Born of Illusion by Teri Brown

me to fall asleep, and when I do, I’m restless. I keep waking up, half fearful of a repeat performance from Walter. But slowly I feel myself relaxing as sleep finally overtakes me.
    Electrical flashes. Image after image. Inky black water surrounds me. Disoriented and confused, I can’t find the surface. My arms are useless, bound tight behind my back, and my lungs burn for air. Death circles me like an approaching shark, but it’s not myself I’m terrified for. My mother’s lovely face flashes in front of me, nostrils flared, eyes wide with fear, and I hear her screaming my name over and over.
    I sit up in bed, gasping, my heart racing. The scent of burned sugar still lingers in my nose. Trembling, I toss off the covers and tiptoe down the hall. Only after I see my mother still sleeping peacefully and hear her quiet breathing does the pounding of my heart begin to subside.
    Was it just a nightmare? Or a premonition of things to come? What is happening to me? I’ve never had recurring visions like these before and certainly none about me and my mother. Visions of the Great War, the Spanish influenza, and the Titanic were horrific enough, but these are frightening in a whole new way. Maybe they’re not really visions? But what else could they be?
    Of course, I’ve never talked to a dead boy before either.
    I blink heavily and rub my hands across my face, trying to dispel the dull ache in my head. Perhaps Walter’s brief sojourn in my body has left more than just a bad memory. How many times have my mother and I found disgusting traces of the previous tenant in the hotels we’ve stayed in? Perhaps, at this very moment, my insides are smeared with some kind of spirit scum.
    Shuddering, I wash, don a blue and white sailor dress, and quickly run a comb through my dark hair. It’s certainly easier to care for now that it’s bobbed. Mother fought against the cut, claiming that the long hair made more of a contrast between us onstage, but I think it has more to do with her reluctance to see me as an adult. Because if I’m a young woman, what does that make her?
    I slip on my shoes and my blue wool wraparound coat before grabbing the shopping basket and heading out the door. I make sure to check the lock twice before running down the stairs. I’m usually a cautious person—you have to be in my line of business— but now, I’m out-and-out spooked.
    I hear the door below me open as I come down the stairs. “Good morning, Mr. Darby,” I call.
    Mr. Darby grunts and shuts the door. So far he hasn’t been very open to my friendly advances, but I’m nothing if not persistent. I’m dying to get a peek inside to find out what causes all the banging in his apartment, though I’m not sure I’m ready to face Cole again. I have too many questions, and I’m afraid of the answers.
    A blast of frigid October air greets me as soon as I open the door. I clutch my coat tighter, wishing I were still wearing my warm woolen stockings instead of these new silk ones. Growing up isn’t all it’s reputed to be.
    At the newsstand around the corner, I pick up the Daily News , the Times , and the Sun and tuck them into my basket. My mother will be eager to see if there are any reviews of last night’s show. Then I turn and head toward Broadway. I’d spotted the bookstore yesterday on our way to the theater, tucked in between a millinery shop and a café. In the brief glimpse I got, it looked to be just the type of shop I like most—old and musty and chock-full of books. The kind of books that one day may give me some answers about my abilities.
    Books on spiritualism, psychic phenomena, and witchcraft are usually twaddle, but sometimes I find interesting tidbits of information that add to the tapestry of knowledge I’m trying to weave. And right now, with the visions I’ve been having, finding answers seems more urgent than ever.
    I hurry down the busy sidewalk, clutching my coat tight against the chill of the wind. If I remember