Keepers Of The Gate

by E. Denise Billups

  “Hello?”

  Teka recognizes the British colonist’s greeting. Her village sachems and clan mothers spoke the tongue when addressing settlers. Gray Wolf, the British captive assimilated into their tribe, taught her people his language.

  “Who’s there?” The woman approaches, then stops with a swift wipe of her face. Glancing up, she gasps and holds Teka’s eyes.

  “She sees me.”

  In the arch of her brow, the slimness of her jaw, the rise of her high cheekbones, and frightened brown eyes, Teka sees her sister’s soul in this stranger’s form. “Ahji’?”

  The woman recoils from her voice, slips and falls backward.

  Teka holds her frightened gaze as she tumbles into the wall. A dynamic force pulls her into another place. Behind this wall, she senses his presence, his energy. But how can it be?

  “Pilan?”

  Sleepwalking Again

  Present Day

  Twyla stirs on the verge of seeing the irascible witch groaning around the viscous dark. Slick, boggy, eel-like reeds slither over her naked flesh. Kicking and wriggling from their grasp, she bobs to the surface, gasping for air. Thick, cloying tendrils tighten and tug, dragging her to watery chambers. Just as she succumbs, a woeful scream resonates, “Pilan!” rippling the surface, jolting her awake to a wintry scene.

  Alarmed, she gasps and leans into the floor-to-ceiling dormer window, steadying her body. The vertiginous view retreats in the distance, carrying her backward from oblivion behind the panes of her bedroom window. Her heart and mind race with aquatic images, a dream she hasn’t dreamt since she was 12, before her sleepwalking ended 11 years ago.

  The century-old Victorian creaks and moans, protesting the brutal winds whooshing around trilateral corners, battling the home’s facade. Above the attic loft, the clipped-gable roof groans with snowy mounds sliding into gutters and eaves. The irascible witch in her dream. Icicles strike the window, jarring her senses again.

  She blinks twice, narrowing her gaze at the white maelstrom in the backyard. When did the freaky storm start? It wasn’t snowing last night. The haze of sleep fades from her vision, and the figure in the backyard clarifies. Twyla squints, fixing her gaze on her mom digging underneath that ancient maple tree. She rises from her knees, deposits an object in her pocket, and hastens toward the house with a sudden standstill. Twyla leans into the windowpane with her forehead and nose grazing the frosty glass. Just as she taps the window, Sky dashes from the yard with a frightful expression, disappearing beneath the covered porch.

  An icy chill sweep through Twyla’s body. She rubs her arms, noticing the T-shirt’s dank sleeves, lowering her nose to her arm. Is it sweat? Bending, she pats her damp jeans and socks.

  What the…

  Did I sleepwalk in the snowstorm?

  She peers across the loft toward the bolted door and floorboards. It’s the only explanation for her damp attire unless she’d taken a shower in her clothes, but they’re not soaked through, just damp. She scans the hardwood floor. No water, no footprints. Maybe she didn’t leave the room. So what happened?

  Twyla rushes to the bathroom, slips out of her damp garments into a bathrobe. In the mirror, she searches for signs she’d been outdoors, facial redness, wind-tousled hair, but there’s no sign of a snowy walk. If it occurred hours ago, her skin and clothes had time to warm. A vague awareness niggles her mind, a thought trying to take shape.

  What took place while I slept?

  She leaves the bathroom and pauses at the window with a familiar dread, anxiety that assails her after every sleepwalking episode. The fear of straying into jeopardy and dying consumed her for years. Maybe during her latest incident, she sensed danger and retreated inside the house. But what if she’d wandered too far, frozen to death or worse? She shudders, peering at the latched bolt, astounded that she locked it while unconscious.

  She recalls the summer morning George the caretaker discovered her asleep in the cemetery, dressed in pajamas, feet bleeding. He’d carried her back to the inn, bandaged several cuts on her feet and washed the dirt from her face and hands. Even now, the image of her blind traipse through headstones gives her the creeps. She’d overheard Tessa’s stunned gasp in the parlor as George explained he’d found her on Gray Wolf’s grave. From what she recollects, it happened only once. But one dawn, she woke in bed with sore feet as if she’d walked miles. Perhaps to the graveyard again, a quarter-mile distance from Twilight Ends, a half-mile total back and forth. From what Tessa told her, most times, she’d sleepwalk around the house and back to bed.

  This time she hadn’t gone back to bed. Did something catch her attention at the window? The wind hisses and moans above the attic again as the witch had in her dream. Maybe the storm made her stop and stare into the yard. She exhales a ragged breath, realizing she will never recall moments of altered consciousness when her unseeing eyes register nothing. As a child, she feared an entity was controlling her body while she slept. She shivers and wraps her arms around her waist, relinquishing to oblivion.

  A figure moves in Twyla’s peripheral vision, drawing her gaze toward the carriage house. Cristal Whelan stands at the second-floor window draped in a silky, forest-green chemise. Her brunette hair falls past her narrow cheeks to her ample bosom as she stares with a chilling expression in her direction. Twyla lifts her hand and waves, but she doesn’t respond. Does she see me through the blustery snow?

  Cristal turns her head toward the tree Mom stood beneath a moment ago. Twyla follows Cristal’s gaze, resting on the gray lake ahead with a surge of sadness that arises every winter. Call it seasonal mood disorder, internalized emotions from childhood night terrors, more dismal than winter’s chill. She remembers little of her nightmares, only images of someone chasing her in the dark. Mom said she’d wake the entire house with a bloodcurdling scream and then fall back to sleep. That phase passed, but a silent ache lingers in its place.

  Light floods the carriage house bridal suite. Dante Whelan strolls to the window, glaring at the hoary scene. When he turns to his wife, the open robe exposes tan skin and dark, T-shaped chest hair straight to his periwinkle boxers. He pulls Cristal’s hair aside and buries his face in her neck with kisses.

  Twyla steps to the window’s edge and peeks around the corner as Cristal tilts her head in response to her husband’s embrace. But the scenery, not her husband, holds her attention as she straightens her neck and gazes outside. Dante embraces her waist, crooks his chin in her shoulder, and peers outside the window.

  Twyla wonders if they’re dreading the end of their two-week stay at Twilight. Every year, they’ve observed their wedding anniversary where they met, married, and honeymooned 15 years ago. Grams Tessa often threw a furtive wink and would say that those two were special people. When Twyla asked what she’d meant, she’d replied, “You’ll see one day.” Twyla’s seen nothing extraordinary yet. Anyhow, her grandparents had adored Cristal and Dante and always booked the bridal apartment ahead for their anniversary. And, without fail, they’ve arrived every December to the place that brought them together.

  Dante lifts Cristal’s arm above her head and twirls her in a circle. With fondness, Twyla remembers their slow dance in the parlor three years ago on December first. Today’s date, the day to festoon Twilight Ends, trim the Christmas tree, and celebrate with a delicious American Indian meal. A holiday ritual celebrated with guests, but not this year. The inn’s closed for a family-only weekend celebration to honor Grams and Papa.

  Twyla gasps when an icicle strikes the windowpane and recoils as three more plummet from the roof. She presses her face into the window, peering below at treacherous snow and ice scaling the porch. Well, no Christmas decorations in the yard today. And guests are snowbound until the storm abates, but she doesn’t mind spending more time with Cristal and Dante.

  Again, she catches Cristal’s bewildered gaze and follows her pointing finger at Grams’ old man, the maple tree, finding nothing except a thick mist along the water’s edge. Cri
stal crosses her heart twice and mouths visible words. Dante puts on his spectacles and stares at the maple tree, shaking his head. He addresses his riveted wife and pulls her away from the window, closing the curtain. Seconds later, the suite darkens. Twyla imagines an irresistible husband, coaxing his wife back to bed.

  What a strange morning, the return of her sleepwalking, the storm, Mom digging in the backyard, and Cristal’s odd stare. Why did Mom look so frightened when she raced on to the porch? A figure moves in her peripheral vision. She pivots her head sideways at snowy shadows drifting along the wall. It’s only clumps of snow, not ghosts Mom senses this time of the morning. Mom always says, “If you listen hard enough, you can hear them at dawn.” That’s downright creepy, she thinks, picturing ghosts whispering in her ear.

  When something rustles behind her, she turns and glances around the reading annex. She detects motion beyond the sliding doors that separates the bedroom. Tiptoeing forward, she shoves the rolling panels wide open.

  Mystik hisses.

  Twyla gasps.

  Frightened, the cat slinks beneath the bed, peering with glowing eyes at Twyla. The gold bell around her neck silences with her still crouch.

  “Mystik, what’s wrong? Come here, girl.”

  The dreamcatcher falls off the wall on to her sleeping boyfriend’s head.

  “Jayson? What are you doing here?”

  9

  Sleeping Soul Walks With Spirits

  Jayson’s unexpected image vanquishes the dreadful chill, reviving warmth she felt when he arrived last night. She’d dozed off in his arms as they talked past midnight, and so had he, given the jeans and T-shirt he is still wearing. Beside the bed, his socks and sweater lay crumpled on the floor, discarded before they slept.

  Jayson grouses, knocks the dreamcatcher from his forehead to the pillow and raises on his elbow, wiping his face. “Hey, I thought you touched me just now.”

  “No, it was the dreamcatcher,” Twyla says, strolling toward the built-in wardrobe sectioned off behind another sliding door, a closet Charlie constructed before she graduated from college.

  “No, a hand brushed my face.”

  “It was the feathers.”

  “Why are you over there? Come back to bed,” he grumbles behind the partition.

  She knows what will happen if she goes back to bed in just her robe. “In a second.” She dresses fast in dark jean leggings, a T-shirt, then pulls a pair of socks over her icy feet, pondering her sleepwalking as she drifts from the closet.

  Jayson sits up, yawns, and stares around, as dazed as she was a moment ago. It’s strange seeing him in her bed, plush with plum bedding and glittery pastel pillows, having only ever seen him in his bedding of masculine gray and blue linens in the cramped colonial house on the outskirts of campus. Although she’s happy he’s here, Jayson meeting her parents for the first time makes her nervous.

  His midnight man bun unravels around his shoulders, an American-Indian Adonis wearing his heritage with pride. But he’s somewhat extreme with his native spirituality, forever quoting wise sayings of Chief Red Cloud or Sitting Bull. His shoulder-length hair and Wolf Clan tattoo might not win her parents’ approval, but he’d have captured Grams’ and Papa’s hearts. Regardless, Charlie and Sky will admire his intellect and PhD in Anthropology.

  Jayson stretches his arms wide with a body-shivering yawn. “What time is it?”

  “It’s early, but you have to leave my room now before my parents find you here!” She pictures Dad bursting through the door with a scowling disapproval and booting him into the storm. “Jayson, please, come on, you gotta go. Dad will kill me if he finds you here.”

  His lips curve upward in a tempting tease, defusing worrisome thoughts of Charlie. He pats the comforter with a wicked grin. Twyla wages a mental battle between dragging him toward the door or joining him in bed. “I’m 23, not a child,” she protests in her head.

  Hesitant, she shuffles across the floor toward the bed, wanting to do the right thing and send him to his room on the third floor. But before she changes her mind, his hands encircle her small waist and he sweeps her into the bed on to his firm chest, and into his irresistible, fleshy lips. She’s always aware of her height and weight when she’s near him. At five foot two, she’s a dwarf next to his six-foot two-frame, but feels secure in his sturdy arms.

  Twyla sinks into his hard pecs and his warm, wet kiss. He groans. She moans with growing arousal and then pulls away before she loses control. His hair swings at his shoulder, and at this moment he looks every bit the Indian warrior with dreamy brown eyes and thick eyebrows from one of her teenage posters. She runs her finger across his glistening cheek and brow, wondering why he’s perspiring when she’s chilly.

  He grips her waist and curls into her chest with a naughty grin.

  “No,” she mumbles with a headshake and quick peck, thwarting his advancing lips with her fingertips. She’s never pushed Jayson away, but she’s never had a man in this room, her bed, a place filled with childhood innocence. At Jayson’s place, she’s a woman. Here she’s a naughty teenager hiding her sex life from her parents. Having sex two floors above her parents’ suite would be wrong, wicked. She pictures Grams and Papa with disapproving scowls. But we’re engaged, she thinks, easing her guilty conscience. Her body screams defiance but her mind wins.

  “What happened to the hot morning kisses?” Jayson asks.

  She purses her lips, recalling passionate morning frolics in his bed whenever she’d stayed at his place overnight. Now, his dark, alluring eyes tempt her as they always do. She glances away, releases a breath, and musters her willpower. “I’d love nothing more than to rip off your clothes…”

  “Should I rip them off for you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes daringly. Before she can reply, he lifts his T-shirt over his head, exposing a well-defined abdomen and pecs.

  “Jayson!” She protests, too loud. “No, no, and no,” she whispers, pushing him backward. “You’re such a tease, but if you don’t put on your shirt and leave, Dad will kick your butt out the door for good.”

  His guffaw bounces off the rafters around the loft.

  “Shh,” she hushes, cupping his mouth to silence his laughter. She lifts the discarded T-shirt from the bed and places it over his head, shoulders, arms, with a quick tug over his chest.

  Jayson’s shrewd gaze narrow as he reclines into the pillow. Silent and pensive, he rests his head on interlocked fingers. “You’re worried about telling your parents we’re engaged?”

  Wide-eyed, she mumbles, “Worried? No, petrified,” she says, grimacing. “I can hear Dad’s voice now. ‘Twinkles, you’re too young and just finished college.’ And Mom will give you a thorough once-over before she approves. Anyhow, it’s been a month, and it’s time to tell them.”

  “Twinkles?” Humor plays over his upward-arching lips.

  “Don’t laugh!” she orders and giggles at a nickname gained against her wishes in infancy. “Twyla… twilight… stars… twinkle… get it?” she asks with raised brows and a touch of irritation.

  “I love it.”

  “Did your parents have a nickname for you?”

  “Family call me Jase and sometimes Ho ni: gön haksá’a: h.”

  “Ho ni: gön…?”

  “Haksá’a:h, wise boy, whenever I wise-mouthed or challenged my parent’s beliefs, and Jase when I’m their perfect lad,” he explains with a smirk.

  “Jase, nice, much better than Twinkles.”

  A shrill wind howls. Twyla snaps her head toward the vibrating windowpane, then glances around the loft at three dormer windows flooding the room with hazy light. The ceiling groans like an angry animal, bemoaning heavy snowfall and inducing the scream in her dream. She stares around, perplexed by the pervasive chill in a room that’s always been warm since the recent renovation.

  “Is it cool in here?”

  “No, toasty.”

  His reply confirms her suspicions. The watery nightmare and strange chill she’d felt by th
e window lingers. It’s her, not the room or a draft. She glances at Mystik, now curled at the foot of the bed, wondering what frightened her. Was it the icicles hitting the window? Twyla shivers and lies beside Jayson, inching into his warm body. Wrapping her arm and hand in his, she gazes at the wooden rafters, bewildered by the returned sleepwalking.

  “Are you OK?” Jayson asks.

  “Mm-hmm, just a tiny chill,” she says, unwilling to speak of the sleepwalking just yet.

  He pulls her closer.

  Twyla raises her head and lowers it on his solid shoulder.

  “Why’s your skin ice cold?” he asks, rubbing her arms and her fingers with a burnishing motion between his warm palms.

  “It’s from standing near the window,” Twyla says. But it was her sodden clothes that left a chill. “There’s a nasty snowstorm.”

  “I can tell by the howling wind.” He lifts his head and looks toward the window. “Good thing I arrived last night. If it’s as bad as it sounds, I’d be stuck on campus,” he says, staring around the room. “Holy smokes! What a large attic. Your dad did a fantastic job of renovating. He’s sectioned-off the sleeping, bath, and lounge nicely. It reminds me of a friend’s Soho loft in New York City.” Jayson rests his head back on the pillow. “Twilight Ends… Finally, I have the chance to see the place of whispering ghosts.”

  “Well, only Mom hears them.”

  “I can’t believe no one else senses them.”

  “Grams and Papa not only heard them but also saw them and forever spoke of encounters with our ghostly ancestors. I swear specters were in the room alongside us, the way they talked. It was off-putting at times.”

  “But you’ve never had an experience?”

  “No, not never,” Twyla says, closing her eyes and evoking the night she’d sleepwalked to the main floor on a weekend visit. Only Grams and Young George knew what happened that night. Grams figured there was no point in adding another ghost story to our family’s repertoire and never spoke of her fright to anyone.