“Sure you’re okay?” I asked,
tilting my head to the side, squinting, already making compositional decisions
about how I would portray the scene on canvas.
“I’m hungry again. Does that tell you anything?”
We started down the stairs again. I followed Josh through
the parlor with its fireplace and beautiful paintings, following tantalizing
aromas toward a room beyond. Something caught my eye. I pulled on Josh’s arm.
“Look! A new painting, over the fireplace!”
Josh sighed, clearly irritated—he was famished—but the
painting caught his interest too. “A guitarist!” he said, surprised. “Playing
her instrument. You don’t see that often, do you? Hey. This picture wasn’t here
last night, was it?”
“I don’t think so. No. It wasn’t.”
He squinted. “Is that a Ramirez guitar she’s playing?”
“Let’s get closer.” I was more interested in the artist’s
use of negative space than in what type of guitar she was playing. Could there be a painting better designed to captivate us both? I didn’t think so. We walked
toward the fireplace, peering up at the artwork, but I stopped short a few
steps away, a sick feeling in my gut. The patch of floor by the fireplace
was…wrong.
All wrong.
“Hold it,” I said to Josh, tugging on his arm. “Something
isn’t right here.”
“It’s like the stairs,” he whispered, “only more so.”
We froze in place, our senses on alert.
The air crackled. Ozone sizzled in my nostrils. The hair on
my arm stood on end. Josh reached for my shoulder. We both jumped at the
popping, stinging shock when his hand made contact with me. We hesitated,
alarmed, the intriguing painting forgotten.
“Josh,” I whispered. “Let’s leave. Right now. I don’t like
this.”
“Neither do I.” He looked over his shoulder. “What about our
luggage?”
“Forget the luggage.”
“What about my prize?”
“Josh!”
“But we’ll lose the deposit!”
“Screw the deposit.”
He took my hand. “Yes. Let’s go, then. Follow me.”
The front door was on the other side of the room. We’d only
gone three steps when the old man from the night before stilled our flight. Where
had he come from? Somehow, impossibly, with a quick sideways step he was standing
directly in our path .
Josh lurched, trying to keep from treading on the old man’s
slippered toes.
I gasped.
“Now, now,” the old man crooned, “Angela. Joshua. What seems
to be the problem here?”
“We…uh, want to leave,” I said.
“We do,” echoed Josh. He cleared his throat.
The old man’s hand brushed up and down my arm. I frowned and
moved out of his reach. “You don’t really want to go, do you? You’ve only just
arrived.” He sounded hurt.
I stared at him, frowning.
“Come now, join us for breakfast.” The old man tried to take
my hand. I brushed it away. “At least stay for breakfast.”
“Josh,” I said, “let’s go .”
We skirted around the old man, threaded our way past couches
and end tables and Persian carpets and a grand piano. We passed the lectern. We
crossed the last few feet of the lobby. We held tight to each other’s hands,
our eyes on the door.
But again the old man stood in front of us, blocking the
way.
Impossible! He’d been behind us!
I gaped, blinking, clinging to Josh. How had this ancient,
decrepit man managed to beat us to the door? How? How had he passed around Josh
and me, to stand in front of us, without us noticing ?
Suddenly I was frightened. Very frightened.
Josh took a deep breath. “Let us pass, old man.”
“No.”
Josh moved to the side, to go around, but the old man blocked
his path.
They stared at each other.
“Move,” said Josh.
“No.”
I stepped forward. “Let us out!”
The old man looked down at me. “Again, no.”
Josh and I were a united force. We held hands and faced him.
“Angie and I are leaving,” Josh said, “and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Get out of our way.”
The old man gestured
tilting my head to the side, squinting, already making compositional decisions
about how I would portray the scene on canvas.
“I’m hungry again. Does that tell you anything?”
We started down the stairs again. I followed Josh through
the parlor with its fireplace and beautiful paintings, following tantalizing
aromas toward a room beyond. Something caught my eye. I pulled on Josh’s arm.
“Look! A new painting, over the fireplace!”
Josh sighed, clearly irritated—he was famished—but the
painting caught his interest too. “A guitarist!” he said, surprised. “Playing
her instrument. You don’t see that often, do you? Hey. This picture wasn’t here
last night, was it?”
“I don’t think so. No. It wasn’t.”
He squinted. “Is that a Ramirez guitar she’s playing?”
“Let’s get closer.” I was more interested in the artist’s
use of negative space than in what type of guitar she was playing. Could there be a painting better designed to captivate us both? I didn’t think so. We walked
toward the fireplace, peering up at the artwork, but I stopped short a few
steps away, a sick feeling in my gut. The patch of floor by the fireplace
was…wrong.
All wrong.
“Hold it,” I said to Josh, tugging on his arm. “Something
isn’t right here.”
“It’s like the stairs,” he whispered, “only more so.”
We froze in place, our senses on alert.
The air crackled. Ozone sizzled in my nostrils. The hair on
my arm stood on end. Josh reached for my shoulder. We both jumped at the
popping, stinging shock when his hand made contact with me. We hesitated,
alarmed, the intriguing painting forgotten.
“Josh,” I whispered. “Let’s leave. Right now. I don’t like
this.”
“Neither do I.” He looked over his shoulder. “What about our
luggage?”
“Forget the luggage.”
“What about my prize?”
“Josh!”
“But we’ll lose the deposit!”
“Screw the deposit.”
He took my hand. “Yes. Let’s go, then. Follow me.”
The front door was on the other side of the room. We’d only
gone three steps when the old man from the night before stilled our flight. Where
had he come from? Somehow, impossibly, with a quick sideways step he was standing
directly in our path .
Josh lurched, trying to keep from treading on the old man’s
slippered toes.
I gasped.
“Now, now,” the old man crooned, “Angela. Joshua. What seems
to be the problem here?”
“We…uh, want to leave,” I said.
“We do,” echoed Josh. He cleared his throat.
The old man’s hand brushed up and down my arm. I frowned and
moved out of his reach. “You don’t really want to go, do you? You’ve only just
arrived.” He sounded hurt.
I stared at him, frowning.
“Come now, join us for breakfast.” The old man tried to take
my hand. I brushed it away. “At least stay for breakfast.”
“Josh,” I said, “let’s go .”
We skirted around the old man, threaded our way past couches
and end tables and Persian carpets and a grand piano. We passed the lectern. We
crossed the last few feet of the lobby. We held tight to each other’s hands,
our eyes on the door.
But again the old man stood in front of us, blocking the
way.
Impossible! He’d been behind us!
I gaped, blinking, clinging to Josh. How had this ancient,
decrepit man managed to beat us to the door? How? How had he passed around Josh
and me, to stand in front of us, without us noticing ?
Suddenly I was frightened. Very frightened.
Josh took a deep breath. “Let us pass, old man.”
“No.”
Josh moved to the side, to go around, but the old man blocked
his path.
They stared at each other.
“Move,” said Josh.
“No.”
I stepped forward. “Let us out!”
The old man looked down at me. “Again, no.”
Josh and I were a united force. We held hands and faced him.
“Angie and I are leaving,” Josh said, “and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Get out of our way.”
The old man gestured
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