The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  As if sensing eyes upon her, Gabrielle looked his way. ‘Oh, thank God, I’m starving!’ She galloped over to assist.

  ‘No, thank me, I went and got it.’

  ‘Thank you, Peter.’ She unexpectedly kissed his cheek and relieved him of the hot food, leaving him to bring the drinks. ‘Let’s eat!’ She grinned broadly at leaving him overwhelmed.

  They set out their feast on a picnic table close by the car, and ate for fifteen minutes, saying little beyond ‘yum’ or ‘good’.

  But once Peter’s initial appetite was appeased, he wiped his face and fingers on a napkin and paused to speak. ‘So, time to spill the beans on what Grandma said.’

  Gabrielle grinned, and revelling in prolonging the suspense, she nodded. But she wiped herself with a napkin first. ‘When I told her that you wished to write a book yourself, she said that wish would be granted. Grandma said she could see you winning awards of your own.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Peter liked the sound of that.

  ‘Yes,’ Gabrielle insisted, obviously sensing his scepticism. ‘But . . .’

  Peter didn’t like the sound of this. ‘There’s always a “but”.’

  ‘It will not be a story you choose to write, it is a story that will choose you.’

  ‘A muse.’ Peter felt he understood the implication.

  ‘And it will not be an easy story to write,’ Gabrielle informed him.

  ‘How so?’

  Gabrielle averted her eyes sideways and towards the heavens as she considered the query. ‘Grandma said that the material would be rather outside your comfort zone.’

  ‘Well.’ Peter had not expected that reply. ‘That does sound intriguing. I’m sure Penelope would say, “If it’s not outside your comfort zone then it’s not worth writing”.’

  Gabrielle gave a laugh and nodded in agreement.

  ‘Anything else Grandma thinks I should know?’ Peter inquired.

  ‘About the book, you mean?’ Gabrielle clarified and when Peter nodded, she confirmed, ‘No.’

  ‘But she said other things about me?’ He sensed this from the phrasing of her query.

  ‘Just personal stuff you’d probably rather not go into.’ She waved off further comment.

  Peter was suddenly very alarmed — not that he truly believed Gabrielle was telling the truth about her psychic grandma. ‘What kind of personal stuff?’

  ‘Like . . . she said your parents had stifled your writing career, even from beyond the grave, but Penelope was the key to unlock those chains and set you free.’

  Peter’s heart stopped beating a moment as the statement was so accurate — too accurate. ‘You’ve been talking to Penelope.’ The reasonable explanation made him relax a little.

  Gabrielle appeared a little offended, but kept her humour. ‘Well, yes, I talk to her every day, but not about the private lives of my work colleagues. Not that Ms Whitman would tell me about your private conversations, even if I did.’

  That actually rang true for Peter, so now he was back to feeling bewildered. ‘No, you’re right, sorry.’

  ‘No need to apologise; Grandma’s insights stun most people.’

  ‘I’ll have to meet this grandma of yours.’

  ‘Because you don’t believe me.’ Gabrielle forced a smile, brushing her hands together to rid them of the excess salt as her mood took a swing towards annoyed. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Western men get freaked out by occult matters.’

  ‘I’m not freaked out,’ Peter stated not wanting this perfect day to end in a confrontation — what if Grandma Valdez really was psychic?

  ‘Oh, really?’ Gabrielle challenged, hands on hips. ‘You’re not freaked out right now?’

  Peter suddenly realised he was not going to be able to pull off that bluff. ‘Well . . . yes, I am freaked out,’ he admitted, but before Gabrielle could roll her eyes, added, ‘but only because I’m scared Grandma might have said something damning about me.’

  ‘Then I wouldn’t be here.’ Gabrielle smiled in conclusion.

  ‘But as far as I know you’re just doing a favour for Penelope.’

  ‘And I could say the same of you,’ she pointed out, then stood and backed up from the table. ‘Let’s settle this, shall we? Come here.’

  Peter rose and confronted her, but before he could ask what she had in mind, she was kissing him in a fashion that left no doubt in his mind that she considered him more than just a friend.

  ‘Do you think that was for Penelope?’ she asked as their lips parted.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ He moved in for another.

  ‘Let’s not get too excited,’ she forestalled his intent. ‘You still haven’t even asked me out to dinner.’

  ‘What is this then?’ Peter appealed his cause.

  ‘This is a bite to eat after shopping.’ She moved to wrap up the remains of their meal and shove it back in the bag, and then turned back towards Peter to shrug. ‘And Grandma saw us kissing on a beach, so . . . I thought, what the hell.’

  ‘Yay, Grandma!’ Peter realised that Grandma’s visions obviously had their perks too. ‘What else did Grandma see about us?’

  ‘I think we’ve heard enough about Grandma this evening,’ Gabrielle decided. ‘And as I have to work in the morning . . .’ She looked to him, appearing as mournful as he felt that this magical day had to come to an end.

  SUBPLOT

  Julian arrived a little early to begin his occupation of the apartment, in the hope of keeping someone else there with him until the rest of his band arrived later in the evening. He planned to buy the girls dinner if they would hang around, and was surprised to run into them in lower level car park where their car spaces and bins were located.

  ‘Sorry, I have a performance.’ Monique waved off his offer, and blew them both a kiss. ‘Au revoir.’ She headed for the street exit door.

  ‘How about you?’ Julian looked to Tyme, who was loading computer equipment in her car.

  ‘I haven’t seen my little girl in three days, Julian, I miss her. It’s a lovely offer, but I am going home.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Julian glanced towards the elevator doors and was filled with dread.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tyme wondered. ‘You are finally getting the whole place to yourself. You should be thrilled!’

  ‘Yeah.’ He was sorry that was no longer the case.

  ‘This sudden hesitation about the studio isn’t about that ghost, is it?’ Tyme clearly thought he was being juvenile. ‘Look, we haven’t heard a peep from him, he’s gone! Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘You didn’t believe it had been there in the first place!’ Julian questioned her powers of observation. ‘Not until you saw the video.’

  ‘Well, us girls have been in the studio for days and we’re still living and breathing aren’t we? It’s harmless.’

  ‘Maybe you’re bewitched?’ Julian posed.

  ‘Only witches bewitch you, not ghosts.’

  ‘Be-ghosted then?’

  ‘No such thing,’ she assured him. ‘I am the expert on occult matters, and I’m telling you that you have nothing to fear but fear itself. We attract what we think about, so don’t think about it. K?’

  ‘K.’ Julian resigned himself to facing the entity alone, and the look on his face must have reflected his trepidation.

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Tyme grabbed him by the shoulder of his shirt. ‘I’ll stay for a cup of tea, but that’s all.’

  ‘Awesome.’ Julian was most relieved. ‘Are you making?’

  Tyme served him a look that implied he was pushing his luck.

  ‘Just kidding.’ He held both hands up in defence, although truth be known he wasn’t — Tyme made far better tea than he did. ‘Just let me grab some stuff from the car and lock it.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll want a hand with that?’ Tyme assumed.

  ‘That would be great!’

  Tea in hand, Julian stood admiring the huge canvases that Tyme and Monique had been working on the last few da
ys, and he was in awe. Julian didn’t know much about art really, but he knew what he liked. ‘These are amazing, I want one!’

  ‘You just like it, ’cause you can see tits and arse in it!’ she jibed, taking a sip of her tea and wincing. ‘Julian this tea is terrible! Did you just wave the teabag over the cup?’

  ‘Hey, I offered to let you make it and you declined.’ He looked back to the painting. ‘And it’s not just that these paintings are sexy. I like the vibrant colour mixes and all the swirling patterns. It makes me feel kinda . . . free.’

  ‘I like your critique. Let’s hope others, with money, feel the same way.’ Tyme placed her mug aside on her desk. ‘You know what’s really interesting?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Julian placed his mug aside and pulled a pre-rolled cigarette out of the pouch that he kept in his T-shirt pocket. He lit up and looked back to Tyme who seemed hesitant to enlighten him.

  ‘Nah, forget it,’ Tyme waved off the detail. ‘I don’t want to freak you out any further, or I’ll never get home.’

  ‘Now you have to tell me.’ He glanced around the warehouse warily. ‘Is it about your spooky friend?’

  ‘Our spooky friend has a name,’ Tyme informed him in a relaxed fashion.

  Julian felt his inner panic returning. ‘How do you know? Have you spoken with it?’

  ‘No,’ she stressed, as if he was being alarmist, and moved towards a large door that was by the spiral stairs that he hadn’t even noticed before now. ‘I saw this cupboard and thought I’d check out what was in here as it might be good storage space for the supplies I’m not using.’

  Julian followed, curious, albeit wary, of where this was leading.

  ‘It turns out it is good for storage.’ She opened the large door and behind it was a rather larger than expected walk-in cupboard.

  ‘Holy moly, this is bigger than the bedroom upstairs,’ Julian noted. ‘At least it would be, if it wasn’t filled with all this crap.’

  ‘But there’s no window.’ Tyme pulled away a drop sheet that was covering a large pile of stuff.

  ‘Perfect for sleeping during the day,’ Julian considered, as he could never get any room dark enough for his liking.

  ‘Perfect for storing artwork, too.’ Tyme’s effort revealed several large canvases, and the one at the front seemed very similar in style to those Tyme and Monique had just been working on. ‘I believe these were painted by our ghost.’

  ‘Wait, what?’ Julian was a little taken aback, mistaken in thinking they were also Tyme’s works.

  ‘Em Jewel,’ she announced. ‘I’ve checked the few works still hanging around the house and they are all the same artist.’

  Julian’s body was immediately besieged with shudders. ‘You were right, this is creeping me out.’ He retreated back into the warehouse proper, and dragged harder on his cigarette in the hope of ridding himself of the uncomfortable feeling. ‘Don’t mess with its stuff, you might stir it up!’ He beckoned her out of there.

  ‘Every artist likes having their work admired.’ Tyme did as requested and closed the door. ‘But it’s not just artwork in there, there are old instruments, books and handwritten texts, so I think Em was more than just a painter.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Julian told her frankly. ‘The agent should have had that all cleared out of here, and no offence to Em, but I’m going to have him do so.’

  ‘Jules, he won’t; this place came with furniture, as is —’

  ‘Then I will!’ he whispered harshly.

  ‘Then you will piss Em off. No artist wants to see their work thrown in a dumpster! I wonder if they’re worth anything?’ Tyme suggested a rethink. ‘The owner must be storing them for a reason. I wonder if we could find out?’

  ‘Read my lips.’ He pointed to his mouth to emphasise. ‘I don’t want to know.’

  ‘Then you don’t have to.’ Tyme ended the argument. ‘I’m going to go.’

  ‘No!’ He headed after her. ‘You can’t just lay your ghost trip on me and leave!’

  ‘Jules . . . the sooner you’re left alone here to realise this ghost is benign, the sooner you’ll start talking sense again.’ She grabbed her bag and headed for the front door.

  ‘And what if you’re wrong?’ Julian objected, ceasing his pursuit.

  ‘Then use your fear and write something good.’ She exited through the door and closed it in her wake.

  ‘Aw, crap. I gotta learn to make better tea.’ Julian looked around the studio, seeking out his nemesis, but he was not brave enough to request its presence. ‘It’s too damn quiet in here.’

  Julian walked over to the sound system and plugged in his iPod. He chose a current playlist and felt immediately more relaxed once the place filled with sound. ‘That’s better.’ He began bopping along with the music and, grabbing up his guitar from its stand, he threw the strap over his head and shoulder, and fished a plectrum from his jeans pocket. Fingers to the strings, he played a chord and right on cue the power went out.

  ‘What?’ He looked to the sound system to find it defunct. ‘Aw, you’re shitting me!’ He placed the guitar aside and made a move to check if the entire building was out, or just the apartment. The lift wasn’t responding. ‘God damn it!’ He headed for the fire exit, which was locked closed. ‘Well, it’s a good thing the place isn’t on fire!’ He kicked the door, which only hurt his foot. ‘So I’m stuck here, with no power and a fucking ghost!’ He walked back into the apartment and slammed the door closed, angry — which suited him fine as it made him braver. ‘Well, fuck you, Em!’ He served the apartment the finger with both hands, and headed to the fridge that he’d stocked with beer. ‘I ain’t leavin’ anyway.’

  A few long gulps of beer from the bottle and he felt braver still. ‘I don’t need power to make noise, you know?’ Julian went over to where his acoustic guitar stood, still in its hard case. He lay the case on the floor to crack it open, but the catches, which had no lock, were jammed. ‘Oh, come on!’ He tried again, but the latches wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Don’t mess with my stuff!’ Julian roared as he stood, and then had a blinding moment of clarity. ‘Oh, I get it.’ He nodded in accordance with his own reasoning. ‘This is about your stuff, isn’t it?’ He retrieved his beer and had another swig. ‘A deal, then,’ he proposed. ‘I promise not to touch your stuff, and you don’t fuck with my stuff either? How about that?’

  The locks of the guitar case flung open and startled Julian. The sound system lit up and music filled the room once more.

  For a second Julian froze up, fearing the entity could sense the deep pangs of panic pulsing outwards from his being, but regardless he was not about to show it. ‘Good deal. Thanks, Em.’ Julian tried to sound and appear cool about their arrangement, but it was now painfully clear to him why the storeroom had never been cleared out.

  The feeling of being watched dissipated when the rest of the band arrived and they downed a few more beers. They all loved the place and Julian was not about to let on that he had any reservations.

  The effects of the alcohol relaxed him, and Julian was completely absorbed in the good vibe of just jamming with his band when the sound of a cello playing among them became apparent. The sound of the additional string instrument steadily increased in volume, while the sound of his band began to fade, and when Julian raised his eyes he found that his band were no longer present.

  In their place was a beautiful blonde woman who appeared like something straight out of a period film. Her hair fell in perfect waves around the milky white skin of her face and her long elegant neck. Julian knew nothing of history really, so he couldn’t even hazard a guess at what time period she was portraying. She was dressed in an elegant silk and lace gown that was the colour of champagne and fit to her torso very snugly, exposing a mesmerising cleavage. From the tip of her head to her waist she appeared the perfect lady, but she had her long skirt hitched up over her knees to expose her long legs and bare feet. Her modesty was maintained by the cello, well placed between her w
idely spread thighs.

  ‘Too easy!’ she cried vivaciously and served him a winning smile, as they stopped playing.

  ‘Too easy?’ Julian was captivated, he’d never seen such a gorgeous creature in all his born days.

  ‘Play with me,’ she invited, and struck out a sequence of notes, which Julian easily reproduced on his guitar. Her lead became progressively faster and more complex, and although it was a challenge to keep up with her, Julian was rather enjoying himself.

  ‘You’re quite good,’ she encouraged, with an impassioned smile and a lick of her lips. As they built to a crescendo, the beautiful cellist groaned with pleasure, and playing the final stroke of the piece, smiled broadly at him. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Julian?’

  The lighting in the room suddenly altered. It was only now that Julian realised that the cellist had been sitting in streams of light that were pouring through the huge warehouse windows onto her. Yet it was actually the middle of the night and his band stood under the overhead lighting staring at him with their mouths gaping open.

  ‘Where the hell did you go, man?’ Kevin, the bass player, appeared completely bemused.

  ‘Yeah, fucktard, how am I supposed to play drums to that?’ Max tossed his sticks away.

  ‘Hey, I kept up,’ boasted Tommy, from behind his keyboard. ‘Just a little bit of Myaskovsky Concerto in C Minor for Cello, if memory serves. You never mentioned you’d studied classical music, Jules?’

  ‘I just played what?’ Julian was feeling a little seedy at this point, his gut was churning.

  ‘Nikolai Myaskovsky, Russian composer,’ Tommy clued him in. ‘Died about the middle of last century. Pretty obscure, dude.’

  ‘Oh damn.’ Julian’s gut turned — had he just had a close encounter with their resident ghost? ‘Em, is a woman,’ he uttered, giddy and decidedly queasy.

  ‘Who is Em?’ Tommy queried.

  ‘Never mind.’ Julian handed his guitar to Kevin on his way past. He’d never make it to the bathroom upstairs, thanks to those bloody winding stairs, so he ran for the kitchen sink and promptly emptied the contents of his stomach into it.