The house was a huge, imposing structure built in New Orleans by a well-to-do family who had long-since been forced to give up the ancestral mansion, or else had moved further away from the ever-encroaching city proper. Now the rambling, secretive home off St. Charles Avenue had been divided up into a little-known bed-and-breakfast, with the landlord’s quarters comprising most of the second floor. My own rooms had been rented for the week on the third floor; it was the smallest, and thus I was afforded the privacy of the entire floor to myself, which my disposition required. It was, in fact, this quest for privacy which had kept me from the hotels in the French Quarter, where I had business, not wanting to have to try and sleep through the rampant night-life therein, and I wonder now at how wise it is to be so reclusive. (more…)
OH Hellmouth
Rose Mausoleum
Unfortunately, it wasn’t raining, though it had been the night before, leaving the ground sodden and the air moist with the scent of rotting wood. It really seems like it should have been raining, since I had accepted a dare to spend the night in a mausoleum, and rain and graveyards—not to mention the month being October—appear inseparable. But when I arrived at the site, a bright sun spilled over the small building, catching all of its detail in inspiring relief. A dead ivy clung courageously to one wall, the slate surface trying to push it, and the sunlight, away. (more…)
27
These ghosts that shimmer across my eyes may only be cataracts, but they may also be something else. My mom called them the fuzzy edges of reality, but then my Mom was always thinking about things like that—about reality, and the edges of it. Nine, 18, 27—that’s how Mom said reality is divided. When we turn 27, we change—that’s what Mom said it meant. I was nine when she died. She was 27.
The Wind
“My daughter,” the man said. “My little girl.” His voice no more than a whisper as a slow curl of breathy vapor drifted from between his lips and dissipated.
Milo Jackson let the man’s head down gently, resting it in the snow. His own breath was heavy; volumous thunderheads that shrouded his face. He shook his head once, trying to clear the dream, but the body wouldn’t go away. He wiped apple-size tears from his cheeks and looked up into the dark night. The wind had cleared away the clouds and the stars winked like tiny, studded eyes waiting for him to move.
F
It was just a painting, after all.
Henry Edgewater purchased it because he enjoyed the crisp lines of the barren room it depicted; the jagged edges of the uneven wood used for the makeshift table and chairs; the detail in the shadows and grain of the walls.
The Ghost at the Gatehouse
Miles stirred in his slumber. He could hear music—slow, somber, methodical music—playing somewhere in the distance. A funeral procession, by the sound of its mournful cadence. His head lolled to the other side and a low moan escaped his lips; presumably the music outside was entering into his dream. He coughed distractedly and began to awaken, his hand unconsciously reaching for his glass of water, but the groping fingers were stopped short by a wall.
The Dog and the Red Room
I know all about the last painting in Irene Burgman’s last show: Number 22, “Nicholas,” a beautiful painting of the artist’s dog against a background of deep blue and purple velvets that look real enough to grasp. I know all about it because I was there when she painted it, and for this reason I also know why the painting wasn’t on the curator’s show-inventory list, or why there was no date on its back. I know all of this because of the dog.
Not logged in