The Quest for Singularity

It took Mr. Watkins several hours to find a livery for hire. The snow had been partially cleared but mounded up onto the curbs of the street into one and a half story high ice walls. Thankfully the wind had stopped and the weather was crisp and the sky an azure blue. Most of the horses and wagons had been procured by the city to shovel and dump the snow into the East River on the Brooklyn side and Hudson River on the west side. The trains across the bridge were not running due to track blockage by snow. However, an enterprising group of Russian/Jewish emigrants felt compelled to shovel the entire span of the Brooklyn Bridge. The Sabbath was fast approaching and the people needed to cross the bridge to reach their respective synagogues for their holy services. Carriages could pass but they had to take turns. Bottlenecks occurred every few feet but it did not hinder the desire for passage. The snow piled up on the ice sheets that were slowly breaking up and flowing lazily downstream to the convergence of the rivers and the Atlantic. It was a sight to see and people wondered in awe at nature’s fury and beauty.

Mrs. Hopkins found herself almost overwhelmed by gathering food and warm, clean clothes and blankets and fresh water for Victoria and Richard. So detailed and committed to her tasks was she that she often found herself close to tears. She told herself that she would find her charge and Mr. Rhys safe and alive within the walls of the great white house. She could not sleep since the storm first began a few days before and her anxiety bloomed across her face as a woman tired and worn down by the rigors of a life in crisis. As she moved through the parlor into the room where Richard’s desk stood she spied the decanter of fine bourbon and decided a nip couldn’t hurt. It just might calm her and bring about that warm feeling that a toddy often does. The small crystal glass filled with superb liquor slipped down her throat with such ease that she thought she might have another pull and elongate that warm fuzzy sensation. It would be the first and only time that she would be lured by temptation. Drinking the liquor without permission was like stealing and she was a woman of high moral standards. But the historic event that was unfolding skewed her understanding of her own restrictive nature and as she breathed there was ease and a decision that came naturally.

“Mrs. Hopkins?” She heard Henry say as he entered the parlor. It would be most embarrassing for her to be caught with a drink in hand, but the sound of his voice rendered her inactive. Should she leave the liquor in the glass and answer his call or swig it quickly and straighten the cabinet? She decided her constitution needed the added warmth and she downed the shot just as Mr. Watkins wandered in catching her in the middle of quenching her thirst.

“Mrs. Hopkins.” He said softly. She felt her face flush immediately and she was absolutely mortified. When she finally looked up Mr. Watkins smiled broadly and seemed to stifle a giggle. She smoothed her dress and her face remained dour.

“’Tis nice to see you take a moment for yourself.” Watkins said softly.

“Not a word --- if you do I’ll deny it.” She replied pointing her finger like a school marm. She was so ridiculous that even she broke into a small grin. It made Mr. Watkins appreciate her all the more.

“I’m quite sure Mr. Rhys would not mind. Come. I’ve procured transportation.” Mr. Watkins said and he offered his hand. She stood there a moment and took in the room and the silence.

“It’s odd to leave the house empty with no one to watch over it.” Mrs. Hopkins admitted. But her mission was unmistakable. She took his hand and as they closed the front door behind them she wondered what had become of Mr. Jones and his horse Michelangelo. Hopefully they would find him well and tending to Victoria and Richard in the Flatlands. Mrs. McBride remained in the kitchen keeping the fire stoked and that in turn kept the house relatively temperate. Mrs. McBride was an industrious woman. She’d pay her Irish lads for scraps of coal from the coal wagon just like she had done back in Dublin. The lads were not of her blood but an Irishman is an Irishman and she took many under her protective wing when she could. She was a jolly robust woman with a motherly nature. Mrs. Hopkins left her by the fire with her rosaries and Bible saying prayers for Nellie’s soul.

As they began to pack the livery with supplies Mrs. Hopkins had an acute epiphany that her life would not be the same again. It was not a matter of life or death but the experience of traveling through the unknown would change her forever and leave her humbled by the vastness of emotion cloaked in the silent strength of splendor.

Richard sat in a chair in the corner of his art studio. Victoria had fallen asleep in the parlor next to the fire and he did not want to disturb her but his thoughts seemed to go round and round in infinite circles. Visions of John Wilkes Booth and President Lincoln seemed to take over his attention and draw him inward and the strange card he had found had produced flashes of insight. He did not know if he dreamed of meeting a woman named Chelsea near his Grove Street home or if he actually did. It had the flavor of a memory and not the wandering of a vision. Even though his mind was fully present and aware of being in the country manor something in his body felt as though he were hovering on the threshold of something ineffable. He was liminal and the infirmity would at times take advantage of his physically weakened state. He wanted to smoke but did not for fear he could not breathe. He was almost out of his hidden stash of tobacco anyway. The onion soup had rendered him pungent. His scent was powerfully changed by the herb’s intense aroma. He coughed a croupy cough and found he needed to spit often in order to clear himself. The onion was working. He sat very still taking in the blue of the sky through the window and the intensity of the sun as it shone through mapping out a brilliant maze across the floor. As his eyes wandered aimlessly framing the light in most certain composition they caught the unmistakable form of a figure. A woman was standing just in front of him gazing at his easel. There was a small painting resting there and he thought for a moment that perhaps one of the servants had escorted a buyer into his studio. He tried to shake away the sleepiness and the confusion and as he gazed upon the woman further he was aware that she was wearing trousers. No woman he ever knew wore trousers unless she had nothing else to wear. Even poor women had frocks. They might be shabby and worn, threadbare and filled with holes. The female reminded him of the girl in the brownstone --- the one who owned a luxurious toilet. She faded in and out of his field of vision. So he tried hard to concentrate and take her in. Then she moved quickly and was out of the room without a word. Perhaps, someone had actually come for them and he was too infirmed to actually know what was happening. He thought it best to confer with Victoria so he got up slowly and steadied himself. He made his way to the hallway and gazed at Tammany for a moment and then slowly, step by step inched his way back downstairs to his sleeping bride. She was so content as she slept that he hated to wake her. She was wrapped in the bison hide and the warm embers of the fire cast an orangey glow across her hibernating form.

“Victoria.” He said softly. She stirred and then settled again into sleep. “Victoria.” He repeated a little louder and touched her shoulder tenderly. Her eyes fluttered for a moment.

“What are you doing up?” She inquired expecting him to be sound asleep also.

“There are people in the house.” He said softly.

“What?” She replied confused. “No one’s in the house.” She said reassuringly.

“There is a woman who came to look at a painting.” He said. She rubbed her eyes and sat up still unable to comprehend what he was trying to say.

“A woman?” She asked almost absent-mindedly.

“In trousers. Very strange. She wandered into the studio.” He whispered. Then suddenly it all clicked and Victoria was awakened to something she had not truly understood until that moment. The woman who had left the cookies the day before had returned. But somehow the woman was real and yet not real. She was part of a dream. A very vivid, poignant dream that seemed perpetual in continuation. Victoria almost felt outside of herself when she experienced the woman’s presence. It had the flavor of a premonition. The truly otherworldly part of the experience was that she could remember clearly what she looked like, how she felt and exactly what was said. It was most certainly a memory that had not yet transpired. Victoria was eager to experience another exchange and she stood and pulled on her skirt and bodice and made her way to the hallway before realizing that she had left her husband in the parlor alone. She turned to see him gazing pensively at the fire and poking at it with the wrought iron wand. Sparks flew up the chimney and the flames sparkled and lit up the hearth.

“Are you alright?” She asked, one foot in the parlor and the other in the hallway. He held her in his sight for some time. She was so lovely. He could never tire of looking at her, of taking in every bit of her. But as the croup lingered it rendered him exhausted so he took his rest on the buffalo robe and stared pensively at the ceiling. The geometric forms of the crown molding caught the light of day and the shadows of his mind. Victoria hesitated momentarily and then began her quest. She climbed the stairs slowly and Ashley’s lithe form appeared with every move upward. Victoria gathered every ounce of energy and cleared her throat. Ashley turned and caught Victoria’s likeness in her sites and a warm smile bloomed across her face. The ebullience of the moment was contagious as Victoria felt herself warm to her visitor.

“How have you been?” Victoria inquired.

“Very well, thank you. And you?” Ashley said moving closer and wearing an expression of wonder.

“My husband---“ Victoria started.

“---Mr. Rhys?” Ashley interrupted almost with excitement.

“Yes. Mr. Rhys has been quite ill but he seems to be getting better and stronger with each day.” Victoria replied.

“I know he will be fine.” Ashley said with a knowing smile. Victoria felt as though Ashley had some sort of secret and the allure was exciting.

“He’s incredibly strong.” Victoria added. Ashley moved ever closer and she threaded her arm through Victoria’s and though Victoria thought it a bit too familiar she felt a rush and her fingers and toes tingled.

“I did some research on this house.” Ashley began.

“Yes it was once a Dutch farm that I bought and remodeled.” Victoria explained.

“It’s been condemned by the city.” Ashley said and there was a deep seriousness that took hold.

“That is impossible. Why it is almost a palace. Why would anyone condemn this house---MY house.” Victoria said and she began to grow upset. “I shall have to speak with Caroline Astor. Oh, Mrs. Astor is not political. I shall speak with Mr. Roosevelt as I think he may prove to be reliable and trustworthy.” She said.

“There’s no need.” Ashley said reassuringly. “I’m going to buy it and restore it so that you will be proud.”

“It needs no restoration and it is not for sale.” Victoria countered. She was trembling and on the verge of tears. “Perhaps I am wrong. The snows may have demolished parts of it. I have not been able to peruse the property because of the weather, you see, and my husband’s condition.”

“Please don’t get yourself all upset. It will be taken care of. I promise.” Ashley said almost purring and somehow Victoria believed her. “The snows?” Ashley asked innocently. Victoria gazed at her dumbfounded. How could this woman not see the extraordinary drifts and did she not have trouble wading through the white stuff to arrive at the house?

“We’ve had a most wicked blizzard.” Victoria said softly.

“Indeed.” Ashley said not giving away her amazing secret. “You need rest.”

“Have you brought provisions?” Victoria asked.

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry I should have brought something for you to eat. I wasn’t thinking. Please forgive me.” Ashley said. “I feel terrible.”

“No, no, no. It is bad form for me to have asked. Incredibly forward of me. I’m very sorry.” Victoria said as she wanted very much for there to be space between Ashley and she. A personal trait she tried to overcome when she was feeling insecure or embarrassed.

“Nonsense! I arrived at your home empty handed and as a guest I should have brought a little something to nibble on. Bad form on my part. My mother would be mortified.”

“Then…Maybe next time? We have not eaten in two days.” Victoria confided. “Richard needs tending and some kind of beef stock to get him well again.”

“Certainly. I will bring groceries with me next time.” Ashley said and there was a sparkle in her eye. Victoria knew that spark. It was a familiar occurrence. It was the very thing that made Richard so exquisitely charming. And though she felt irrepressible her mind was foggy and confused. Every time Ashley came to visit their exchange left her incredibly excited, yet tired. As she walked Ashley to the back door she found herself interestingly inquisitive.

“May I ask where it is that you live?” She said.

“In Fort Greene. The other side of the park. Very near the Prison Ship Martyr’s monument.” Ashley replied. Victoria was confused, as she had never heard of Fort Greene or the monument. She was aware that some sort of memorial was in the works, but the politician’s at Tammany Hall could not raise the needed funding.

“South Oxford and Lafayette.” Ashley said.

“Oh, yes. I know of the area.” Victoria replied. “Well then. Be careful.”

Ashley nodded and was out the door. The winter wind untethered a few wisps of Victoria's hair and they floated about her weightless and airy. She wandered back into the parlor where Richard was dozing. She lay down beside him and listened to his soft wheeze and shallow breath. There was something so very familiar about Ashley and so similar to Richard that it was uncanny. The deep well of emotion she had for her husband bled over to the new feelings she was developing for her new friend. Then she chocked up the idea of the house being condemned to her extreme fatigue and emotional state. Perhaps she misunderstood or maybe Ashley had been misinformed. It was true she needed rest and so she closed her eyes and the two lovers were intertwined once again in deep slumber.

Getting a Ticket to Ride

As Chelsea sat outside the home office of ARTNEWS she remembered a scene from The Devil Wears Prada where Meryl Streep’s character saunters into her office flinging her coat and purse at assistants cowering in her wake, a behavior that was repeated on a daily basis.  Then she remembered the scene when Anne Hathaway’s character proved herself and in a way stood up to the leviathan-esque publisher.  ‘Miz’ Niall was nothing like Anna Wintour but the proper respect needed to be paid in order for Chelsea to get a greenlight on her pet byline.  The thing is that Chelsea’s desire to return to London turned into passion set afire by the details of Richard Rhys’s life and her growing fondness for Ashley.  They were inseparable and completely intertwined.  She watched as busy assistants and editors and junior editors and layout people all rushed back and forth through the halls.  The bustle of the office was invigorating and instilled in Chelsea to go for the brass ring no matter how far or unreachable it seemed.  She knew she was a good writer.  Her grasp of the English language was impeccable and she thought for a brief time that she would make a fantastic English professor at any college especially the Ivy League universities where classes would be smaller and she could have fun.  She even considered art history as a vocation but academia bored her and memories of school experiences proved unsatisfying.  She did not want to be a fish in a little transparent pond.  In the village of academia everyone seems to know everything about everyone else.  She opted to try her hand at being a little fish with big dreams in a vast ocean.  She wasn’t very interested in writing long form or even fiction.  She enjoyed her journalistic trade and excelled at essays and anecdotes.  Articles came easy.  Books did not.  That is not to say that she would not try her hand at a novel or a non-fiction type book.  The seed had not yet been planted, though.  She looked at her cell phone to see if Ashley had left a message or not.  It was the beginning of a habit that she would become acutely aware. 

Miz Niall nodded her head as she signaled for Chelsea to accompany her into her office.  Chelsea’s heart started beating rapidly and her head scrambled for a moment.  Words that she had formed earlier had somehow vanished here at the all powerful Oz. 

“Damien Hirst.” Niall sighed.

“Yes.”

“So pitch it to me.” Niall replied as she sat back in her chair.  Chelsea felt like Niall was Mr. Grant and she was Mary Tyler Moore. She took in a deep breath and realized she had to grab her editor’s attention.

“Jack the Ripper.” Chelsea blurted out.  Niall shifted in her seat and reinstated eye contact.

“Come again?” Niall replied.

“Damien Hirst has made dissection into high art.  What if Jack the Ripper were, indeed a painter, and the murders of that era had something to do with an insatiable aesthetic appetite.”  Chelsea began.  Niall was utterly baffled.

“What?  So…you are going to compare Damien Hirst to Jack the Ripper?  I’d like to see how that goes.  Have you contacted Hirst?”  She asked.

“Not yet because I wanted to pass it by you first.”  Chelsea explained.

“I don’t know.  It seems kind of cheeseball horror and for Damien a different kind of tourist trap being a Londoner and all.” Niall started and trailed off.

“Damien Hirst has taken deconstructionism to the inth degree in the art world.  There is an English artist, Richard Rhys, that lived in London and in New York in the 1880s and 1890s and he was suspected of being Jack the Ripper for a brief time.  I want to compare their art and their lives within the art world to get a new perspective on both their individual styles as artists and their collective talents and objectives.”  Chelsea explained.

Niall sat silent for a moment ruminating on the idea.

“I need to see this Rhys person’s work.”  Niall said.

“It’s in a private collection at the Tate.”  Chelsea said.

“Well I’ll just get David Brown on the horn and have some images sent over.” Niall replied as she picked up the phone.

“The estate specifically says that no images could be made of the work and that individuals wanting to see the work had to make an appointment and view the paintings in person at the Tate.”  Chelsea said.

“What is this the fucking Shroud of Turin?” Niall said exasperated.

“So what I propose is that I take an assistant with me and we fly over for a week, do some research, look at the work, contact Hirst and set up an interview and then come back for a feature article.”  Chelsea said non-chalant.  Her heart was beating fast and she sort of held her breath as Niall took in the words.

“We won’t be able to print any of Rhys’ work, though.  No one will be able to compare if that’s the angle you’re going for.”  Niall said and she was about to put the cabosh on it.

“I—I have a friend who is also a painter and she has done some amazing work based on Rhys’ paintings.  Apparently there are some early photographs of the work at the Frick.  This is before the estate forebade images.”  Chelsea said and she thought it was a lost cause.

“Let me get this right.  You’re going to compare Hirst with Jack the Ripper aka Richard Rhys but you’re going to use your friend’s paintings to illustrate Rhys’ work because the Tate won’t release them.  This sounds like the ultimate shit show to me---“ Niall said exasperated and Chelsea knew she only had a few seconds to recapture Niall’s imagination.

“---My friend has done some amazing work that was inspired by Mr. Rhys---“ Chelsea tried to say.

“If you want to write an article about your unknown friend just come out and say so.  It’ll only get a quarter page.” Niall said and she began to escort Chelsea to the door.

“No---no, you’re misunderstanding me.  My friend channels Rhys in her artwork.  I know that sounds bizarre but trust me when you see the work you’ll be just as intrigued and passionate as I am about the whole thing.  I just need to get to London.” Chelsea pleaded.  “I just need one chance.”  She added.

Niall stopped and studied her.  She could see herself in Chelsea just starting out needing that one sliver of a break where she could show what she was made of.

“If you are wheedling a vacation out of me I will find out and I will take it out of your pay.”  She warned.  “Come back with something that will blow my pantyhose off.”  She said.

Chelsea smiled.  “Can I bring my assistant?” Niall glared at her.  “Someone has to run the recorder and take notes.”

“I want pictures of this ‘friend’s artwork by 6:00PM” Niall warned.  “See Christine.”  Niall said and she shut her door.  Chelsea nearly skipped down to the hall to Christine who made all the travel itineraries for the company.  Christine was a wee bit older and wore horned rimmed glasses.  She was tall and long-waisted and so her head from her eyes up could see over the small cubicle partition that was her work space.  Chelsea was aware of this and continued to skip down the corridor stopping just in front of her desk.  Christine glared over her glasses.

“Two tickets to London, please.” Chelsea said smiling.

“I need an authorization number.” Christine said non-plussed.

“See Niall.” Chelsea replied and sauntered away.  She decided she’d treat herself to a fabulous lunch to celebrate her victory then make her way to Brooklyn to deliver the fantastic news to Ashley.

 

 

Ashley stood on the corner of Coney Island Avenue and Caton Ave.  From her vantage she could not see the old white columned house.  Loitering was not her thing and she seemed to check her watch every five seconds hoping the guys would show up soon.  It was broad daylight and only a partially sketchy neighborhood.  Finally she noticed Felix ambling along the broad avenue in a pair of beat-up jeans and an Abercrombie and Fitch T-shirt. 

“Wow this is way out in the boondocks.” Felix said as he leaned in to kiss her and Ashley unconsciously offered her cheek instead of her lips.  It made the exchange slightly awkward.  “Are you okay?” He asked as he lovingly embraced her.

“I have a little sniffle and I didn’t want to pass it on in case it’s a cold.”  She said but in truth her mind kept gravitating to Chelsea and their otherworldly experience on Grove Street the night before.  The emotions and the images kept her up almost the entire night.  When she did finally drift off to sleep she felt herself in the warmest of embraces, feeling the delicate breath of her discovery against her skin and the blossoming desire to share a deeper kind of intimacy.  It was odd that Ashley felt protective of her desires almost as though anyone else’s touch might spoil the ideal that she harbored in her imagination.  She knew logically that what Felix felt for her and her friendship with him had nothing to do with Chelsea.  And yet somehow she didn’t want to share.  Her storehouse of passionate expression seemed to be kept in escrow exclusively for Chelsea.  The feelings seemed to be blooming much quicker than her mind and so there was a titillating kind of fear associated with it.  Almost like moving towards the deep end of the pool and only your big toe is holding ground while the water takes your breath away.

“So what do you want to show me?” Felix asked as he lovingly and unconsciously draped his arm around her.  They looked like a couple to the outside world and Ashley didn’t care as long as their boundaries remained intact.  She led him around the corner and down the street a ways until they stood in the alley and the white washed house rose up out of the urban setting and seemed to beckon them to join the past.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Ashley purred.

“It’s a condemned house.”  Felix replied.

“It’s an abandoned house.  There’s a difference.” Ashley corrected him.

“I’m sure there are other places in much better condition.”  Felix offered.

“I’m sure there are, but I’m in love with this one.” Ashley continued. “Come on.” She said.

“You want me to go in there?” He asked nervously.

“Why do you think I brought you out here?” She said getting annoyed.

“Okay, I think I see where this is going.” Felix countered and he started to back away.

“First, it’s not going where you think it is.  Second, I never figured you’d be afraid to go into an old house or be such a pussy about ghosts.”  Ashley explained.

“Ghosts---what ghosts.”  Felix said and he was trying to grow a set when James and Peter arrived decked in t-shirts that read Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters.

“Oh look the cavalry has arrived!”  Ashley said as she hugged and kissed her southern compatriots.

“This is fucking awesome.” James said as he started walking up to the house.

“Looks like my grandma’s house just outside of Shreveport.” Peter added. And they all moved in tandem around to the back entrance.

“Victoria?” Ashley cooed as she entered the back door.  She was met by silence.

“No one could possibly live here, Ashley.”  Felix said whispering.

“You’d be surprised.” She replied.  “I feel a little weird that we’re intruding.”  They moved slowly and quietly through the house and Ashley was able for the first time to see it in its true decaying state.  The walls were dingey and the paint had peeled away revealing layers of lead laced color and wallpaper and water damage.  It was dark and uninviting almost like a stone crypt.  As she moved on into the dark hallway the smell of earth and weather penetrated her to her core and she broke down in quiet grief.

“What’s the matter?”  Felix said as he wrapped himself around her.

“I’m not sure.”  She managed to say between sobs. And that rocking feeling of being on the ocean seemed to overwhelm her.  It was heavy this time and filled with lamentation. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t be here.” Felix whispered.  Then she pulled away from him and motioned for them to climb the stairs.  But the stairs had also decayed and were rickety and dangerous.

“Come on.”  She said and the guys followed looking trepidatious.  When she reached the top of the stairs her grief subsided for a moment as her eyes rested on the weathered sculpture of Tammany.

“Cool.” James said.

“This will be mine.” Ashley stated as her eyes gazed over the wooden monument.

“You can’t take this.  Firstly, it weighs a ton and secondly we don’t know who owns it.”  Felix said.

“Looks abandoned to me.”  Peter said.  “Finders keepers.”

“I don’t want to be arrested for trespassing and theft so I think we should get outta here.”  Felix suggested.

“I can’t leave without it.”  Ashley said stoically.

“You gotta be kiddin’.”  James said.

“Where you going to put it?” Peter asked in disbelief.  “There is no way that thing will fit in your brownstone.”

“It could possibly break through the floorboards.  I don’t think it’d support it.” James said.

“I concur.” Felix added.  Ashley looked at him and her grief began to overtake her once again.  Felix wrapped his arms about her.  “I’ll find out who owns it and I’ll buy it for you.”  He said quietly.  Ashley’s face brightened immediately.  “You will?” She said completely stunned.

“Sure.”  He whispered.

“You’re going to buy the house?”  She said still overcome with emotion but the grief turned into a kind of elation.

“The house?” Felix said weakly. “I--- I meant the Indian.”  Felix stuttered.

“The house comes with the Indian.” James said and he smiled.  "Easier to buy a house with an Indian than to buy an Indian and have it removed.”

“Come on, dude.  You can afford it.” Peter whispered.

“Tax write-off.”  James added.  “You’ve got three houses and you live in a condo.”

Felix pulled away from Ashley and backed away from the Texas duo. “This place is too far gone.  I mean, it’s probably structurally unsound.” Felix said.

“So get an engineer in here to give it a once over.” James suggested.

“Look, I could tear it down and build a fantastic new house right on the spot.” Felix offered.  Ashley broke down in tears again at the mere thought of any destruction of the original mansion.

“Dude.  You don’t get it, do you?  It’s about aesthetics and history.”  Peter said as he embraced Ashley.  Then James crept close to Felix and whispered, “I think you owe it to her.”

“Fine.  Fine.  I’ll have my assistant track down the owner and hire an engineer.  If it can be restored…I’ll buy.” Felix announced.  Ashley bounded into his arms.

“Thank you!!! Oh my God!  Thank you so much!  I will pay you back every penny.  I swear.” Ashley said.

“My accountant will keep track.” Felix said and he quickly made his way back outside into the bright sunlight.  James and Peter took in one last look. 

“Lot of work.” James said. 

“I’m going out for a smoke.” Peter added and the guys wandered through the hall and disappeared into the old kitchen.  Ashley continued up to the landing where Tammany stood in the dark.  She noticed a wysteria vine taking hold of the bottom and curling up his legs.

“Victoria?”  Ashley said softly.  “Victoria?”

“She’s resting.”  She heard a man’s voice say and she was startled.  It was weird because the voice came from inside her head and emanated out.  A very pale, thin man in a black woolen suit stood in the doorway of the room just off the hall.  Ashley’s heart stopped for a moment.

“Who are you?” She managed to say.  But the man with dark hair and eyes just smiled kindly and vanished.  She knew who he was but she couldn't believe her eyes.  He looked exactly like the picture Chelsea had shown to her the night before.  Slowly she crept to the threshold, fear tracing up her spine with each step.  The sunlight poked through the old wooden shutters and dappled light seemed to set the room aglow.  In the back was an easle that had rotted from rain and wind.  It was barely recognizable.  But there was something small and stark white resting there where a painting might be.  Ashley’s curiosity overpowered her fear and she went to the small white card.  Written across it was ‘Chelsea Barrett – freelance writer’.