Paper Tigers

by Damien Angelica Walters

  She stood in the foyer, clad in satin skirts the color of a summer sky. Music and voices beckoned from another room. Overhead, a crystal chandelier glimmered, casting light down onto the table in the center and the vase of flowers there. A voice spoke nonsense, something about real and paper and clocks and scars, but it was inconsequential and she pushed it away.

  A man with a monocle tapped her arm. He seemed vaguely familiar, but this was her first party at the house, wasn’t it?

  “Hello, dear,” he said. “We’re so glad you’ve arrived.”

  “Thank you. I hope I’m not too late.”

  “Not at all, but before you go in with the others, George asked me to give you something.”

  George. Of course. He’d invited her to the party, hadn’t he?

  “Is he here?”

  “In his office, I imagine. He’ll be along shortly, but here,” he said, pressing something small and round into her hand. “There’s a mirror if you need it.” He nodded toward one wall.

  On her palm, a marble of glass, painted with iris and pupil.

  “I don’t…”

  “Your eye?”

  She lifted her hand to the empty space where an eye should be. “Oh, oh no.”

  “Not to worry. We all understand, dear. Go ahead now.”

  She turned her face away, tugged at her lid, and slid the eye in the empty socket. In the mirror, a pretty woman with vibrant eyes stared back.

  “George said it would be a perfect match. I think he was right, don’t you?

  “Yes,” she said, touching one smooth cheek. Something was

  wrong

  odd, but she couldn’t quite tell what. It resided on the tip of her tongue, unwilling to spill out.

  “Excellent.” He gazed over her shoulder. “Ah, it looks as though my wife requires my assistance. It was lovely to see you again.”

  “Yes, thank you for your help. Wait, please,” she said, tugging on his sleeve. “I don’t remember your name, I’m sorry.”

  “Forgive me for being remiss. I’m Edmund, Edmund Pennington.” He gave a small bow.

  Edmund Pennington? She knew the name, or thought she did, but it was wrong somehow. He couldn’t be Edmund because Edmund was—

  “But,” she said, “who are you?”

  “I’m George’s father, of course.”

  “But…” She dropped her voice. “Aren’t you dead?”

  The words were absurd, but they felt right.

  He cocked an eyebrow. Smiled. “Dead? No, I’m quite certain I’m not dead. Someone would know a thing like that, wouldn’t they? Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I need to attend to Eleanor.”

  Frowning, Alison watched him go. She must’ve misheard.

  In the music room, a woman was seated at the piano, her fingers dancing across the keys. The curtains were tied back, and through the open windows she caught a glimpse of several children, dressed in their Sunday best. They ran past, singing nursery rhymes in sweetly out-of-tune voices. Then a face at the back of the room caught her eye, a young man with brown eyes and a sad smile. She smiled in return. Maybe she’d stay for a little while. It couldn’t hurt.

  Every time Alison finished a glass of wine, someone placed another in her hand, yet she didn’t feel drunk, simply out of sorts. Faces flitted in and out of her line of sight. The music played on, one song after another.

  The lights dimmed, the voices of the partygoers became a subdued hush, and the voices of the children no longer played through the windows. The man with the sad smile had left the music room before she could talk to him; although she kept watching the arched entrance, he hadn’t returned.

  Somewhere, far off in the distance, a clock chimed, marking the hour. She stepped closer to the sound, and the floor gave a small shudder. The music stopped in mid-note, all conversation ceased, and everyone turned toward her.

  Silence pressed down with an uncomfortable weight, like smothering under a heavy blanket in the sticky heat of August. The air shimmered. The lights dimmed, brightened, and dimmed again. Images flashed in her mind: pavement, a wall, a woman’s face, her brow creased in concern.

  Edmund cupped her elbow in his hand and steered her back around. The lights flickered back to bright and the music and conversations began again.

  “Don’t leave,” Edmund said. “It’s still early.”

  “I, I wasn’t leaving,” she said, but she cast a look over her shoulder. The clock chimed again, a sound that seemed to mean something. But what?

  “Good. You don’t want to make George angry, do you? And you haven’t even danced with Thomas yet.”

  Yes, Thomas, that was his name. But had they met before at another party? This was her first party at the house, wasn’t it? A wave of dizziness turned her vision spotty. She touched one hand to her forehead. Swayed on her feet.

  “Here,” Edmund said, leading her over to a settee. “Sit down for a bit.”

  She sank down onto the cushion, and the dizziness ebbed away. But her limbs felt heavy, her thoughts, muddled. She couldn’t remember how long she’d been at the party, but she should leave soon. As soon as she felt better, she would. She twisted her hands together. Too much wine. Too much wrong. There were spaces in her head where things, memories, should be.

  She hid a yawn behind her hand. And why was she so tired, as though she hadn’t slept in days?

  The woman who’d been playing the piano sat down next to her and smiled. “I’m Rachel. You’re Alison, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “We’ve all heard so much about you. George is quite fond of you.”

  “What? I don’t understand. Fond of me?”

  “Oh, not like that. Madeline would kill anyone George thought of in that way.” Rachel laughed softly. “Well, maybe not kill. Sorry, that was a poor choice of words.”

  “Madeline?”

  “Don’t worry. She isn’t here right now.”

  Rachel brushed her hair back from her forehead, leaving behind a tiny streak of red near her temple.

  Alison gasped. “Your fingers…”

  Rachel held them up, gazing with disinterest at the swollen flesh. The raw skin of her index fingers were spotted with tiny pearls of blood. Why wasn’t she crying or calling out for help?

  “Can I help you? Do you need a bandage?”

  “Oh, not to worry,” Rachel said, but she hid her hands in the folds of her skirt. “It’ll go away soon enough.”

  “But doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Always,” Rachel said with a smile and a small shrug. “But that’s the price you pay sometimes for perfection.” She turned her face away, toward the piano. A dark spot marred the fabric of her dress, near the hem.

  A memory of holding an old book on her lap rushed in. Alison couldn’t remember the author or the story, only that it was somehow special. She’d been crying because…because…

  A husky laugh pulled her attention away. A woman, all high-cheekbones and upswept hair, stood in the entranceway. Her crimson dress made Alison think of anger, fierce rage laced with poison. The woman gave a slow nod, her eyes sharp with satisfaction. As she approached the settee, Rachel stood and Alison followed suit, but her ankle caught on the fabric of her skirt. Steadying herself on the seat cushion, she bent to pull her foot free. Light from the sconces danced on the wall behind them. Her shadow darkened the wallpaper, hers and hers alone. Still watching the wall, Alison gave Rachel’s arm a gentle squeeze, and though her shadow mimicked the movement, it touched nothing. A cold snake coiled the length of her spine.

  A throat cleared.

  “Rachel, it’s time for you to play another song,” the woman snapped, turning to Alison. “And you, don’t you get any ideas. I was the first.”

  “I don’t understand,” Alison said. “The first what?”

  “Never you mind. Do your part.”

  “My part?”

  But the woman was already gone.

  Rachel walked away, her fingers hanging d
own at her sides, speckling her dress with blood. Dots of blood flecked the cushion of the settee as well. Despite the animated gestures of the party guests, no shadows marred the wallpaper, save those cast by the lights. But how could they not cast shadows? And why did she?

  None of this is real, a soft voice said in her head.

  But how could that be? She ran her fingertips across the arm of the settee. Inhaled candlewax and perfume. Tasted wine, rich and sweet, in her mouth.

  Music soon filled the room, melancholy notes that lingered in the air and silenced the conversation. Alison crossed her arm beneath her breasts. A thought slipped in—should there be two? She didn’t understand. Two of what? Something was wrong. Very wrong. She wanted to go home.

  But where was home? Not at Pennington House,

  not yet

  she was sure, but where? The clock chimed for the third time. She turned in the direction of the sound. There was something about the clock, something important that would help her remember.

  Forget to remember, remember to forget.

  The words rushed in with the force of a jungle cat making its final leap. Her eyes narrowed; her lips pressed into a thin line. She pushed through the crowd, ignoring the looks of surprise. A hand grabbed her arm, but she shied away from the touch. Someone called her name. She didn’t look back. A man blocked her path. Thomas. He smiled and held out a hand.

  “Dance with me, Alison. Please.”

  She hesitated. His skin was warm; his touch, gentle.

  “Stay here with me,” he said.

  His fingers curled around hers; she shook them free. They could dance the next time. She was tired and she needed to leave. They had to let her leave.

  “Stop her,” someone called out.

  The clock, the clock, the clock.

  Yes, the clock was the key. A flash of red caught her eye. Madeline, moving toward her. Another hand grabbed her shoulder. She staggered back, and said, “Leave me alone,” yanking her arm free.

  “It doesn’t matter,” another voice said. “It’s too late.”

  No. She still had time. Her breath came fast and harsh. She heard the clock again. She raced from the room. Through the foyer. The wall sconces sputtered out to wisps of smoke. Everything turned to shadow, but she didn’t stop and neither did the clock. Her dress twisted around her ankles; she grabbed the fabric in both hands and lifted it to her knees. Ran through the doorway. And yes, there was the clock, the key to what she’d forgotten.

  The pendulum was swinging, the second hand moving wrong, but moving nonetheless. Her answers were close now, so close. The wood gleamed, all dark wood and gilt trim. The clock chimed again, but the sound was distant, muted. The pendulum swung, the filigree hands moved, and her hand passed through it all, as though the clock were mere illusion.

  “No,” she shouted, clawing at the air, at the clock face that wasn’t a face, but a memory of a face. A trick. The clock chimed again and again, each one fading further and further away. And, finally, it stopped. The pendulum paused in mid-swing, the hands froze, and silence fell into place.

  “No, please, no.”

  She held out her hands, fingers splayed. Through her skin—skin turned a translucent shade of pale—the grain of the wood and the glint of the clock peered back.

  But that—

  A low moan escaped from her throat. She turned her hands from side to side.

  —was wrong. Impossible.

  Goosebumps broke out on her arms. When they disappeared, a cold chill remained, deep under her skin. She shivered, started to take a step toward the doorway, then turned back to the clock. She’d been so certain it was the key. Was she wrong? She took a deep breath. Her hand slipped into the silent face all the way to her wrist. No smooth wood, no slick glass, no warmth. And all the colors had dimmed, leaving pale imitations in their place. The air tasted flat. Empty.

  “I’m afraid you cannot leave yet, my dear. There’s still so much to see.”

  She spun around, but she was alone in the room. From beyond the door, a woman’s laughter rose into the air, sharp and hard and cruel. It cut off mid-way, leaving her once more in silence.

  The door slammed shut, followed by the thuds of many doors shutting one after another. She jumped, crying out, but her voice emerged as an indistinct hum.

  Another voice crept in, tinged with anger that felt both familiar and foreign.

  Do something. Don’t just stand here.

  “Okay,” she said, but as she approached the door, her steps were slow.

  Her hand passed through the cut-glass doorknob. She tried again. Hand, wrist, and forearm slipped through the door. Like the clock. Like a ghost.

  She grimaced. She couldn’t be a ghost. She pressed her hand on her chest, comforted by the steady, living, beat of her heart. She’d been at the party, she’d heard the clock, and then—

  She held out her hands, the dark stripes of the wallpaper visible through them both.

  “Then this.”

  But what about before the party? Why couldn’t she remember?

  Because they don’t want you to.

  The floor shook beneath her feet, a quick tremble that vanished just as quickly. The colors brightened back to real. The cold creeping under her skin vanished. She grabbed the doorknob, her fingers dug into the glass and held, and then the floor shivered again. The colors faded. The cold returned. Her hand met only air. She frowned, a movement that felt real and solid. On the inside, she felt

  whole

  normal, but on the outside, she was anything but.

  Stop this. Do something now.

  She took a deep breath and stepped through the door. Her vision blurred, as though she were walking through a dense fog, then she passed through to the other side.

  And everyone was gone.

  She halted, her hands curling into fists. Everyone had been standing in small groups, talking and drinking. Now the rooms stood silent and empty, a tomb of furniture leached of nearly all its color. She took quick steps into the music room, the hem of her dress sweeping along the floor with no sound.

  The piano in the corner loomed dark, yet a paler sort of dark, grey instead of deep black. Liquor still shimmered in the glass decanters. The sconces still burned. The air held no smell at all, but surely she should smell perfume or brandy or something leftover from the people who’d been in the room. They couldn’t simply disappear.

  “Hello?”

  The silence stole every trace of her voice. And what had stolen her memories?

  Or who?

  She needed to remember what she’d forgotten. That was the key to finding the way out.

  A strain of music danced in the air, a touch of laughter, and a soft voice spoke near her ear in almost, but not quite words. She turned around with her hands held up palms out.

  “George?”

  The colors in the room shimmered, then faded back to pale.

  “I know you’re here.”

  Another laugh, deep and masculine. Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t know what sort of game George was playing, but she’d had enough. She took another step forward. The lights flickered, shadows danced along the wallpaper, and Alison slowly waved one hand. There was no corresponding motion on the wall.

  “I am not a ghost. I’m real,” she said, but her voice quavered.

  The other shadows continued to move.

  I can’t see them, but they’re all still here.

  But could they see her? Yes, she thought they could. Everything here was a trick. How else could she move through doors and leave nothing behind? The floor trembled beneath her feet. Voices pierced the hush, a gentle susurration of syllables.

  “…and then he…”

  “…no, she doesn’t…”

  “…careful…”

  Alison tipped her head to the side—colors and shapes blinked into existence. She smelled perfume. Men and women stood shoulder to shoulder with drinks in their hands, mouths moving in conversation. Madeline, Josephine, Thomas, Ed
mund, and others. But no George.

  She made a half-turn and they all disappeared. With a scowl, she turned back. The room with its pale furniture. She shook her head. Everything, the smells, the colors, the people, spun back in, then out, then in, then out, a sickening strobe light of there and gone again.

  Could everyone see her the same way—winking in and out of existence?

  “Enough,” she shouted to the ceiling. The walls drank her words before an echo could sound. Tears filled her eye, spilled down her cheek. Only one eye, of course, because the other was glass, a stupid glass sphere that couldn’t see, couldn’t cry. Something had hurt her, had taken her eye and left an empty socket in its place, but the what was lost somewhere in her mind. The tiger wouldn’t let her remember.

  She shrieked, a long sound without form that raced around the edges of the room. Laughter then, a woman’s laugh, familiar in its icy tone. Alison scrubbed the tears from her eye with the back of her hand and fled from the laughter, from the wide open spaces in her memory, from the room with its remembered smells and its promise of shadows.

  George had the answers and she’d make him tell her the truth.

  CHAPTER 19

  Halfway up the staircase to the second floor, she heard voices. A man’s voice. George? She raced to the landing and paused in the hallway. The voices vanished, but the first door on the right swung wide.

  Edmund, minus his monocle, and a woman with hair the color of honey stood in the middle of the room, deep in conversation. His face was contorted in barely held anger. The woman, her back to the door, put her hand on Edmund’s arm. He pulled away. Alison caught sight of her profile—a high cheekbone, strong nose, full lips. Her mouth moved and Edmund responded in kind, yet no sound escaped the room. The

  tricklight

  candles flickered and their colors washed out, leaving silvery shapes in their place. Then they shimmered back. Still though, at their edges the color was faded, as though it had a tenuous hold in this reality, this time.