by Shari Copell
It had happened earlier that night at Tapestries, as she stood alone in the back room waiting by the broken freezer as Tage tried to find a larger wrench. Though she often thought she heard Asher playing his guitar when she was at the bar, it was the first time she ever heard him speak directly to her there.
Wild Angel had been loud—even in the back room—but she’d heard him say “Chelsea!” in her left ear. She’d dropped the toolbox she held and whirled around to see...nothing.
She covered her face with her hands again. Please go away. Please! I can’t do this.
“Are you going to tell me what this one was about?” Tage asked. He sounded patient and concerned, but she knew he wouldn’t understand if she told him she’d been dreaming of Asher.
“I...I guess I don’t really remember. If you’d asked me a minute ago, I could’ve told you. But I don’t remember now.”
“Uh huh.”
He didn’t believe her. She wasn’t surprised. She’d never been a very convincing liar.
They were silent for several more minutes before he sighed in resignation. “I’ve heard that tone often enough in the last nineteen years to know the drawbridge to the castle has been drawn up tight. I won’t ask again.” He kissed the top of her head. “I want you to know that I love you. If you need to talk, well...you can usually find me attached to your hip.”
She laughed at that, mostly because it was true.
Nicks settled everyone in their rooms before she took T.J. back to bed. He had night terrors sometimes, and she wanted to make sure he was okay. Covering him up after he climbed in, she sat down on the bed beside him.
“Mom sounded scared, huh?” He clutched the edge of the sheet and pulled it up to his neck.
“It’s okay. Sometimes you wake up and you don’t know where you are, especially if the dream feels real. Dad takes good care of Mom. He’ll make sure she’s not scared.”
T.J. nodded but didn’t seem convinced. “I had a dream once where the Predator came out from under the end of my bed and started to eat me. He started at my legs then ate his way up to my head, and I was screaming and screaming, and he still kept eating me...like I was a snack or something. Only my head was left, and I was screaming.”
Nicks nodded. She remembered. T.J. was also afraid of thunderstorms, and they’d been in the middle of a dandy the night he’d had that dream.
She’d been the first to get to his room. He was huddled up against the end of the bed with a blanket over his head like a babushka. His mouth was open so wide she could see the little dangly thing in the back of his throat. He hadn’t wanted either of her parents that night; he’d clung to her. She had to hold him for a long time before he calmed down. Damn Reese and his gory movies.
“You shouldn’t even know what a Predator is. Reese knows better than to let you watch stuff like that.”
“I was brave when I was watching it. I didn’t expect it to come into my dreams like that. The Predator is a scary dude. Hardly nothin’ can kill it.”
“I have a secret to tell you, T.J. Did you know the Predator is terrified of Nicks Sorenson?”
The boy’s eyes grew round. “He is?”
“Yep. And I told him if I saw him in this room again, I was going to eat him. He got scared and ran away. I bet he won’t show his face around here anymore.”
“Oh, I’m glad. Thank you, Nicks.”
She ruffled his hair and kissed him. “Anytime. That’s what big sisters do for little brothers.” She got up from the bed and walked to the door. When she reached up to snap the light off, he stopped her.
“Can you leave that on? For tonight? I mean...I’m not scared or nothin’. I just want you to leave the light on.”
“Sure thing.” She closed his door gently behind her and walked back to her own bedroom.
She managed to keep it together until she sat down on her bed. Shaking, covered her face with her hands.
Something very weird was going on in this house.
At the same time her mother was screaming down the hall, she’d been locked deep in her own dreams. That man again, in the mist.
He’d come closer this time, but the mist and shadow still obscured his features. He seemed vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t quite place him. He was wearing the same clothes he had on in the first dream. He talked more this time, in choppy sentences, forcing the words out as if he were trying to cough up a hairball.
“You’re going to tell me who you are, right?” she’d asked.
He shook his head. “I love you.”
“Why do you love me? Who are you?”
“I watch you. Always.”
“But why? That makes no sense.”
“Should’ve been different. Tell...Chels...I’m sorry.”
Her mother’s scream had torn her from the man’s presence. And she sure as shit wasn’t going to give that message to her mother when she was so freaked out.
Should she tell her father about the guitar picks she’d been given in her dream, though her mother had asked her not to?
She quickly decided it was a terrible idea. He’d think they were losing their marbles. She wasn’t so sure they weren’t.
It had taken Nicks all morning to corner her mother alone. She didn’t want her father to hear any of the conversation she intended to have with her, so she’d waited until he went out to wash the cars.
Chelsea was doing her Saturday morning cleaning. Nicks slipped into the master bedroom behind her, taking care to close the door gently. Her mother jumped a foot at the soft click as it snapped shut anyway.
Chelsea turned around with a wary smile. “Did you need something, honey?”
“We’re having similar dreams, aren’t we, Mom? That’s what happened last night. The same man who gave me the picks in my dream... came to you in your sleep. And you know who he is, don’t you?”
Her mother retreated into the walk-in closet. She nervously pretended to search for something on the shelf as Nicks moved to the doorway.
“I’m sorry I woke you all up by yelling, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t remember what I was dreaming about last night.”
It was what Nicks expected to hear. She probably shouldn’t even have asked, but she didn’t want her mother to think she was blind to the things that had been happening lately.
Things that only seemed to involve the two of them.
“Yes, you do. And you feel the strange vibe this house has picked up too. Like the air is full of static electricity.” She took a step toward her mother. “If we’re dreaming about the same guy, that’s some weird shit right there. I deserve to know who he is.”
Chelsea’s eyebrows shot upward as her face drained of color. “And if I knew, I’d tell you. You’re seeing something that isn’t there, Nicks.”
“Really? Then it won’t mean a thing when I give you another message from him.”
Gasping, Chelsea spun around to face her.
“That’s what I thought. He said to tell you he’s sorry. That things should’ve been different.”
“Son-of-a-bitch.” It was said in the barest whisper, but it sounded like a small explosion in the confines of the closet.
“When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be ready to listen,” Nicks told her. She turned and left the room as quietly as she’d entered.
When Chelsea heard the bedroom door snap shut, she wrapped her arms around herself and fell to her knees, shaking like a leaf in a gale.
There were no explanations, for any of this. Taking the dreams seriously meant believing in things that couldn’t…shouldn’t…be happening.
Yet they were.
Chelsea deliberately blanked her mind save for one thought: Damn you Asher, if you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Stone threw the covers off and leapt out of bed. It was early Saturday morning, still dark outside, but he was wide-awake. In fact, he’d barely slept a wink that night thinking of Nicks. And other things.
Nicks was reluctant to poke further concerning Asher Pratt, but something was niggling at him. He knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until he investigated the dead guitarist a little more.
Why hadn’t Nicks’s parents told her that her guitars had belonged to a man who’d practically set Pittsburgh on fire with his talent? Surely they knew. Death was the only thing that kept Asher from being as big as Eddie Van Halen or Slash. Stone shook his head in disbelief. His guitars would be collector’s items. And Nicks had known nothing about him.
He jumped in the shower and mused things over as the hot water cascaded down his back. Nicks’s birthday was October 31, 1994. Asher had died four days before, making his date of death October 27th or 28th, 1994, depending on the accuracy of the information she’d been given.
The local library had an extensive genealogical section. Newspapers from the past on microfilm filled the drawers of several filing cabinets in that library. He grinned deviously. He’d have a surprise for Nicks when he saw her later on that afternoon.
He snapped the shower off and grabbed a towel from the bar nearby. This was going to be easy.
After a quick lesson on the library microfilm viewer, Stone was off and running.
“You’re lucky you have an exact death date,” the librarian told him. “We’re only half done with the indexing. It’s no fun to sit here and crank through a year of newspapers to discover the obituary you’re searching for was printed on December fifteenth of that year.”
He laughed. “I can imagine.”
He pushed the button on the machine, making the tape whine as it sped toward the October issues. Excitement tickled his insides as he watched the black and white images go by. Even if Nicks didn’t care to know more about Asher, he was curious about the man who’d inspired him to play guitar.
He stopped on October twenty-fifth then advanced the microfilm more slowly. Nothing on the twenty-seventh or eighth, though he didn’t expect to see it then. It took a day or two for an obituary to be printed.
Ah! There it was! October thirtieth. He held his breath and leaned forward to read it.
Asher M. Pratt, of Panther Hollow, passed away at UPMC Presbyterian Hospital on October 28, 1994 of complications from diabetes.
He was born on May 24, 1968, the beloved son of the late Deborah Pratt. He was an accomplished musician, playing guitar with various bands in the Pittsburgh area. He most recently played with the Dirty Turtles.
He was the last member of his immediate family, though his good friends Tage and Chelsea Sorenson survive him.
Interment will be made in the Calvary Cemetery in Hazelwood, but arrangements are incomplete at this time and will be announced at a later date.
Donations, if desired, can be made to the American Diabetes Association.
Stone put two quarters into the machine, pressed the button, and made a copy of the obituary. Leaning back in the chair, he read it over again. Okay, nothing scandalous there. It was a basic obituary, giving only the facts, reducing someone’s life to two-hundred words or less.
He scrolled ahead a few more dates, but couldn’t find anything more regarding the funeral or the arrangements.
He chewed his lip as a thought occurred to him. The Calvary Cemetery in Hazelwood. Hmm.
He wondered how much searching he’d have to do to find Asher’s grave.
Turns out, not much searching at all. Stone did a Google search, found a phone number, and called the cemetery office. By the time he hung up, he knew the section where Asher was buried and everything.
Another quick search had produced a map of the cemetery, which he’d printed. It was now lying on the passenger seat of his car for quick reference.
After he pulled into the cemetery, he took another look at the map to get his bearings. The man he’d spoken to was one of the groundskeepers here, so he surely knew his way around the place. Stone headed off toward the section he’d been given on the phone.
He drove into the cemetery a mile or two before he came to a stop. According to the map and the landmarks the caretaker had told him to watch for, he was in the right place. Stone put the car in park.
The grave was supposed to be under a tree, on a looping curve near Tesla Street. All he had to do was find the ceramic oval picture that was embedded in the back of a large, dark headstone. The man he’d talked to had described it accurately. He could see the white oval of the picture, stark against the black granite.
There it was. Asher Pratt’s grave.
Stone was suddenly sick to his stomach. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see it now, equally unsure why he felt that way. He hadn’t known the man. His grave was one of thousands in this place. No big deal.
Maybe Nicks’s reaction to his questions was the reason for his hesitation. He didn’t want her to be angry with him for digging deeper. She seemed concerned that her parents wouldn’t approve. No matter. This was purely to satisfy his own curiosity. No one else had to know he’d come here.
It was one of those overcast, early-October days in Pennsylvania, with a slight breeze that blew warm and cold by turns. Summer trying to hold on for one last hurrah as fall sought to wrest it away.
He got out of his car and made his way into the cemetery, past all the other lives that had been laid to rest here, glancing up occasionally to make sure he was heading in the right direction. He felt at odds with himself, seriously debating whether or not he wanted to spin around and head back to the car. He argued with himself all the way to the gravestone.
It was quite elaborate. It must’ve been mega-expensive. The black granite was smooth, inviting his fingers to trail lightly over it. It shone like glass, the engraved letters matte against the glossy surface. There was a Les Paul guitar engraved in one corner, its patch cord curling away and ending at the curved upper edge of the marker.
Asher M. Pratt
May 24, 1968 – October 28, 1994
Though short, the man had lived his dash in a way most people only fantasized about. A showman, an entertainer. A guitarist without peer, even today.
You were my inspiration, Asher. I wouldn’t be playing guitar if it weren’t for you.
Stone shoved his hands into his coat pockets. It all made him a little sad. The man had barely had a chance to live. He pressed his lips together and moved to the picture on the back of the stone.
He stared, barely breathing, as small details began to absorb into his brain. Something like an electric shock coursed through him, so sharp and hot he stumbled and fell to his knees.
The picture was large, colorful, and as clear as a summer morning. Asher Pratt was playing his...Nicks’s...tobacco sunburst Les Paul, his feet planted wide on the gray carpeting of what appeared to be the stage at Tapestries. His knees were slightly bent, left hand fingering an E-chord on the guitar fretboard. His right held a white pick slightly above the strings, prepared to sweep downward. The photo was so vibrant Stone could hear the chord ring out in his mind.
Asher had a great expression on his face. His mouth hung open, cocky, as if to say, “I’m the shit, right?” Large, golden-brown eyes stared out into a crowd that Stone knew stood elbow-to-elbow, held in thrall by the man sexing them up with his guitar. Blue and red PAR cans glowed behind Asher, lighting up his lustrous brown hair with a rock-and-roll halo. Stone reached out and touched the lights in the photo, could almost feel their heat rush up into his fingertips.
Asher’s shirt was white, unbuttoned, and loose around the hips of the low-cut jeans he wore. There were so many frayed holes in the jeans that Stone wondered how he ever washed them. He laughed softly. The uniform of a rock star.
A strange feeling came over him as he studied Asher’s face. Blinking, he shook his head then leaned in for a closer look. He was seeing things. At least, he hoped to God he was.
Those cheekbones, the structure of that face sloping down into a narrow jaw. Stone was as familiar with them as he was his own. But it was Asher’s eyes—large and round, slightly tipped at the corners—
that clinched it for him. He shook his head.
What the hell am I seeing here?
Nicks Sorenson was the spitting image—the female version— of Asher Pratt.
Wha...?
Stone touched the face in the picture as a thought exploded into his head like a meteorite crashing to earth.
Could Nicks be his daughter? No way! The idea was far-fetched, but there was no other explanation for the resemblance. He pondered it for a moment, but it didn’t make sense.
If she were Asher’s daughter, why did her mother marry Tage Sorenson? Why did it say they were “good friends” in Asher’s obituary? How in the hell could you be good friends with someone who knocked up your wife? Tage had acted as the man’s executor. You don’t do that for someone who’s slept with your wife.
He thought about Nicks and her siblings. She didn’t look like them, at least the ones he’d seen. She was dark and they were light. She’d called them all little blond lapdogs. What were the chances of that happening?
Stone fell back away from the grave, landing hard on his ass. Shaking, he ran both hands through his thick hair as he stared at the picture. He wanted to unsee everything he’d just seen, to unthink every thought he’d just had. He had no proof of his suspicions, yet no one who knew Nicks could fail to see the resemblance between her and the guitarist frozen in time in the photo.
Asher and Nicks looked too much alike for it to be a coincidence. He got the feeling he’d just stumbled upon something very volatile.
Tage and Chelsea Sorenson hadn’t told their daughter a thing about the man who’d owned her guitars because they hadn’t wanted her to know. They’d wanted her to believe Tage was her father. But why? He certainly wouldn’t be the first man to raise a child that wasn’t his.
They’d withheld Asher’s name for a reason. Knowing his name might’ve caused Nicks to dig deeper and connect the dots. They hadn’t wanted to take that chance. Again, why?