“Yeah, I just need some water.” I smiled in what I hoped wasn’t a grimace, as I fought the tears threatening to pour down my face from the throbbing pain in my head.
Her forehead crinkled, but she left to find Gina anyway. Her determined gait disturbed the emotional waves from the statue. I couldn’t get over the fact that I could see the impressions. The energy produced by them emanated in the air. Despite my constant paranoia about encountering one unprepared, impressions were rare. This conglomeration of memories from different times and places had to mean I wasn’t alone. Who else could collect all of these pieces into one statue? The artist had to be cursed like me.
My fingers closed into fists as I realized what I had to do. When I touched a remnant, I experienced everything the person did during the dramatic event that caused the impression to latch on to the item. It was like the most realistic—and sadistic—virtual reality imaginable. I’d never done it on purpose.
At this point, my need to not be the only one outweighed my fear at what I would experience when someone else’s memory flooded my soul. Either I take a chance or remain alone forever.
Though my hands shook, I slipped a leather glove off. Before I changed my mind, I thrust a single finger at the music box.
As soon as my skin made contact, my body seemed to plunge into cold water as every pore shook with grief. My baby girl was gone. I’d never see her again. I rocked on the pink carpet she loved so much, as “Send in the Clowns” tinned from the slowly turning ballerina.
I yanked my finger off and rubbed my chest to loosen the weight that pressed against it. I didn’t have a daughter. This wasn’t my grief. I flung a tear from my cheek in frustration at my inability to separate myself from these remnants of another’s life. The reality of what the cursed artist had to endure to assemble this statue—this beacon to one such as himself—impressed me. If I could find him, maybe he could teach me how to control it.
I wiped my sweaty hand on my jeans as I decided on a new target. The nose of the wooden man, embedded in the center of the ball-shaped head, looked like the handle of something. Maybe an artist’s tool? That could be the clue.
As soon as the tip of my finger touched, agony tore through my gut. The face of my murderer was shadowed by the light of the dining room chandelier. I coughed, unable to breathe as he yanked the knife out of me. My own steaming blood dripped on my face before he plunged the blade into my chest again. I grabbed at the weapon. He leaned close to me as his bright blue eyes danced with glee. Then his lips curled as he pushed the blade all the way through to the floor. I screamed, but nothing came out. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t...
My shoulders vibrated as my head rocked side to side on a squeaky wooden floor. A shadow leaned over me, shaking me. I threw my arms up to deflect another blow.
Amelia’s voice broke through the vision. “Fauna? Fauna, speak to me. You are not alright.” She turned her head to Gina on my other side. “Call 911.”
I waved her off with my tingling arm. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I don’t need an ambulance.” The agonizing pain and rush of adrenaline faded leaving me shivering and achy.
I had to find this artist, this person who had the same curse. And when I did, I was going to punch him in the nose for tormenting me. Why not an ad in the newspaper, jerk?
Sucking in air delicately, grateful to be able to breathe again, I pushed up from the floor to prove I could. My numb lower body threatened my balance. I was sure I’d end up back on the ground.
Dorian sidled over and placed a wood stool behind me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. I’m good.” I hoped my voice didn’t give away the terror that still lurked in my mind. I tried to sound casual. “I do love that piece there though. I wonder if I could have the name of the artist?”
The air still vibrated around the automaton, but I couldn’t hear anything from it. My mother’s voice filled in all the space in my mind, and I hadn’t even consciously cued up the hymn.
Dorian crossed her arms; her forehead grew extra wrinkles. I didn’t have to sense her emotions to know she was annoyed. “That’s Albert Johnson’s work. He disappeared from the art scene about a year ago.”
Gina leaned close to the statue’s face. “It’s amazing, all the pieces put together to make this tin man looking thing.”
I put my glove back on and bit my tongue to resist the urge to scream at her not to touch it. But it wouldn’t matter. The impressions couldn’t hurt her. Just me.
I turned to Dorian. “Do you happen to have his contact information? I’d love to get a custom piece.” I was proud of myself for sounding almost completely normal.
The store owner dropped her hands and cocked her hip. “I’m sure I can dig up what I have when I write up the bill of sale.”
That’s great. She wanted to take my money along with my dignity. I sighed deeply as exhaustion set in. “I’ll take it.”
Amelia shook her head at me and pointed at a tiny yellow sticker stuck to the pedestal. “Are you sure, Fauna?”
I wasn’t going to get close again. I couldn’t risk touching it and passing out from another strong impression. I’d save that embarrassment for my own kitchen floor. “I’m sure.”
“Wonderful. It’s a unique piece that will immediately draw in your guests.” Dorian clapped her hands like a gavel proclaiming the final verdict.
Guests? Not likely. Besides, what would the entertainment value be? Watch our hostess pass out in front of this inert statue for no apparent reason?
I followed Dorian to the register and pulled out my emergency credit card. This qualified as an emergency. I was not the only one cursed. Someone else had been dealing with this and was comfortable enough to call out more like him. Nothing could possibly be more important than that.
“That’ll be $3000 even.” Dorian pointed to the scanner.
As I swallowed heavily and I inserted the plastic, my fingertips tingled from Dorian’s joy. At least someone was having a good day.
Chapter Three
Usually my sanctuary, my townhouse vibrated with the energy of the tightly wrapped statue. Gina adjusted the base in the corner between the modest kitchen and the glass dining room table.
Amelia tucked a blanket around my knees and handed me a glass of water. “If you need anything, throw up the bat signal and I’ll be here.”
This was why I couldn’t confess what was really wrong. Mama Amelia would freak out and take me in for testing. “I’m just dehydrated, I’m sure.”
Gina half-dragged Amelia from my condo. “Well, make sure to drink tons of water before we go out Wednesday. No messing up my last few girls’ nights on weeknights right before school starts. It’s too hard dealing with second graders and a hangover.”
“You got it.” I lifted the water bottle in my lap to prove I understood. As annoying as their attention was right now, I don’t know how I’d survive without my girls.
But this I had to do alone. After the deadbolt clicked on the door, I threw the blanket off.
Like at the store, waves floated around the statue, though the packaging dulled the effect. Still, there was no way that thing could stay here with me. The voices would keep me up all night. I still couldn’t scrub the memory of the murdered woman, her warm blood dripping down her cheeks, the sound of her ribs cracking. I prayed they caught the guy.
From my purse, I took out the receipt with the information that was supposed to answer all of my questions. Dorian’s loopy handwriting spelled out a PO Box in Austin. Useless. What was I supposed to do with this? Track down the location and wait for someone wearing gloves in the middle of summer to check his mail?
I sat at my dining room table and reached for my laptop. Electronics were a safe touch item. For some reason, they didn’t hold a remnant memory. At least, I hadn’t found a single instance of an experience captured on one. It was the reason I was drawn to computers to begin with both in college and as a career with Chipped.
Maybe Google h
eld the answers to this mysterious artist. I removed my gloves to better control my mousepad. The first search turned up way too many Albert Johnson’s. By adding “artist,” a small show in Austin over a year ago popped up.
“Up and coming mixed media artist, Albert Johnson, came all the way from Houston to be featured at Roseworks Gallery for the month of June.”
“Mixed Media?” That was putting it lightly. I scrolled down to the only picture in the article. Next to the overpriced monstrosity currently lurking in the corner of my dining room stood a stunning black man, his body cocked at a confident angle.
I don’t know what I expected. That artists were so eccentric they didn’t fit into normal categories of attractiveness? I mean, they were supposed to suffer for their art, right?
Well, Albert Johnson didn’t look like he was suffering. He was gorgeous. Maybe twenty-five years old, his muscles pushed against his tight polo and form-fitting jeans. His hand rested on the head of the automaton. The caption read, “Johnson sourced the pieces for Walter, featured in the photo, from all over Austin.”
How curious that it came back to Houston. Maybe it didn’t sell? The article didn’t offer any further answers. Something bothered me though. What was I missing?
My discarded gloves shifted in my lap as I lifted the bottle of water.
“Gloves!” He wasn’t wearing any. And his hand rested comfortably on the statue that knocked me on my ass.
My heart sank in disappointment. He couldn’t be cursed like me.
I slammed the laptop closed and stalked to the kitchen. It was time for something stronger than water.
Walter, as his creator apparently called him, mocked me in the corner as I popped the cork on a bottle of wine.
Now I was stuck with this thing that would torment me every moment I was home, the only place where I could relax. Maybe I should have had Amelia and Gina leave it on the lawn for the garbage man. That would have been fun to explain. I’m so pathetically lonely that I spent two months’ mortgage on a nightmare just for the minuscule chance that I could find someone, just one more person, who understood. But did he?
If Albert wasn’t cursed, how did he manage to find all of these remnants? And why did one piece of the statue call out to be found? If the artist wasn’t the one, he had to know who was.
The alcohol warmed my skin. No more thinking. It was time to act.
I grabbed scissors out of the junk drawer in the kitchen and marched to the statue. My mother’s voice singing “Be Still My Soul” repeated in my mind to block the incoming flood of impressions. Before fear froze my actions, I cut through the thick tape and ripped the brown paper.
The wave of emotions beat over me like an icy tide.
“Alright, Albert Johnson or whoever’s voice I’m hearing, tell me how to find you.”
Seeming to answer me, Walter chanted, Don’t fight it. Embrace your gift and come find me.
I focused on his voice, driving every competing impression back into its corresponding object. The message tingled through me as I gave it control. My hands flared like they were holding a ball. My skin crawled as I allowed the impression to influence me when my usual MO called for me to block them at all costs. The ball in my hand—well, in the hand of the speaker at the time he left the impression—had contours and weighed less than I would have guessed based on its size. My gaze fell to it. More accurately, the man’s gaze stared at the globe in his hands, and I came along for the ride. A globe, like one of those you’d find in an old classroom, but dull and sepia-colored instead of the modern blues and greens.
I blinked to bring the statue back into focus. Where would a globe be? That was when I noticed the continents carved into Walter’s round head.
That was where Albert touched the statue in the newspaper article. Was that a hint or a coincidence?
Welp. I either go to bed or do this thing. The last swallow of wine slipped down my throat. I cracked my knuckles and placed my fingertips only on the sphere.
As soon as I made contact, all tension left my body.
Albert, or whoever left the message, was calm. More than calm, comforting. I’d never felt such an impression before. I’d always believed that peaceful feelings lacked the intense energy needed for a remnant memory. Somehow, the cursed voice had managed to create an impression on purpose. Imagine how much more he could teach me.
I closed my eyes to focus on the message playing in my head. In the memory, a street sign swayed beside a traffic light: Bagby. I knew that part of Houston well. I would have bought a condo there if I could’ve afforded it.
Acid sloshed in my stomach as the image jumped ahead to an apartment building. No, that wasn’t quite right. They were condos with wrought iron balconies and Hardiplank siding that began light blue close to the street and darkened to deep navy at the top floor. I thought I recognized that building across the street from my favorite Mexican restaurant.
The image jumped again. My stomach couldn’t tolerate much more. A bright red door with curly numbers affixed above the peek hole declared the condo 413.
What was with the melodrama? Couldn’t he have just written the address on the damn thing? Of course, anyone could have found him then. I can’t imagine going through all this trouble to find someone like you, another cursed person, only to have a stalker show up.
Then the familiar words repeated as the door opened, Don’t fight it. Embrace your gift and come find me.
The vision popped back to the beginning and the Bagby street sign. I blinked my eyes open as I released Walter.
Midtown. It was only a twenty-minute drive, but it was Sunday at dinner time.
I shook my head as I bent to the floor and retrieved my gloves. I couldn’t believe I was actually contemplating driving down there to confront a stranger. What if he wasn’t cursed like me? Would he have a supplier who brought him these items? Maybe I should do more research before I headed out.
I’d been the only cursed person my entire life. The rest of the wine helped quell my fears. If there was the possibility of another out there, I had to know. Tonight.
Chapter Four
What do I say? I hovered in front of the elevator for ten minutes and stared at the red door at the other end of the hallway. My heart raced as if I’d just finished a marathon.
Nope. I can’t do this. I pressed the elevator button. What was I thinking driving out here to bang on the door of a complete stranger and demand answers for questions I didn’t know how to ask? The elevator doors slid open and I took one step.
My muscles tensed, refusing to move any further.
If Albert really was cursed and he could so effortlessly co-exist with the remnants that tortured me, maybe he could teach me the trick, show me how to control this curse. If I walked away now, I could be alone forever, stuck in this not-life.
The only real connections to humanity I had were Gina and Amelia. What would happen if they married and had families and left me behind? I never dared dream of a husband and children and PTA meetings and strolls on the beach. But maybe I could have that with Albert’s help. Maybe he could teach me how to be normal.
I had to take the chance. In one determined movement, I pivoted on my heels, marched down the hall, and knocked on number 413. On its own, the door swung open before I had a chance to drop my fist.
Doubt flooded my mind as the smell of rotten food wafted from the darkness. My forearm blocked my nose. Over the foul odor, flowed more emotional remnants. I hadn’t considered the possibility there would be other pieces at his place. I should have finished that bottle of wine before I headed over here. A little numbing would be a welcome gift. My gloves hugged my hands as I steeled my resolve.
A metal rack stacked tightly with eclectic pieces practically vibrated with impressions. I marveled at the cultivated collection. Albert, or his partner, must have combed the state to amass these objects imbedded with memories. I had come across only a few in my entire lifetime. Was he putting together statues and placing them a
ll over the city? Like a kind of calling card for cursed people to track him down? How many of us could there possibly be?
What was I getting myself into?
“Albert!” My voice echoed against the dark walls, like these shelves were the only furniture in the place. “I should probably just leave, but you summoned me. Albert, err—” my mother’s hymn in my mind turned to her voice admonishing me for my lack of manners, “Mr. Johnson, are you here?”
A dim light beckoned me further into the apartment. That smell turned my stomach. He couldn’t be here. No one would leave food to rot that long without tossing it. What was next? I guess I could leave him a note.
It felt strange to leave my details after breaking into a stranger’s home, but I wasn’t sure what else to do. Around the shelves I was careful not to touch, a small Victorian stained-glass lamp offered a bit of light. On its table sat a notepad and a pencil roughly carved, like with a pen knife instead of a formal school sharpener.
Something was really wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. The impressions beating my brain made it difficult to think clearly. My hands shook as I reached for the writing utensil.
“I’m leaving you a note, Mr. Johnson. If you’re here, I’ll… dammit.”
The pencil slipped from my hands and rolled toward the kitchen. It stopped abruptly in a drop of liquid.
When I retrieved it, all I could think was how gross this apartment was. As I turned the pencil in my hand, the thick fluid was almost gel-like. The pale lamp light reflected off a deep red, almost purple pigment.
What is this? Curry maybe. Or rancid ketchup. My heart beat faster as something deep down, something under the haze of the wine, told me it wasn’t a condiment. Before I had time to question my actions, I used the light from my phone to follow the trail around the faux wall between the kitchen and living area.
All other emotions, mine and those of the impressions, vanished in an instant, and all I felt was shock. The light rippled as tremors shook my hands. Sprawled in the middle of the black and white classic tiles lay the mutilated corpse of Albert Johnson.
The Collector (Emergence Book 1) Page 2