The Artisans (9 page)

Then I see him.

The boy from my room. The ghost from my nightmares. He stands next to a wooden wheel fixed between two poles, part of the machinery that ran the mill at some point. Cole, I think that’s what Jenny called him. He isn’t blue, just pale as paper. And though I know he must be dead, he looks real enough. Solid. Not all shimmery and see-through like the ghosts in a movie.

My glance shifts to the door and back. I should probably run, but my feet are cement blocks. Fear sends prickles up the back of my neck. Adrenalin lights the veins in my arms on fire. Screaming won’t help. Even if I could unlock my jaw to do that, no one would hear me out here.

Help me
…

He’s English, or the accent is. I didn’t notice it the first time he spoke.

Can ghosts really kill people? Or do they just follow you around until your brain melts down, and psychiatrists put you in a rubber room with coloring books and crayons. “Are you real?” I’m an idiot. Trying to communicate with my own hallucination must mean something in the world of shrinks, right? Psychosis, a psychotic break, schizophrenia—something. I have no idea what any of those are, but I’m starting to believe it doesn’t matter because Cole raises his hand. Not in a ‘Hey, how are you doing’ sort of way, but in a ‘Hey, I know I’m freaky, don’t run’ sort of way.

“Cole?” The word echoes inside my head. Pressure builds in my ears, affecting my hearing.

He nods, the movement slow and robotic.

A shudder wracks my frame. You’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not—

Help us
…

Us? When did things go from helping you to helping
us?
Plural ghosts … meaning more than one. Are they coming? My legs shake and the inside of my mouth floods with a metallic taste. I think I’m peeing, am I peeing? If I faint will he kill me or go away?

I do what I always do: pretend I’m tougher than I am. My chin comes up. “What do you want?” The pressure in my head grows, as if I’m on a plane or underwater. I need my ears to pop, relieve the build. I wiggle my jaw, but nothing happens. The acting tough thing isn’t working. Uncomfortable escalates to painful. I need to keep an eye on Cole, but the dull pounding in my brain turns sharp and stabbing. The strain overwhelms me. My hands move to my ears as I double over, sink to my knees. I cry out, unable to withstand the torture in my head.

Everything stops … the pressure, my screams. All goes quiet.

My gaze darts to the place where Cole stood, now empty. “Where’d you go? Hey!” I snap my head around looking for him, even checking dark corners and the ceiling. Nothing. I try the direct approach. “If you’re real, and I’m not crazy, you’re freaking me out. If you want my help, stop scaring the hell out of me and say so.”

No one answers. I really didn’t think they would, but that means I’m bat-shit crazy and for that reason alone, I wish my old buddy Cole would make an appearance. Brilliant. Either I talk to dead people or I’m certifiable. I’m going with the latter. First the loss of my mom, Ben’s addictions, the stress of moving here, the pressure to create, naturally I cracked. I heave a breath and rise. All I want is to hug my cat. I need to feel something warm, someone who needs me and loves me. I stifle a sob at how pathetic I am. Then a new thought whacks me. Oh, God! What if I have a brain tumor? A big fat hairy mass is pushing on the parts of my brain that affect my reasoning. The pain, the hallucinations, my total lack of creativity, of course! The whole thing makes perfect sense if I’m dying.

A strange calm washes over me. My theory is weak, but makes more sense than a real live ghost. I’m at peace, almost numb. I snort. After all my fighting, the awesomeness that is Raven Weathersby will be taken out by a brain tumor.

Well, I’ll be darned.

Snick, snick, snick.

Soft tapping wakes me. I sit up in bed, wondering if Cole is back. The drapes are drawn leaving the room black. I forgot to open them before crawling under the covers, but I didn’t think I’d fall asleep, not that I’m afraid anymore. I understand the visions aren’t real. They belong either to a crazy girl or to a big tumorous mass in my head.

“Cole? Is that you?” More tapping, faint scraping shushes throughout my room. Like an army of tiny mice. Ugh, I haven’t seen one yet, but I dearly hope it’s not mice
or rats!
My skin breaks out in gooseflesh. “Edgar, are you here, sweetheart?”

I reach for him, feeling across the quilt. While I can’t find my cat, my fingers slide across something smooth and slick. Gross. Whatever it is, it’s wriggling. I lurch for the lamp on my bedside table and pull the chain. Light blinds me. I blink to adjust my vision, trying to focus on my covers. There’s nothing there. When I glance to the foot of my bed, there’s no Cole either. Fear chews on my nerve endings. “Edgar! Darn cat, where are you when I need you?”

The tapping continues. I push my tangled hair off my face, still working on where the sound is coming from. A shadow moves on the wall across from me. As I squint, the dark spot glides in a wide arc over the wall. Tap, tap, tap. It’s moving fast. They’re bugs. Cockroaches. Thousands of them scurry over the far wall. My fingers clutch at my sheets until the knuckles are white. I’m not phobic. One or two bugs I can handle. It’s not like they weren’t plentiful at the shop, but not like this. These suckers are massing for full-scale Armageddon.

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.