The Artisans

by Julie Reece

  I lean over the bed’s edge, looking for my shoes. I’ll crush every one of the nasty things if it takes all night. The carpet’s dark. I gasp as the floor writhes with the bodies of a million insects. Brown, shiny wings flutter as they climb over one another, their tiny legs skittering against the carpet like salmon swimming upstream. “Edgar!” My voice cracks. Roaches can’t hurt him, can they? They aren’t venomous or anything, but still, there are so many. Another wave rises on the wall next to the window. How are they getting in? My breathing stalls. My lungs constrict as panic grips my chest.

  The room crawls. My skin crawls. I have to get out, get help, but I hesitate. The thought of running across a floor ankle-deep in bug guts brings a gag to my throat, even if it means freedom. I imagine the feel of their shells crunching under my bare feet, their slimy insides smearing against my skin. A wail peels from my mouth as a tickle starts on my legs beneath the covers.

  When I throw back the blankets, hundreds of brown, shiny insects shake out of my sheets. They flit across my mattress, up my legs toward my torso. I scream, jumping to my feet as the creatures continue scurrying up my body. With a leap, I’m on the floor dashing for the door.

  I can feel them now, on my neck, my back, tunneling into my hair. They bite my skin. Scratch and claw at my flesh with their spiny legs. Hysterical, I stamp my feet. My hands wave in a flurry of movement trying to brush them from my face. I squeeze my eyes shut, but their bodies burrow into the corners, which are wet with tears, or blood. With what feels like needle sticks, they gnaw at my flesh, eating, consuming. One tunnels deep into my ear canal, then another. When I shriek, more pour into my mouth.

  I vomit insects, but others press in on me, digging with their filthy legs until I’m engulfed in a sea of wiggling pestilence. I pray it’s over soon. My knees buckle, and I sink to the floor, covered in carnivores. The room spins, darkens.

  Then there’s nothing.

  Snick, snick, snick.

  Soft tapping wakes me, and I sit up in bed. A dream? I lunge for the light on my bedside table and pull the chain. A glow fills my room, and I blink to focus. I raise my arm, searching for bugs. My skin itches. I scratch everywhere. Dig and claw until I break the skin, but there’s nothing there. Edgar meows at the end of my bed, complaining as my squirming disrupts his sleep. I throw my sheets back just to assure myself the attack was a nightmare. No bugs. Not on the wall, the carpet, not a single, nasty cockroach in sight.

  “Oh, Edgar.” I bend, reaching for my beloved cat. He meows as I pull him into my arms. He hates it when I’m all needy with him but too bad. He’s all I’ve got. I’m tired of being alone and way tired of my stupid hallucinations. Okay, this was a dream, but still, it felt real enough.

  I’m sleeping with the light on.

  Gently, I ease Edgar down on the mattress and freeze. There is a noise. The sound is coming not from my room, but from the hallway outside. And it’s not a snick; it’s a tap, like the sound Edgar’s claws make when he walks across a tile floor.

  My dream provided enough drama for one night, but the sound doesn’t stop. I know myself well enough to accept that I won’t sleep until I solve the mystery … though the idea of big brown cockroaches flooding the hall does give me pause.

  Whatever. I put my big girl panties on and slip out of bed. With as much stealth as I’m capable, I tiptoe across the carpet, double back for my shoes, and then heave a breath before opening the door. My head peeps out. There’s a Tiffany-style lamp burning at the end of the hall. Jenny calls it my night-light, so I don’t kill myself if I need something after bedtime.

  A shadow moves under a long credenza with more clicking and sniffing. It’s a dog. His tail wags back and forth with his snuffling as though he’s found something of interest. Edgar growls, and I bend to gather him in my arms. I don’t need any showdowns between my cat and this mutt.

  Too late. The dog lifts his head, and I assume he’s heard Edgar. Big mouth. It’s the same black and white dog I saw outside today. Before I can get Edgar into my room, the dog bounds down the hall straight for us. He bays like a hound after a rabbit … or a cat! My heart jumps to my throat. “No! Bad dog. Down!” Poor Edgar jolts with every ear-piercing bark.

  I’m yelling, but at the same time, notice there’s definitely something off with this dog. He doesn’t look right. The white of his fur has a bluish tint, and his eyes are red. Not the red sheen from a camera flash either. They’re glowing. At the last minute he veers away from us and races down the hall, barking nonstop.

  A fine mist rolls across the floor. Appearing from nowhere, it gathers in a dense fog around my ankles. The hound brakes at the arched window near the end of the hallway and peers over his shoulder. Not at us, but to the opposite end by the stair banister. He barks, once, twice, and waits.

  As though in answer, thunder echoes overhead. Pounding and rolling, it isn’t thunder at all. It’s the hooves of a horse, and they sound like they’re in the next room. Edgar’s claws pierce the skin on my chest as he tries to free himself. Pain rips through my tearing flesh. My eyes and nose sting with unshed tears, but I won’t let him go.

  Opposite the dog, a massive head appears. A great, white stallion plows right through the wall like a vapor. He snorts and whinnies, dripping silver foam from his mouth. Riderless, the animal’s reins slap his neck as he throws his head, and paws the air. Eyes burn like red flame as he gallops over the rugs and hardwood floor after the hound.

  I feel the vibrations through my bare feet. Edgar squirms in my arms. Scratches so hard, I cry out and he breaks free. Once on the ground, his back bows. With his hair standing on end, he hisses and spits, but the other animals ignore him.

  The neck of the blue-white horse arches as he canters toward his companion. His ivory teeth are bared, ears flat against his head. My mind says move, but I’m stuck, cemented in place. When the horse hurtles past, I watch his nostrils flare, his eyes widen in terror. My blood chills, stinging my veins. The animal charges, sideswipes me. I see his skeleton glowing hot and orange under his white coat as I’m thrown to the floor. My hip and elbow crack against the wood. Stings radiate up both limbs. The stallion screams, a sound of horror, and fear, and rage that grips my senses, binding me to his torment.

  The dog jumps and barks in answer. When the stallion reaches him, they leap through the window and into the night together. No glass breaks. The animals don’t fall to their deaths. They’re ghosts I realize, more hallucinations.

  Just like Cole.

  ***

  For the next few days, I do nothing but sketch, try to stay awake, and ignore Cole as he wanders around my bedroom or shows up at the greenhouse, staring at me while I draw.

  Occasionally, he asks for help but doesn’t explain why or what he expects me to do. I guess he doesn’t expect anything seeing as how he’s a figment of my imagination. Perhaps his plea is my subconscious, warning there is something terribly wrong with my mind. Everything’s changed now that I know I’m either crazy or dying. Poor Ben, my death might finish him off, but I hold out the hope if he can get clean, he’ll survive this last shock without relapsing.

  I could make it my dying wish, but that’s pretty manipulative. I learned that word in group counseling two years ago for teens at risk. The school psychologist, and practically everyone else in Sales Hollow, knew enough about my past to recommend me for the after school program called Wholeness for Life. She made the meetings mandatory, in fact, despite my good grades.

  All I want now is to stay sane long enough to give Ben a chance to get healthy. That and to create a line of spectacular clothes as a last legacy. A tribute to my father and his talent, to my mother and her sacrifice, and Ben, who did the best he could with what he had. Pretty lofty for a Steampunk princess in a Goth dress, but oh well.

  Cole sits near the containers of dead roses. I set my sketchbook aside and rise. While I never get used to them, my hallucinations grow tiresome. I meander over to the utility sink, turn
on the faucet, and run water over my graphite-covered hands. Caught without a glass, I cup my hands under the flow and drink. My throat is dry, and my back aches from leaning over my sketchbook too long.

  My reflection in the large mirror opposite is alarming. The tone of my skin is paler than usual. I’m all sunken eyes, and severe angles, and sharp bones. Last spring, I cut my thick hair in long layers. They look great with a flat or curling iron, but not when they stick out all over my head, like they do now. Black eyeliner rings my eyes, smears where I’ve rubbed it, giving me a vampire vibe, especially over the red stain that I use on my lips. I’m a pretty girl, at least, so I’ve been told. Maybe that was true once but not anymore. The girl in the mirror is a haggard, worn shadow of someone once vibrant who’s long gone.

  Cole slides into view behind my image.

  “What do you want, ghost boy?” He doesn’t scare me anymore. I don’t know why I talk to him at all, except I’ve come to that level of acceptance with my insanity.

  “My freedom.”

  I turn and face him. Well, that’s new. He’s lost that whole, spooky talk-without-moving-his-mouth trick. “Me too.”

  Cole lifts his hand and touches my arm. There’s sensation, not as strong as an actual person’s touch, but as if someone runs a feather over my skin.

  The black and white hound from the other day jogs neatly through the wall and heels next to Cole’s leg. Cole grins revealing a pretty set of white teeth. He’s attractive. Well, if the guy were alive, and a couple of years older. “Hello Rex,” he says.

  My heart skips a beat as I scan the walls, waiting for the glowing stallion to gallop through the room. “That horse,” I ask, though I don’t know what I think Cole can do. “It’s not coming, is it?”

  Cole smiles without his pretty teeth, and shakes his head. His dark bangs fall across his forehead—downright sexy, for a ghost. The dog bumps Cole’s hand and he pats the hound’s head. When Cole raises his gaze to mine, his expression sobers. “We’re … trapped here.” He chokes and coughs. “All of us. We need your help, Raven. Please.”

  A shiver wraps me. “I don’t understand. Who is all of us?” This is as much as he’s ever spoken. Maybe my tumor is further along than I thought. The dog barks, and I jump it’s so loud. He yips again and again.

  With a sharp jut of his chin, Cole motions out the window. Shoulder to shoulder, a dozen people stand together just outside. An older man with a frosty white goatee anchors the group in the middle. I swear he’s wearing a Confederate uniform. I’ve studied fashion and uniform trends long enough to recognize the gray fabric and gold trim. To his right, another man wears a pinstripe double-breasted suit and fedora straight out of a 1940s gangster movie.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Trapped.”

  Rex, I think that’s what Cole called the dog, continues his ear-piercing barking. I back away until my butt hits the sink. “Hush, dog!”

  My throat tightens. A headache begins over my eyes and small wonder. Overwhelmed by confusion and noise, I whirl away from them, facing the mirror again. The same gaunt girl stares me down. My gaze lowers to my chest. The red furrows in my skin where Edgar scratched me are still raw and angry. The sight evokes a new thought. Edgar scratched me because the dog frightened him—a dog from my imagination that only I can see. If that’s true, how does a fictitious hound scare a cat with no brain tumor? He doesn’t.

  “You’re real?”

  Cole’s reflection isn’t there when I glance up. I spin around, searching the room for the boy or the dog, or the people outside the window. They’re gone again. Holy freaking cow …

  I don’t know what to believe.

  ***

  Two days later, as I lean over my worktable, I hear the door to my bedroom click. “Who’s there?” I call.

  Soft footfalls brush across the carpet. I tense, fearing its Gideon until Jamis rounds the corner. He’s carrying a small cardboard box that he tips slightly my direction.

  I shake the hair back from my eyes. “What’s this?”

  His brow withers into deeper wrinkles. “I believe you left a list with Jenny? I did my best to procure the items you requested, miss. Where shall I put them?”

  You did? “On the table.” He takes a step then hesitates. The table is covered with fabric and sewing crap. Jamis seems at a loss. “Anywhere is great, thanks.” The old man places the box over one of my patterns and backs away. “Shall we see what you found me?” I ease around the corner of the table and grab for the box. I’m curious as hell to know what he did with my odd shopping list.

  His watery blue eyes dart toward the exit. “Must I?”

  “I’m afraid you must.” I’m teasing now, seeing if I can break the ice a little with the stiff old geezer. I pull the flaps open and peer inside. On top sits a pair of old spectacles, underneath is a black crow feather nestled among several skeins of ribbon in blues and grays and soft browns. When I glance over, Jamis inches nearer. In spite of his protests, he leans his skinny frame over the box and peeks inside. Like a child at a friend’s birthday party, his lips purse, and I imagine he’s wondering if I am pleased with the gifts he brought. I lift the ribbon. My fingers thread through a tangle of otter brown velvet. “This is beautiful.” I swear I detect the hint of a smile. “Aren’t you going to ask why I want this stuff?”

  “I wasn’t planning to, no, miss.”

  “They’re for my inspiration board.” I can’t help my squeal as I pull a pair of leather aviator goggles from the box. “Oh my gosh!” Jamis winces. “How did you find these? They’re perfect!” I find two more pairs in the box along with a pocket watch, old wristwatch, Bakelite jewelry, lace, and rhinestones. I grab his arm, and he stiffens like a cadaver. “You did just awesome, Jamis.” He nods, eyes widening a smidge. “See, what happens now is I tack all these things up on a corkboard, over there on the wall.”

  He stares at me as though I have a rhino horn instead of a nose. “Indeed.”

  “Yeah. You know, for inspiration. And when I look at this stuff, I have a color palette and a theme. See?” He glances at the box again. When he says nothing, I add, “You’ve never heard of an inspiration board? I’ll bet you think it’s a dumb idea.”

  “Not quite, Miss Weathersby, but then, it is not I that need be inspired.”

  “Oh, come on, Jamis, we’re all motivated by something.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  With his eyes fixed squarely on his clasped hands, his silence prompts another question. “You think I’m crazy?”

  “Madness, and its varying forms, is something I’m quite accustomed to, miss.”

  I think of the house he works in, its ghosts and inhabitants, and I have to concede that one. “Truth.” I shift my weight. “Do you have a hobby, a passion, or pastime?” I don’t know why I’m trying so hard. I feel like Edgar, or any other cat I can think of, for that matter. They zero in on the one person in the room who hates them most and stare or try to sit in their lap. Or maybe I try because I miss Ben so much I can’t breathe.

  “None, miss.”

  “Reading, gardening, cooking … photography?”

  “No.” His tone is as crusty as dry toast. “Decidedly not. If the young lady needs nothing else, I have work to do.”

  My lungs deflate. Of course you do. “That’s it from me. Go.” The last word is a sigh. My gaze returns to the box and its treasures. The old guy really outdid himself. I love everything he found. “Thanks again, Jamis,” I say, without looking up.

  “Music.”

  What? “What?”

  “I prefer the cello, but the violin is pleasant also.”

  I smile and lift my head. “Vivaldi was my mother’s favorite.”

  Jamis makes a slight bow and leaves me to my sewing.

  Chapter Nine

  It’s ten o’clock in the evening on Friday night. After catching my friends up on my week, including my various nightmares, insanity, and brain
tumor theories, I sit in the kitchen with Maggie watching Dane ingest his seventh maple-walnut fudge square. His display of gluttony is as fascinating as it is disgusting, but Jenny beams, pouring him another glass of ice-cold milk.

  Staring down at her matronly black shoes, I frown. My cat is absent from his usual duty of begging while wrapping himself around her chubby ankles. That animal never misses a meal. I slough off my worry as an overprotective mother and face Maggie. “So, I’ll call you to see how I did on the test, okay?”

  She shrugs, and I watch her stifle a yawn. “Righto, but I don’t know why you’re so nervous. You ace anything having to do with poetry. It’s nauseating. The only interesting poem is one a gorgeous European guy whispers in my ear to get me hot. And it had better rhyme.”

  Dane chokes. His eyes water, and I’m waiting for milk to shoot out his nose.

  Something clatters behind us, and I twist in my chair. Jenny is fumbling with a dish in her arms, her cheeks a brighter pink than usual. “Pardon me, children. I think I left something upstairs. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Mags,” I hiss. “Cut it out. You embarrassed her.”

  She grins, tossing her hair. “Pfft. It’s good for the old girl. Besides, now that she’s gone, we can talk about whatever we want. Like when does Gideon get back into town?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.” I rarely see him. Thank all that’s good and merciful.

  “When do you visit Ben?” Dane asks, changing the subject. Maggie and I reach for the last maple square at the same time. Dane beats us both to the treat and tosses it to Mags. I huff my protest, but he only smirks at me, crossing his arms. “Oh, come on! Jenny cooks for you every day. We just eat here once a week.”

  He’s got me, there. “True enough.”