Paper Tigers

by Damien Angelica Walters

  After the stretching, Meredith crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “The dark circles under your eyes and you falling asleep on the table again say otherwise, my dear.”

  “Lots of late night…”

  parties

  The woman playing the piano. The man with the monocle. The woman in the rose colored dress. The lamplight shining on the wine in her glass. And Thomas’s arms, holding her close as they danced, his voice, soft and gentle near her ear.

  “Alison?” Meredith’s voice was sharp. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I’m fine. Just tired.”

  “Okay, if you say so. You know, you might want to eat more, too, ‘cause you’re looking a little thin.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  When Meredith ran upstairs to the bathroom, Alison limped over to her bag and grabbed out the camera. She tucked it behind a sofa cushion and wiped the guilt from her face. She wasn’t stealing it, just borrowing, and she’d call Meredith when she was done and tell her she’d found it.

  She touched the spot of skin on her hip. How many times would she have to go into the paper world? And were there enough photos, enough doorways, to make her whole?

  Alison stood in front of the refrigerator with the door open, unsure when she’d eaten last. She thought she’d made tea and toast earlier or had it been yesterday, before Meredith had arrived? She checked the trash can and found two pieces of toast, one whole, the other with a few bites missing. So this morning then. And yesterday? Maybe not toast, but surely soup or something.

  She grabbed a banana, but the first bite tasted like cardboard; the second, not much better. She tossed the rest, uneaten, in the trash can. She wasn’t even hungry.

  When her mother called, Alison was sitting on the sofa with the photo album on her lap. She’d transcribed what little there was of the inscription and played with the empty spaces for an hour, but she wasn’t any closer to solving the puzzle.

  “I called yesterday,” her mother said. “But you didn’t answer.”

  “Meredith was here, and after she left, I took a nap.”

  “And how is Meredith? I should call her one of these days and say hello.”

  Alison’s fingers dug into the phone. To say hello or to check on her daughter? Meredith would tell her about the scars. Then her mother would insist she go to the doctor.

  But she wasn’t a child anymore. Her mother couldn’t force her to do anything. The pages rustled. She smiled and rubbed her fingers along the edge of the cover.

  “Alison?”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought the phone had disconnected.”

  “I’m still here. Sorry, I’m still tired from

  my trip into the album

  yesterday.”

  “Do you need anything? I can stop over a little later today?”

  The pages rustled again, and one tiny music note slipped out.

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  Alison traced the bottom line of the inscription. The important word was whole. The tiger was incidental. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Are you sure? You seem distracted lately, and you’re sleeping a lot.”

  “I’m fine. Really, I am.”

  And you can stop questioning me. I’m not a child.

  Another music note, faded and forlorn.

  “Okay. How about if I come over tomorrow?”

  Why? To check up on me? To make sure I’m not moping around crying woe is me?

  “Sure, but call first in case I’m napping.”

  After the goodbyes and the perfunctory “I love you, too” Alison tossed the phone aside and turned to the photo of the parlor. Her breath caught in her throat as the page went up and over on its own, revealing the next photo, the next doorway—the turret room on the first floor. The clock was in its normal position; next to that, two chairs were arranged around a small table, the curtains of the windows behind slightly open to reveal the edge of a rosebush. And to the right of the clock, a rectangular mark on the wall.

  Alison bent closer. It appeared to be a crack or an open space. Her lips curved, distorting the scars on her cheek. She touched the photo, imagining she could feel the edge of a door leading inside the walls.

  That’s where Mary wanted her to go. And where did it lead? A tiny shiver raced up and down her spine. She’d find out soon enough.

  Twenty-four hours later, the mark vanished. A click broke the quiet, and a tendril of grey crept from beneath the photo’s edge, carrying the smell of old, forgotten things: boxes split at the seams, the contents leaking out like disemboweled stuffed animals, old rooms locked for years, books packed away in a grandmother’s attic and found three generations later.

  Alison slipped the camera’s carry strap over her left wrist and lowered her right hand to the photo. Before she left the world of the real, she saw finger-shaped indentations on the photo. Five, not three.

  CHAPTER 16

  In the house, she ran her fingertips (only eight misshapen finger piggies) across her face. Still a Monstergirl. But the camera had survived the journey. She snapped two pictures of the foyer, cringing at the bright light and the echo of the click. Soon enough, the silence devoured the sound.

  Her fingertips tingled. Sensation rushed in. She smiled, despite the scars and the missing fingers. The edges of the camera were still warm.

  Footprints marked the floor. Hers, with her toes clearly outlined, larger prints belonging to man’s shoes, and a child’s. Mary’s. Near the turret room, she paused to take another picture and tried the doorknob.

  Locked.

  She nudged it with her shoulder. No luck. She took a picture of the door and as she turned away, a low creak pierced the air. She whirled around, swallowing a cry of surprise.

  The door finished its slow arc, bounced gently off the wall behind it, and came to a stop. A muffled laugh sounded from behind the wood.

  “Mary?”

  A small, cold hand touched Alison’s as she entered the room, tugging her toward the wall. “Yes, I’ll go with you.”

  The fingers tightened in response. Alison cocked her head to the side. The little girl had a pale, shimmery outline that resembled motes caught in a sunbeam.

  Together, one real girl and one not, they approached the wall. The cold hand slipped from hers and with a scratch of wood against wood, a section of the wall swung open. A child-sized door.

  Alison tucked the camera in her pocket and peered into the darkness, holding on to the edge of the doorway with one hand. She snuck into the hidden space, first her left shoulder, then her left leg, then right shoulder and right leg. The grey light from the house illuminated the first several feet—a narrow but tall hallway lined with dust and dangling spiderwebs. The floor, hard-packed dirt, was cold beneath her socks.

  Alison brushed webs away from her face. Keeping her elbows bent because of the width of the passage, she ran her palms over the walls of rough, unfinished wood, feeling pits and hollows and splinters ready for their next victim. The ceiling, made of the same, was a few scant inches above the top of her head.

  Mary appeared as a grey waver in the air. Her features darkened into view, taking shape, more visible now in the shadows than in the light of the house.

  “Come.” Mary’s voice was gone before an echo could attach itself to the word, and her footsteps pattered on the floor, deeper into the passage.

  Alison walked into another web and gave a breathy laugh as she clawed it away from her cheek. Soft music sounded from far away, the trill of fingers moving across piano keys not in a song but an aimless touch. The door creaked shut, plunging them into darkness. She jumped and half-turned to go back, but Mary grabbed her hand again.

  “Come.”

  Placing her right hand on the wall for security, Alison took another step, then another. Pale light broke through gaps in the wall between the wood; slowly, her eyes a
djusted to the gloom. They made a sharp left turn, went straight for ten paces, then made a hard right. Alison paused, ignoring Mary’s tug.

  “Wait,” she said. One music note slipped through the wood on her left. It didn’t make sense. The passage wasn’t following the dimensions of the house. Were they inside the real walls at all or was this another paper trick?

  The passageway narrowed. Alison turned sideways, the wood nearly pressing against her chest and back. She side-stepped five, ten, a dozen times before the passageway opened back up. More cobwebs hung in the air, sliding across her cheeks and sticking to her hair, but the previous inhabitants had all vanished long ago. Nothing living moved in this house, not anymore. Nothing save her, and she only a temporary guest.

  The house itself wasn’t even real. It was a collection of photographs in an old album, paper memories of something that once was.

  Mary pulled her hand once more, and she stepped into a column of air so cold, her lungs ached and goosebumps riddled the skin of her left arm. And then she couldn’t move at all. Her heels were anchored to the floor, arms glued in place at her sides, lungs filled but unable to release, heart caught in mid-beat. The cold swirled around her face, stinging her eyes.

  Time stretched out, an hourglass tipped on its side, captured inside the cold and—

  Can’t breathe, can’t move, let me go, let me go.

  Mary’s fingers tugged, and Alison’s limbs stuttered into movement. Two staggering steps and the cold vanished with a shift in air pressure she felt in her ears. She leaned against the wall, the wood rough against her cheek. Exhaled and inhaled hard.

  “Come.”

  With another shaking breath, she let the little ghost lead on. They came upon three small steps leading to a small landing, then another three steps, down this time. A turn to the right. A long, straight pathway. Then another turn, to the left. The pale light waxed and waned.

  From beyond the wall, a high-pitched, feminine voice said, “I know you’re here. I can feel you. Tell me what you want.”

  A deep voice, a George voice, replied with an echoing laugh, that ended as Alison and Mary made another turn. Another set of stairs, seven this time. Mary stopped and let go of her hand.

  They stood in a long, rectangular space with a sloped ceiling. Narrow bands of light filtered into the room, creating starpoints of illumination. The walls, although unfinished, held a certain smoothness the passageway did not. Mary retreated to the far corner. A puddle of old blankets lay in the corner, coated with dust, but when Mary sat down, tucking her legs beneath her, neither blanket nor grime moved. The ghost girl gathered a stuffed bear with a mouth made of black stitching into her lap.

  Footsteps sounded above their heads, moving in a staccato rhythm, and Alison knew where they were—under the stairs. Music notes played softly in the distance. More footsteps passed, this time on the right. Mary buried her face in the blankets.

  “Mary, where are you hiding now, child?” a scratchy voice called out. “It’s time for supper.” More footsteps, then the same voice again. “Mrs. Pennington, I’ve no idea where that child went.”

  Mary held the bear against her chest. Alison crouched down beside her.

  “Is this your hiding place?”

  Mary nodded.

  “I like it.”

  “Safe,” Mary said.

  “Yes, I’m sure it is safe here. Safe and snug.”

  Mary lifted a hand, extending the teddy bear. Alison took it in her hands. This, at least, felt real. Under her skin, the bear was smooth, most of the fur rubbed away to the silky nap below. The bear smelled of talcum powder and time, a pervasive smell that conjured a sense of sorrow. This button-eyed bear had been loved by a little girl who’d died far too young, yet somehow still lingered here in the house.

  “Was George your brother?” she asked.

  Mary looked down. Nodded.

  “I’d like to try something,” Alison said, handing the bear back and readying the camera. “It’s okay. Don’t be afraid.”

  When she lifted the camera, Mary’s eyes grew wide.

  “It’s okay.”

  Alison snapped the picture. Mary recoiled, her hands flailing, as the flash brightened the room.

  “See? It’s okay. It’s safe.” She took two more pictures, smiling in-between.

  Mary buried her face in the bear’s abdomen and pressed against the wall, her mouth a dark circle of alarm.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Not safe,” came the reply.

  “It’s okay. It’s just a camera. It’s safe. I promise.”

  Mary shook her head from side to side, her hair whipping back and forth. The teddy bear dropped from her hands. She stared past Alison to the entrance of the hiding place, and her mouth worked, forming words Alison couldn’t hear. The little girl lifted her arms to cover her face, and Alison tried to speak, but a sudden chill morphed her voice into a plume of frosted air.

  The air shifted, the cold vanished, and Mary winked out of sight, leaving behind the bear and blankets. Alison rubbed her hands up and down her arms, and bent to retrieve the teddy bear.

  The clock chimed. She bolted from the hiding place, back down the seven stairs, but now there was another step after the seventh. She stepped down cautiously, carefully, feeling the space with her toes before descending again, her heart moving faster than her feet, but now there were eight, nine, ten steps, and then her feet hit the floor.

  The clock’s chime rang out again.

  The turn came next, then another and a long straightaway, her feet marking each step with a thud. Had it been this long?

  Another chime, and the light peeking through the walls darkened. Alison kept her left hand on the wall. There were steps ahead somewhere. She took careful, halting steps.

  “Come, Josephine,” she said. “Going up, up, up, where are the steps?”

  She snapped a picture. The dirt floor appeared nearly black in places, the walls splintered, but before the light ebbed, she saw the steps. She curled her fingers tight around the camera. Three steps up, she remembered, and three down, but now there were four. And five. Changing shape because it wanted her to stay.

  Yet another chime sounded, and Red said, Stupid girl, the words laced with venom.

  The path straightened, and she batted at the sticky tendrils dangling in her face and tangling in her hair. Why had she thought it a good idea to slip inside the walls?

  The clock chimed for the fifth time, and cold stopped her in her tracks with her right leg outstretched, her left hand on the rough wall. Icy bands coiled around her chest, holding her in place.

  “Stay with us, Alison.” A colorless voice, as flat as a photo in an album, without tone, without sex. The voice of the tiger?

  No, it was a paper tiger. And nothing more. She flexed the fingers of her left hand. A splinter dug into the soft pad of her pinkie, but she held in the cry and scraped her hand down the wall.

  She wiggled the fingers of her right hand. The edge of the camera dug in her palm. She found the button on top, pressed down, and the flash bounced off the walls, turning dark to day as the clock chimed once more.

  “Let me go,” she shouted, her voice thick.

  Then her left leg was free. Her knee bent, her right foot flexed, and

  up she goes

  she peeled her left hand from the wall, then her right hand, and she pushed forward. With a lurch, she fell out of the cold onto her knees.

  “Stay…”

  No thank you. She staggered to her feet, banging her shoulder on the wall. The walls closed in, tightening on each side. Turning sideways, she scuttled through the narrowed section. Another chime reverberated in the air.

  The passageway turned to the left, went straight for ten paces, turned to the right. Grey light seeped through the walls. Voices followed, soft and distant.

  “And then he told me—”

  “Wasn’t that funny—”

  “Where is that girl now?”

  Alison pi
cked up her pace, moving straight now. Soon, the doorway would be on her left. The clock sounded again, closer now. Was that the seventh? Maybe the eighth?

  Fool. Why didn’t you count them?

  She still had time. With steady and even paces, she headed toward the end of the passageway, toward the clock, toward freedom, toward home. Another splinter dug into the fleshy pad of her finger, piercing deep through the scars. She winced but kept moving. Close. She was close now.

  She pressed the button on the camera, and the light revealed the dead-end. She stumbled to a stop, her nose inches away from banging into the wall. The clock rang out on her left. Now for the secret door. She flashed the camera, searching for the seam. Her hands swept the wall in wide arcs. No cracks. Only smooth wood. The bitter taste of panic rose in her throat. She swallowed it down and kept searching.

  No seam. No hinge. No secret door. No way out.

  Impossible.

  The clock chimed and it was so loud, so close. “Almost, almost,” she said, tracing the wall with her palms. “I know you’re here somewhere.” She felt the edge of a hinge, carefully concealed in the wood, found the seam and pushed.

  Nothing happened.

  A man laughed from the other side of the wall. Was he holding the door in place? Keeping her inside? She shrieked in banshee fury and shoved with all her might. The wood creaked. The clock chimed.

  She shoved again and the door gave way. Breathless, her heart and lungs a painful weight in her chest, she spilled out into the turret room and propelled her body toward the clock, her left hand out, and then she was falling, falling into, falling down, falling—

  —back home. She collapsed on the floor and wept into her hands. After she was all cried out, she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She held out her pale, scarless hands. All ten fingers present and accounted for.

  A laugh crept from her throat. She’d been trapped inside the walls and it wasn’t funny at all, but still, she laughed, a slow, breathy sound that gathered strength, gathered air and mirth and whimsy, and turned into great whoops so loud and hard her stomach ached. When it finally stopped, she wiped tears from her eye.