by Jacquie Gee
“Did you feel that?” Anna turns.
“Feel what?” I play along.
Her eyes bump, then she inclines her head as if to say ‘Nothing’ and busies herself checking her nails, trying to look relaxed. She’s given up on the sales pitch and has left me to explore the house alone, while she waits safely next to the open door.
“The air does feel a bit chilly in here.” I give in.
Anna instinctively rubs her arms. "The heat's not on if that's what you mean." Great realtor comeback. "Won't be turned back on until a new owner takes possession,” she states loudly, authoritatively like she’s trying to convince herself of the fact, along with me—and anyone else who might be listening.
“I see.” I tap a wall and chuckle when she jumps.
The wall taps back.
Anna gulps. “Did you—”
“Just hear that? Yep.” I nod, smiling, as I venture deeper into the dwelling.
A distinct thumping sound travels throughout the house, in a distinct circular motion all around us, then it shoots up and down inside the walls from the attic to basement in one quick movement.
"Pipes," Anna offers squeakily, her eyes wide as saucers. "They're original to the house. Though I'm told, they won't be that costly to replace."
The house responds by moaning and tapping again as if admonishing her for her lie.
“Right.” I move from the kitchen back toward the central staircase. The floors groan beneath my feet.
“That’s common in a house of this age.” Anna darts after me, visibly nervous now, her proximity clinging. “The floorboards are old and…” Her step staggers. She sticks in place.
She raises a trembling hand to her heart and struggles to catch her breath, her eyes bugging.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” I say.
“I feel something.”
“What?”
“A hand.”
“Where?”
“On… my ass.” She swallows.
“Is it still there?”
“I think so,” she says.
“Cheeky little bugger, isn’t he?” I shift, trying to spot an aura floating around her, but I see nothing.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“Quite,” she squeaks.
A trill of laughter pours through the house and both our chins snap up. Finally freed, Anna scuttles toward me.
“Edgar,” I say.
“What?”
“It has to be Edgar Locklear.” I look up.
“So you know?” Anna’s gaze flashes.
“Of course I know. Everyone knows. It’s all over the internet.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” Anna lowers her head. “So, you’ve known the truth all along, and yet you still wanted to view it?”
“Yep.” I mount the stairs.
She stares at me, perplexed like I'm suddenly a possessed spirit myself. “Why?” she asks, her voice fluttery and high. “What are you, some sort of medium or something?” Her voice cracks.
“You might say that.” I venture on, climbing the stairs cautiously, one at a time.
“You’re not one of them, are you?” Anna swallows, her voice shaking now.
“One of who?”
“A ghost.”
“Right?” I splash her with a cold look over my shoulder.
“Just checking.” Anna gasps. “Do you want me to come up there?”
“No. You can hold the fort from there.”
“Affirmative.” She wrings her hands. “I don’t think you should do that!” she calls out to me as I throw back a door.
“Why not? I have to see the place if I’m gonna buy it.”
Her eyes flash saucer-large.
“Jayden?” she calls, as the room darkens. “Look!” She points above my head.
I track her gaze, to find a green glowing entity drifting just below the high ceiling, a shuddering cloud of hissing mist-like steam. It appears to be quite pissed to see me.
Oh, shite, what now?
“Look out!” Anna shouts as it swoops, taking a dive at my head, whisking past my left ear, nearly clipping it from my head, and letting out a sanctimonious moan. I whirl around, racing ahead of it down the stairs, my feet thundering loud.
“Come on!” I grab for Anna as it chases me, engulfing my head inside a harrowing howl.
Anna throws away my hand and races for the door. It slams just as she’s about to reach it. A bolt lock drops with a threatening clunk. “You can’t be serious!” Anna shouts.
She grabs the handle and yanks it hard, but it won’t turn in either direction. I reach the door and shove her out of the way, reefing back on the door myself.
The entity swirls around my head again, screaming in my ears. I throw my hands to them to block the sound and stumble wildly back, slamming into the paneled walls, knocking a portrait to the floor from the floor above. It sails the length of two stories and crashes at my feet. The frame splinters but the painting survives. It's a portrait done in oil, dark, dusty and worn, but the image is unmistakably… him.
The etched brass plate screwed to what’s left of the frame reads:
Sir Edgar Locklear, 1843.
It’s him. I gasp. The man of my visions.
I’ve finally found him!
The entity soars past me again, letting out a guttural growl, and I launch again toward the door. This time, when my hands reach the handle the door springs open. I grab for Anna and barrel over the threshold, and race for the safety of her jeep.
“So, that’s it then!” she shouts on the fly, her stilettos thwacking in and out of the ground, as we race for the safety of her jeep. “I suppose I’ll be finding you something else!”
“Are you kidding?” I skid to a stop, throwing open the doors. “It’s perfect. I’ll take it!”
Chapter 11
Jules
I hear Collette before she even reaches the stairs. Her voice travels like a scythe through the serene closed-for-the-day atmosphere of the store. She makes an entrance, bells tinkling, door squelching, heels clacking over the hardwood floor. I can almost hear her gum snapping all the way up in the attic. I stuff my ears buds in to drown out the sound of her and Dad's conversation floating up from below, in low, muffled whispers, and broken by jags of Collette's high-pitched hoity laughter. I can't bear to ingest the nitty-gritty details of her upcoming nuptials, yet again.
Once was enough.
Not to mention the fact she intends to employ my Dad as her slave. That groom has no idea what’s gonna hit him.
I fantasize for a moment about my wedding. A warm summer's day, a gentle breeze blowing in off the bay, twisting up the river, playfully tussling the end of my veil. I lean on the railing of the bridge waiting for my groom to join me, a photographer busy snapping gorgeous pictures of me, the bridge in the background. My dress is, of course, absolutely stunning, made of the highest quality fabrics and trimmed in authentic jewels, designed to accentuate my every curve. A Jules Bates original. It's edgy, but at the same time breathtakingly beautiful. I can see it all, except for the groom.
Every time I envision the day, there's a groom in sight, but I can't quite make out his face. It's backlit by the sun, his features blurred.
I find that rather disturbing.
I shake off the thought, returning to reality, and envisioning how Collette and lucky Ship might have met. Likely, about three days ago in some bar, up in Fredericton. She was drunk enough to ride the mechanical bull—which went out with the nineties, but the bar still has one—and he was there to catch her when she fell off, all sloppy and giggling. A few nights of wild sex later, he realizes who her daddy is, and voila, there's a proposal. Number three hundred twenty-four.
Jealous much? I ask myself in the mirror.
I shouldn’t be so mean. But honestly, I’m surprised it’s gotten this far with this one. All the rest had the good sense to run.
I'm struck by that pang of guilt again. I'm being a cat, and I know it. Collette's not that b
ad. If you like a viper in your bed.
Oh, goodness, I can’t seem to stop this.
I push the earbuds further into my ears, hating the defeatist tone of my father's voice, rumbling as he answers her questions downstairs. He and the Van Bommels go way back. Collette’s grandfather was instrumental in lobbying for the highway project that ultimately drove business away from Heartland.
That’s when the Van Bommels came into all their money. It was like a bloody windfall. The grandfather did odd road repairs, tar work, and cement. The family was barely getting by until the Department of Highways came knocking and awarded them their bread and butter contract for road repair for the next fifty years.
That contract got passed down to Collette’s daddy when her old grandpa died. A family business with guaranteed income for life. While my father’s business, and everyone else's in the Cove's proceeded to die slow painful deaths.
They had to stand by, watching as the Van Bommels got richer and richer, their business revenues shriveling up like the rotting fruit on a withering vine, as Heartland slowly spiraled off the tourist map.
Dad never liked the grandfather much, but he really dislikes Collette’s dad. I can almost feel him pressing his tongue into his cheek as she prattles on.
It’s one thing to come into money, and another to flaunt it, he used to warn.
I snap off the tip of the pencil that I’m sketching with just thinking about old man Charlie Van Bommel’s ungrateful offspring down there making her demands.
The mumble of small talk finally ends, replaced by the clatter of heels against staircase treads, and I know it’s my turn to stuff my tongue in my cheek.
I brace myself for the inevitable entrance.
“What the—” I hear Collette complain, as she makes her way up the spiral staircase toward the top, stopping intermittently to adjust her footing. I can almost see her hands desperately clutching the handrail, knuckles turning white.
The metal staircase is narrow, with treads growing shallower and shorter as you climb. The lighting doesn't help much either. It becomes increasingly dimmer the higher you go.
“Oh, my, amah!—” She sucks in air so quick and sharp, she hiccups. Her hands grip the rails, causing them to ring.
Honestly, I’ve never heard anyone make such a fuss. It’s only a staircase, for goodness sakes.
“Good Lord!” She thrashes, her nails scratching the beadboard walls as she steadies herself. I think she almost toppled backward.
“Jules? Jules, are you there?”
I could open the door and offer her more light, but this is far too entertaining.
“Oh, my… eew!” Collette squeals. I hear the whipping thrash of flailing arms fly up over her head.
Spider.
They're everywhere up here. Can't really keep up to them. Personally, I’ve given up trying.
After all, the attic is not technically part of the main living space. It used to be a bell tower on the top of the old fire hall, built back in the 1890s. When our family acquired it, my mother decided right away it would make the perfect writing studio.
So, my dad tore down the old wood ladder leading up to the open air space and erected a metal spiral staircase in its place. He then drywalled in the old railings of the lookout tower, leaving only the original four posts intact, in all four corners of the room. Then he smoothed down the walls and added lighting by installing the three reclaimed arch-topped church windows he found in the basement, which the firemen had rescued from some fire, and then left behind.
He stored the bell in the fishing and tackle shed out back and repaired the original old slate roof on top. The interior now boasts a cathedral ceiling and looks like a brightly-lit white cone, while on the outside he preserved the building's original old-world charm.
We’ve called the room the attic ever since.
Bell attic, to be specific.
When Mom was alive, this was her studio space.
And now it’s mine.
“Oh! My goodness!” More arms flailing. “Jules!" She's sounding rather desperate now.
I throw back the door to find Collette balancing precariously on the tiny tips of her stiletto heels on the narrow grate-like steps. "Oh, hey," I say
"Hey," she says, cobwebs in her hair.
"Those last few treads are super skinny, aren't they?" I smile, light flooding into the stairwell over my shoulder, illuminating a frazzled-looking, scowl-lipped Collette. The heel of one shoe is wedged in an open claw.
“Yeah.” She blinks.
“Sorry, I was, ah—” I motion backward toward my drawing, plucking the ear buds from my ears and showing them to her.
Collette’s eyes grow small and her expression smug. She’s not buying my bullshit excuse.
“Anyway, come in, won’t you?” I lean back, extending a welcoming hand into my white-walled space. Clean and free of cobwebs.
Collette steps out of her stuck heel, scrambles to the top of the stairs, then leans over and yanks it free from its captor, huffing when it gives way.
“This is nice.” Her annoyed disposition brightens, as she swings around and drinks in the place. Her dazzled eyes stretch over the details—the soaring ten-foot ceiling, the crisp white-washed walls, the gleaming honey hardwood floor.
“OoooOooo, where’d you get those?” Collette notices the long, thin, elegantly arched stained glass windows that accent three of the four walls in the room.
Two depict the scenes of commoners in worship—children and babes in arms, shepherds with sheep—and the final one, larger than the other two, boasts the archangel, wings spread wide, on starlight high, in a dark, royal blue sky.
“How beautiful.” She breathes, rising up on tippy-toe and running a careful finger over the archangel’s feet. “And the dresses aren’t bad either.” She winks. “What a great space to create things in.” She sighs whimsically as her gaze dances over the high points of the room, again. "No wonder your mother was such a genius." Her smiles fades, as her gaze falls to me. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it."
"It's all right," I say when really, it isn't. She must have been able to tell by the tension in my eyes.
Everyone in town knows this is where my mother spent her days creating words, but no one’s had the guts to mention it, since—The corners of my eyes prickle and burn with her memory. Mostly, I try not to think of the irony of the two of us creating in the same space.
“I guess talent doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Collette tries to make up for her last comment. "I mean, look at these things.” She darts toward the dresses. “They're absolutely gorgeous." She threads her fingers through the lace of one of my ultimate favorites, and my heart skips a beat.
She moves them along the re-claimed pipes I use for racks, suspended from the ceiling on large links of chain. I swallow as she grins. I need to lead her to a specific one. Can’t let her loose on the rest of these racks. “Thanks.” I smile and shoot toward her, linking arms and steering her away. “But you don’t want that one.”
“I don’t?” she says.
“No. These are far more beautiful,” I assure her, softly.
I turn and begin dragging hangers of potential dresses across a different rack, making my way to the three I'll let her consider, one in particular, all the while acting like I'm searching for just the perfect dress. My hands close over the perfect choice. The material crinkles, and swishes.
Collette joins me in the search. Rummaging through the rack at my back, the exact one I want her to look through.
“Hey, I remember this one.” She takes the bait.
I turn to find her fingering the infamous, yellowed, big banana dress. Dad was right—if I just positioned it in the middle, I’d make it look irresistible.
Her eyes light as she holds up the dress. “This is the one from the mercantile, right? The one you got that award for?”
“Um-hum.” It was only the county fair, but what does she know.
She presses the dress up to her
chest, swinging right and left. The half and half goth-cut tulle and ruffled faux satin shirt swishes over the floorboards, and my stomach bubbles up with laughter.
It was stab at a half punk, half traditional wedding dress. At the time, I thought it was all that and a plate of spaghetti, and now I think it looks ridiculous.
"This is the one that was on display that one time, right?" I'm stunned because she doesn't sound sarcastic; she's totally being sincere. She actually remembers and likes the dress.
“It’s one of the first you ever made, wasn’t it?”
It's true. It was. I nod, and Collette presses the bodice affectionately to her chest, smoothing out the sculpted bones of the nearly see-through lace corset bodice against her own. “I think it’s the perfect fit, don’t you?” She looks up, brightly.
“Yeah,” I say, swooping to flounce the skirt.
She admires the tulle on the more modern side of the ball gown, which is drawn up in the front and stuck in place by a couple of over-sized kilt pins. I remember I had to special order them, just to pull off the look. The other side is traditional satin, layer upon layer of ruffley poof.
The ripper corset bodice features an over-risqué plunging neckline, with puffed up satin, pull-on sleeves.
She draws them over her wrists and up her arms, giggling.
Though her shoulders will be bare, there’s a traditional ruffle and lace choker collar to finishes the look, complete with cameo pin.
I showed the dress worn with classic, long white, elbow-length gloves, and a pair of grungy work boots with fake daisies sprouting out of the eyeholes and holes in the toes, at the fair.
My gaze darts about the room looking for them, finding them set up in the corner.
“Here, these go with it, if you want them.” I hold them out.
“Terrific!” She snags them from me. “Can I?” she glances toward the change room, a circular hoop of white sheets, hanging from the ceiling on fishing wire.
"Of course," I say, shooting across the room, yanking the makeshift curtain back. "Let me know if you need any help." I extend a hand.
Collette dances over. “It’s weird, but I think I kind of love this thing.” She dances with the dress, spinning around and flouncing out its cheap, yellowed tulle, before disappearing into the hoop.
