?”
Emma opens up the fridge to find a Tupperware container full of lasagna. Emma did not even realize she had the materials necessary to create such a meal. A single yellow sticky-note reads ‘2 minutes, microwave.’
Emma laughs as she does as the note instructs. She sets the jewelry box on the table and patiently waits by the microwave for the food to cook—she is rather hungry after all. A moment of sadness takes over as she realizes that her mother is not there to yell at her for standing so close to the microwave. Her mother used to believe that it caused cancer—Emma would do it anyway. It seems rather trivial now. However, it did not mean she misses those moments any less.
Emma eats her meal accompanied only by the sound of the falling rain hitting heavily against the windows and the occasional low rumble of thunder. The lasagna is cooked perfectly, soft noodles, not too sweet. It is almost as though Elizabeth knows exactly what Emma wants—then again, in a way, Elizabeth is Emma. Emma attempts to wrap her mind around that concept as she places the plastic container into the sink and runs some water into the bowl so that it does not stain red. She comes to the conclusion that there is no way that these other versions of her are not real. Despite the fact that Justine from the shop did not see Hope or that Brian Metcalfe did not see the other one—they still are capable of doing things like cooking meals and interacting with her. If it they were mere hallucinations then they would probably be not able to touch her or interact with her, they would definitely not be able to cook for her. At least, Emma figures that is how it has to work. She is no professional psychologist though, hardly even an amateur one. It comes to Emma’s mind that she should perhaps mention these others; however, she does not know how Dr. Riley would respond to something that even Emma, herself, thinks mad.
After dinner, armed with a hammer and a nail, Emma walks the painting of the woman up to her room and finds a spot beside her bed. She strikes the large nail into the wall with a few well placed hits. Emma pulls down against the nail to ensure that it is secure. She then runs the wire on the back until it rests against the center. Emma nods with a sense of accomplishment as she steps back and admires the painting. For a moment her mind flashes to a memory of a wall full of photos—a familiar face appears in most of them, that young man, Aaron Chase. Though the memory is old, it still instills in her heart a large fleeting feeling of loss. She turns to face the photo on the d
resser. She wonders how this one survived when so many of the others did not. The memory of photographs burning in a metal drum invades her mind as though it has come to answer her question.
In an attempt to place her mind somewhere else, Emma pulls out her cell and begins to thumb through the three contacts she has added. She stops on Ethan, she hesitates for a moment, it is a little past eight. She wonders if he would come and check on the wall if she called. Her finger hovers over the call button. She sits down at the edge of her bed. With a heavy sigh she realizes that she is being silly and finally hits the button.
After a few rings the Ethan answers, “Hello?”
“Hi,” Emma fumbles as though she is unable to keep words from stumbling out of her mouth. “I was wondering if you were busy. I thought if you had some time tonight you could help me with that wall I wanted knocked down.”
“Is this…” Ethan replies, sounding slightly confused. “Emma?”
“Yes,” Emma replies as she places her free hand against her forehead and slaps herself a few times lightly. “I’m sorry—I just assumed. I can pay. I mean, if you can help me out.”
“I’m pretty sure I can at least take a look at any renovations that you want to do,” Ethan replies.
“Tonight…?”
“Yeah,” Ethan says as though that was implied. “I have to be up early, but I can at least give you an estimate.”
“Do you have the address?”
“Still in that large house surrounded by trees on Old Pine Hollow Road, right?”
“That would be it.”
“I can be there in about, twenty minutes.”
“That would be perfect,” Emma says as she abruptly hangs up the phone. She then realizes that it would have been more formal, or less rude, to have said goodbye. Then again, she remembers that she is still somewhat new to this—she only hopes that Ethan realizes that as well and that she meant no disrespect. Her mind begins to over-analyze the situation. Will he think she is some kind of crazy person? Does he already? She meant to correct him that it would not be a renovation, that it would be more of a deconstruction.
Emma rushes to the bathroom and washes her face. She checks herself over and fixes her hair a bit. She looks at the long worn grey gym shirt in disgust and hurries to her attic room and changes into a slimmer pink t-shirt with a yellow sunflower emblem on it.
Emma hesitates as a knock comes upon her front door. She knows who it is. Still, there is that moment of uncertainty. After all, Ethan was kind of a stranger. A second knock comes as Emma realizes that it is still raining. She opens up the door and allows Ethan in.
“Sorry about the rain,” Emma says as she shuts the door behind Ethan.
“If you’re in control of it,” Ethan begins with a laugh, “we could really use more of it this summer. My lawn has been dead for weeks.”
“I’m not,” Emma says flatly and ends up instantly regretting it. It is not that she did missed the joke, it was just her awkwardness getting in the way again. “I mean, I hear it is going to get worse this year.”
“All hundreds for the next week, maybe even on after that.”
“Or hotter,” Emma slips, however, it goes unnoticed.
“Let’s hope not,” Ethan says as he wipes his black boots against the doormat. “So what kind of work are you looking at doing here—which one of these walls are you hoping to knock out?”
“Do you have a sledgehammer?”
“Well in the truck,” Ethan says as he looks curiously at Emma as though he does not quite understand. “But we can’t just go knocking down a wall. There is a lot of logistics going on, I mean you knock down the wrong wall and it can weaken the foundation of the home.”
“Can you get it?” Emma asks as she ignores the last bit of what Ethan has said. “It’s more for something in the basement.”
“I can get it,” Ethan says as he nods. He looks even more confused, but he nods none-the-less.
“Okay,” Emma says as she stands by the door.
“Right now…?”
“If you would that would be great,” Emma says as she opens the door.
“I will be right back then,” Ethan says as he heads off into the rain and darkness. Another loud crash of thunder resounds as the sky is filled with purple streaks of lightening.
Ethan runs back into the house, a large red handled sledgehammer in hand. He shuts the door behind him and rubs his black boots against the dirty doormat once more. “Okay so basement?”
Emma leads the way through the kitchen and to the stairwell. She pauses as she places her hand on the door. She swallows hard and opens up the door with a large amount of trepidation. “Could you go down first?”
“Sure,” Ethan says. “Don’t like basements?”
“Never been found of them,” Emma replies as she follows Ethan down each step.
“I don’t do a lot of basement work,” Ethan admits. “Mostly I replace cabinets, or countertops—I do some bathroom remodeling. I’ve installed carpets…tore out old carpets and worked on hardwood floors.”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” Emma says, not really knowing what to say or how to interact in a more proper manner.
“Learned a lot of it from my dad,” Ethan says as he leads the way. “I think he did some of the work on this house a little over a decade ago—for your mom. He used to work in home improvement as well before he injured his back and now he sells insurance…just straight ahead?”
“Yes,” Emma says as she looks to the creepy room with the stone slab. Her mind flashes her false images of animals being slaughters once more, the blood dripping down from the table and flowing into the drain to be carried away. “What work did your dad do on this house?”
“I believe he totally redid a green house on the property or something like that,” Ethan says as he continues onward. “It’s like a little maze in here with all these different rooms and twists and turns. I couldn’t imagine growing up here. I think it would bother me as well.”
As they reach the far wall at the very edge of the long basement. Emma points to the wall with the rude chalk drawing of the sun upon it. “You see the marks?”
“The marks…?”
“The sun mark here?”
“Oh,” Ethan says as he places his hand against the rough brick wall. “I can kind of see how it looks like a sun.”
All at once, Emma realizes that Ethan cannot see the chalk drawing—perhaps he is just humoring her, she realizes how crazy the statement must seem to him as an outsider. “Yeah, I mean how it looks different here—the bricks don’t quite match and they’re a slightly different color.”
“I do see that,” Ethan says as he nods. “I’m surprised you noticed—you’ve got a good eye. You think there is something behind it?”
“It’s hollow,” Emma replies as she points out a chip in the brick. “I hit it here and it echoed.”
“It could be nothing,” Ethan says as he raises the tip of his sledgehammer and softly strikes it against the brick. “I’d hate to make a mess—but I could understand the curiosity.”
“You have my complete permission to make a mess.”
“Well, let’s just make sure,” Ethan says as he places an ear against the wall. He gestures to Emma who places her head against the wall. Ethan raises the tip of the sledge hammer once more and strikes it a bit harder this time. The sound of the strike echoes as though some kind of room or hallway exists behind the bricked wall. “Did you hear it?”
“I did,” Emma says with a slight tremble of fear in her voice. That creeping thought that a blackened hallway, hands outstretched and reaching for her from the walls, lays waiting for her beyond.
“I’m curious now as well,” Ethan says as he reaches into his cargo pants and pulls out a pair of protective goggles and places them over his bright green eyes. “Go ahead and step back a good distance for me, alright?”
“Alright,” Emma says as she backs away to the far end of the room.
“Cover your
eyes with your shoulders, like this,” Ethan says as he places his shoulders out before him and buries his hands against his sleeves. “I’ll let you know when I am through, just stay like that until then, alright?”
“Alright,” Emma repeats once more as she does as she is instructed.
Emma flinches as each loud thud of the sledgehammer resounds through the basement. With each strike she can hear crushing away of brick as they fall to the floor and scatter and fracture like broken glass. A few more strikes follow, and then all is finally quiet.
“We’re through,” Ethan says as he wipes away some dust from his face with his sleeve and sets the sledgehammer against the wall. “This is interesting…”
Emma inches her way closer to the opening as though she has lead feet. As she gets a view of what lies beyond, terror fills her heart. She muffles a slight scream of terror that comes out as a strange cross between a squeak and a cough.
“Something wrong Emma?” Ethan asks as reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small LED flashlight.
“It’s a hallway,” Emma says as she attempts to keep her voice from trembling as much as her hands are. Before her, stretching on for what seems like forever is a dark, damp, hallway. It is similar to the hallways of her recurrent nightmares—similar enough to make her want to run away screaming. However, she does not.
“Looks like it goes on for quite a ways,” Ethan says as he shines the light down the hallway.
The light does provide a tiny bit of relief for Emma. There are no tortured souls, or hands outstretched waiting to grab her. Instead a cinnabar colored brick hallway leads into the darkness. Water droplets drip from cracks in the concrete ceiling as tiny pools of water form on the rough concrete floor.
“Let’s check it out then,” Ethan says as he heads into the newly discovered hallway.
“Sure,” Emma says hesitantly. She would rather not.
The hallway smells musty and old. The bricks look aged, cracked and broken in places. Emma and Ethan walk down a fair distance before the hallway splits into an intersection with two possible ways to go.
