Creative Spirit with Screenplay

by Scott Nicholson

  She couldn’t help herself, she leaned closer, held her face against the wood, scorched her skin against her lover’s searing lips.

  Then he was gone, back into the walls where the fire could warm his soul.

  CHAPTER 27

  Mason woke just in time to miss lunch. His mouth felt as if it had a dirty sock stuck in it. Someone had stoked the fire while he’d slept. He dressed in his other pair of jeans and a plain red flannel shirt. He thought about the sculpture as he brushed his teeth, wondering if he’d really finished it in a single night.

  His studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Dark wedges haunted the flesh under his eyes. He wasn’t used to keeping odd hours. He usually followed the “slow and steady” theory of work, but he’d never before been swept up in such a creative storm as he had while fashioning the bust. No wonder so many of the so-called “true visionaries” crashed and burned at an early age.

  “Oh yeah, I’m a real visionary, all right,” he said to his bleary reflection. “Double visionary.”

  His reflection shimmered a little and he rubbed his eyes. A wave of dizziness struck him and he reached out to balance himself. One hand gripped the sink and the other pressed against the mirror. The glass was warm beneath his palm. For the briefest of moments, Mason saw the bust he’d sculpted instead of his own reflection, then the hallucination passed. Mason frowned and splashed some water on his face. It was bad enough seeing Korban everywhere on canvas, but if the bastard was going to swim nonstop before his eyes, then maybe Mason needed a break. Or a shrink.

  The upper floors were quiet. Walking down the stairs, he heard clattering noises rising from what he figured was the kitchen. Maids had carried food through the door to the left of the stairs. He wondered if anybody would mind if he ducked in for a snack.

  Mason poked his head through the swiveled door. A plump, dour woman wrestled with a cast-iron skillet at the sink. A froth of soap bubbles clung to one cheek.

  “Hey there,” Mason said. “Is it okay if I grab a quick sandwich?”

  She glared at him, through him. He looked over his shoulder. When he looked back, she gave a terse nod to a counter by the stove. A loaf of homemade bread sat on a cutting board, three or four white slices stacked to the side.

  Most of lunch had been cleared up and put away, but the odor of fried trout still hung in the air. Mason passed a long cookstove with its thick metal grill. There was a door on each side for stoking wood, and a wide door in the middle for a baking oven. A smaller stove stood off near the corner, its pipe running up and making an elbow through the wall. Mason marveled that anyone could cook at all on these primitive appliances, much less create feasts lavish enough for the manor’s pampered guests.

  Mason picked up two slices of bread. “Anything to put between these?”

  The cook glowered and wiped a butcher knife with her towel. “There, in the icebox,” she said in a thick Bavarian accent, pointing the knife toward what looked like a squat highboy with doors instead of drawers.

  Mason opened one of the doors, and cool air wafted over his face. On the metal shelves were some eggs in a basket, a thick wheel of cheese, a pitcher of cream, a boned chunk of cooked ham, and assorted fruits and vegetables. A block of ice sat on the highest shelf, its corners rounded from melting. Water dripped into a catch pan at the bottom of the icebox.

  Mason pulled out the cheese and ham and placed them on the counter, then took a small knife from a wooden holder. He cut a couple of slices from each, then stacked them on a piece of bread. He could feel the cook’s eyes on his back.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up after myself.” Mason’s smile evoked no change in her hard eyes. He pulled a couple of leaves from a head of iceberg lettuce, added it to the sandwich, topped it with bread, and mashed the whole thing flat.

  “That’s how we do it down in Sawyer Creek,” he said, taking a bite.

  The cook frowned and returned to the dirty dishes. That’s when Mason saw the painting on the wall above the door. Another portrait of Korban. This one done in deep shadows, those eyes as cold as in all the other paintings. Was there a room in the house that didn’t have that man’s unrelenting scowl?

  A coffeepot rested on the small cookstove. Ceramic coffee mugs hung from hooks on a rack near the sink. Mason stepped around the counter and reached for one.

  “Pardon me,” he said, as the cook flinched. Mason lost his balance, still groggy from his cheated sleep. He put out his hand to avoid falling into her.

  When he touched her shoulder, she gave a screech and dropped a plate. It shattered on the floor. Mason stepped back and looked at his hand.

  No. That couldn’t have happened.

  The door swiveled open and Miss Mamie entered the room. She wore a bulldog mask of disapproval.

  “Sorry, it was my fault,” Mason said. He was about to add that he’d be happy to pay for the broken dish, then remembered that he didn’t have any money.

  “Gertrude?” Miss Mamie said. Her eyes seemed to grow even darker as the cook’s face paled. The cook glanced at the portrait of Korban above the sink.

  “No, really, it was me,” Mason said. “I was just getting a cup—”

  “Guests normally aren’t allowed in the kitchen area, Mr. Jackson, for reasons I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  “Uh, sure. I was just leaving.” He collected his sandwich and made for the door.

  “Back to work now, Gertrude,” Miss Mamie said. The cook immediately plunged her arms into the soapy dishwater, too afraid to stop long enough to sweep up the shards of broken ceramic.

  Miss Mamie held the swivel door open so Mason could pass, then followed him into the hall. “How do you like working in the basement?” she asked, once again cheerful, as if the incident in the kitchen had never happened.

  “It’s perfect,” Mason said, continuing down the hall, still uneasy. “It’s private, with enough room so I can swing my elbows around, and the walls and floor are insulated so I don’t have to worry about bothering anybody.”

  “Lovely,” she said. “Master Korban would be pleased.”

  “Stays a little warm down there, though.”

  “Well, we simply must keep the central fire going. We pride ourselves on having hot water available twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Sure, I understand. It’s not intolerable or anything. The worst part is that I get all sweaty and stinky, and I wouldn’t want to scare off the other guests.”

  “That’s why we have the hot water, Mr. Jackson.”

  Mason had reached the door to the basement. He had to go down there and see if he had actually sculpted the bust of Korban or if the night before had been a dream. He wondered if Miss Mamie was going to follow him down.

  “Well, I’ll see you at dinner, I reckon,” he said, waiting by the door.

  She put a cold hand on his arm. “You’ll be getting some more wood this evening, won’t you? I’ll have Ransom hook up the wagon.”

  “Well, I need to finish something first.”

  “Oh, I thought you were going to do a life-sized piece.”

  Mason searched his memory. Had he mentioned such a thing? A human figure? Had he even thought about it? Maybe his big dream images were getting so oversize that he was babbling about them before he could even get started.

  “Yeah, I was thinking of something like that,” he said.

  “You’re going to be successful. But you have to have the fire. Master Korban always said hard work is its own reward. You know what they say about idle hands.”

  Mason held up the hand that wasn’t holding the sandwich. “Well, I’d better get to work, then.”

  Miss Mamie wore a look of anticipation as he reached for the doorknob. Mason didn’t want to show anyone the work until he was sure it was finished.

  “And I’ll get up with Ransom about that wood,” he said, slipping through the door. He closed it behind him, stumbling a little in the dark. By the time he’d inched his way down the steps, his eyes had adjus
ted to the daylight trickling through the small, high windows.

  He reached the workbench and lifted the drop cloth. From the table, Korban stared back at him.

  No, not Korban. Just a highly detailed replica.

  But for just a moment . . .

  Easy, guy. You’re just a little short of sleep, is all.

  Then Mason looked down at his hand, remembering how it had felt when it had touched the cook. When it had passed through the cook.

  Remembering how his hand had sunk into her flesh as if she were made of soggy, store-bought white bread. Remembering how his hand had burned.

  Okay, so you’re more than just a little short of sleep. You must have hit yourself in the head with the mallet last night.

  Maybe hunger was the culprit. He took another bite of his sandwich.

  Yeah, hunger. He’d better fatten up during his stay. There might be lean days ahead.

  Unless he kept producing work like this.

  The sculpture was solid proof of his ability. Fine, lifelike detail. Each eyelash defined. The lips set in a soft sneer between the thick mustache and beard, ready to part in speaking. Even when he turned away, he felt as if the eyes were following him.

  He found an old broom in the corner and swept the wood shavings into a pile near the corner. Then he saw the oil painting where he’d left it leaning against the cabinet. He’d forgotten to ask Miss Mamie about it.

  Mason picked up the finished view of the house. He held it high so he could admire the brushstrokes in daylight. Yes, beautiful, if only the artist had fixed that little smudge.

  The smudge had grown larger since the night before. The gray area had stretched wide enough to cover two balusters of the railing.

  It must have been a flaw in the paint. But Mason had never heard of oil paint deteriorating so rapidly. Though thoroughly dried, the paint was far from ancient.

  Or maybe this was all in his imagination.

  The incredible expanding stain, Ransom and his charms, Anna and her hints of ghosts, the creepy Lilith, the insubstantial cook. Sure, he could chalk all those odd things up to his imagination. But better to blame that good old standby, the all-time fave.

  Stress.

  Because this was it, the last hurrah, the whole enchilada, the really big shew, the last grab for the brass ring. The last big dream. Because if he didn’t produce here, it was back to the textile mills, probably for good.

  And THAT would make Mama proud, wouldn’t it? After all her sacrifice.

  Mason finished his sandwich, even though he’d lost his appetite. This bust couldn’t be his masterpiece. Miss Mamie was right. Bigger was better.

  CHAPTER 28

  “Did you get any footage this morning?” Adam leaned against the bureau and folded his arms.

  Paul put away his camera. “I have to save my batteries. I only have four. That gives me about eight hours of juice. And there’s no way to recharge them out here.”

  Adam watched Paul stack the equipment in the closet. His partner had a cute body, he had to admit. But Adam sometimes wondered if their relationship was built on anything besides the physical. Paul liked Times Square, and the place gave Adam the creeps. Paul liked coffeehouses and parties, and Adam liked curling up on the sofa with a good book. When it came right down to it, Paul was late-night MTV and Adam was weekend VH-1.

  And there was the issue of adoption. Adam was ready to raise a child, to share the wealth of love in his heart. He had plenty of money from his inheritance. Enough to pay the adoption fees and lawyers, enough for the courts to be satisfied that Adam had that most-desired parental quality: that Adam would be able to afford whatever outrageously expensive toy was trendy each Christmas, so the child wouldn’t grow up as a social outcast, snubbed by peers and forever despised by advertisers.

  Adam was afraid in some small part of himself that he only wanted a child to tie Paul down. Paul was a bit of a free spirit, and even unknowingly hurt Adam by going on a weeklong cruise with an older man before Adam had mustered the courage to share his feelings. Paul had been faithful since, but Adam wondered if perhaps the right temptation had never arisen. In fact, he thought maybe you couldn’t even call it “faith” until that faith had survived a test.

  “What do you want to do tonight?” Paul said. “Go down for drinks?”

  “You could have joined me for lunch.”

  “Look, we don’t have to spend every damned second together, do we?”

  Adam didn’t answer, because something shifted in the mirror, a flicker cast by the fireplace.

  “What’s wrong?” Paul said.

  Adam rubbed his eyes. “Nothing. I’m just a little messed up, I guess.”

  Paul grinned. “Oh yeah. Maybe you saw the woman in white. And you thought I was lying.”

  “Too many other weird things are happening. I just saw—”

  “Saw what?”

  “I don’t know. Just the reflection of the painting. I feel like . . . like everything’s going out of control. I mean, we’re fighting all the time and I’m supposed to care about your stupid video when you won’t even listen to a word I say. And this place, it’s getting on my nerves.”

  “Come on, this is only our third day here.”

  “And these problems are supposed to just go away?”

  Paul’s face clenched in anger. “I don’t have time for this right now. In fact, I never have time for these pointless arguments. All you want to do is talk in circles.”

  “Look, I don’t mind paying for this vacation, but I thought you were going to be working on your project—”

  “Oh, here we go with that crap again. You and your money.”

  Adam was on the verge of tears. Paul scorned tears and would say Adam was being a silly little girl. And Paul would say it with the smug superiority of someone whose emotions were always in check. Except the emotion of anger.

  “Oh, Princess,” Paul said, coming to him, hugging him. “Did someone upset the tea cart? Do you need another forty mattresses so you won’t feel the pea?”

  “Go away.” Adam pushed Paul’s arms from around his waist. “You bastard.”

  Adam’s vision blurred from rage. This was crazy. He never lost control like this.

  “Fine, Princess,” Paul said. “Don’t bother waiting up for me.”

  Adam sat on the bed as the door slammed. He wished they’d never come to Korban Manor. He stood and grabbed the bedstead, then started pulling the twin beds apart. When he had them in separate corners of the room, he looked up at the portrait of Korban.

  “Paul can have the woman in white, and I’ll have you.”

  The fire roared its approval.

  CHAPTER 29

  The horses were beautiful, sleek, their muscles bunched in grace. No wonder they were Anna’s favorite animals. Once, before the fatalistic oncology report, she had dreamed of owning a stable and boarding horses. But that dream was as fleeting and insubstantial as all the others, whether the dream was of Korban Manor, Stephen, or her own ghost.

  She heard an off-key whistle, what sounded like an attempt at “Yankee Doodle,” and turned to see Mason walking down the road toward the barn. He waved and stopped beside her at the fence, then looked across the pasture as if watching a movie projected against the distant mountains.

  “So, how’s the ghost-hunting going?” he asked.

  She didn’t need this. Stephen was bad enough. At least Stephen believed in ghosts, though his ghosts had energy readings instead of souls. But Mason was just another self-centered loser, probably a blind atheist, cocksure that nothing existed after breath ceased. Atheists were far more proselytizing and smug than any Christian Anna had ever met.

  “You know something?” she said. “People like you deserve to be haunted.”

  Mason spread his arms in wounded resignation. “What did I say?”

  “You don’t have to say it with words. Your eyes say plenty. Your eyes say, ‘What a lovable flake. She’s bound to be impressed by a great artist such as
myself and it’s only a matter of time before she falls into my bed.’”

  “You must have me confused with William Roth.”

  “Sorry,” she said, knowing she was taking her frustration and anger out on a relatively innocent bystander. But no one was completely innocent. “I’m just a little unraveled at the moment.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Yeah. Like you’d understand.”

  “Look, I’ve seen you taking your long walks, sneaking out at night with your flashlight. So you like to be alone. That’s fine. So do I. But if weird things are happening to me, they’re probably happening to you, too. Maybe even worse stuff, because no way in hell would I go out there in the dark.” Mason nodded to the forest that, even with the explosion of autumn’s colors, appeared to harbor fast and sharp shadows.

  “What weird things are you talking about? I thought you were a skeptic.”

  “Ah. I figured I’d arouse your scientific curiosity, if nothing else. Have you seen George around?”

  “George?”

  Mason moved closer, lowering his voice as if to deter an invisible eavesdropper. “How long does somebody have to be dead before he becomes a ghost?”

  Anna looked at Korban Manor through the trees, at the widow’s walk with its thin white railing, where her dream figure had stood under the moonlight. “Maybe it happens before they’re even dead.”

  “Okay. How about this one? Can you be haunted by something inside your own head? Because I’m seeing Ephram Korban every time I close my eyes, I see him in the mirror, I see him in the fireplace, my hands carve his goddamned face even when I tell them to work on something else.”

  “I think the shrinks call it ‘obsessive-compulsive disorder.’ But that describes every artist I’ve ever known. And ninety-nine percent of all human males.”

  “Hey, we’re not all assholes. And I wish you’d get off your personal vendetta against everybody who has a dream. Some artists are normal people who just happen to make things because we can’t figure out how in the hell to communicate with people.”