can.”
Craven releases me and the gang
spins out. Kicking up the dust, they desert me in the middle of Weeping Willow
Road.
Their departure leaves me with a
tacit of dread. “This is insane.”
A ticking sound came from the log
huts in the forest. A small man, the size of a dwarf, ascends from the carved
hut. The bronze creature stares at me through the eye sockets of a devilish
bone mask. My breath catches in my chest, causing temporary paralysis. It mirrors
the same creature I saw after the car accident.
The creature grins, an
animalistic smile. He performs a mock bow in his elegant clothing and says,
“‘member me?” Straightening his distorted features, he disappears into the
shadowy hut.
Blood rushes to my legs. I jolt
down the street, and perform a mad surge for town. At the rundown gas station,
I aim for Mrs. Peters’ front porch. Banging my fist on the mahogany door, I
wait in silence for someone to answer.
Nothing.
No lights glow in the Victorian
manor, but they do at the old theater house. Movement flashes across the roof.
The dark outlines of creatures jump off the roof and dive. Fingers gripping the
railing, I haul myself over the porch and slam into the moist grass. Grunting
from the impact, I stumble up to the theater.
Sinister history or not, my
choices are limited at the moment.
A hearty glow seeps through the
partly open door of the theater. I slink through the crack like a cat and bolt
the door shut. To my surprise, the marble hallway is clean and cobweb-free.
I do not understand. The theater
should not be occupied.
The mahogany doors, newly
polished, still hold the faint aroma of lemon. Light music drifts throughout
the corridors. The crystals in the multiple chandeliers overhead twinkle and
ping as a gentle breeze invades an open window. I follow the intoxicating music
through the carved archway and out on to a balcony, where I draw in a breath. A
grand stage and auditorium stretch out below me. Jogging over to the majestic
staircase, I descend into the audience seats, and leap up on stage. Large
golden angels hold up the balconies, including the one I just vacated. The
auditorium is almost identical to the painting in my bedroom, except in the
picture there are no seats, only the ballroom floor.
The theater’s halls assure no
echoes of roaming creatures. A baby grand piano catches my eye. The rare
opportunity and sit down at the piano empowers me. It has been almost a year
since I last touched a piano, but now my fingers are stroking the ivory bars. I
press on the keys. The slow haunting tune I know so well lifts my spirits.A
voice sings. My voice.
“Save
her if you can,
In
darkness, she fades.
Alice
in Wonderland,
She
dreams away.
She’s
shackled in these chains,
She
can’t escape.
Deep
in Hell’s core,
She
opens the door.”
The room magnifies my trained
vocals. The music extinguishes my fears, worries, and memories of the past
hour. Only the music matters. Over the course of the past year, it felt like I
wore a corset and every day it would become tighter and tighter. Every day I
thought, I might die of suffocation; crushed to death by sorrow. As I sing, the
corset loosens, and frees me for one brief blissful moment.
“I thought you told me you
couldn’t sing!”
The piano extinguishes the
beautiful tune by creating a dooming pulse as I hit the wrong key. Ungluing my
tattooed hand from the smooth keys, I spy Mrs. Peters standing on the staircase
with a box of fireworks in her bony arms. Mrs. Peters lowers the fireworks to
the waxed floor and strides up to the stage.
“Sorry! I tried knocking next
door. Nobody answered, so I saw the light on, and–”
“It’s all right, Dearie. I’m not
angry with you, just surprised. You’ve the loveliest voice I’ve ever heard and
you told me you couldn’t sing if your life depended on it.”
Ashamed of the true reason for
not singing in public, I can feel my cheeks burning a shade of burgundy. The
idea of not having my
Craven releases me and the gang
spins out. Kicking up the dust, they desert me in the middle of Weeping Willow
Road.
Their departure leaves me with a
tacit of dread. “This is insane.”
A ticking sound came from the log
huts in the forest. A small man, the size of a dwarf, ascends from the carved
hut. The bronze creature stares at me through the eye sockets of a devilish
bone mask. My breath catches in my chest, causing temporary paralysis. It mirrors
the same creature I saw after the car accident.
The creature grins, an
animalistic smile. He performs a mock bow in his elegant clothing and says,
“‘member me?” Straightening his distorted features, he disappears into the
shadowy hut.
Blood rushes to my legs. I jolt
down the street, and perform a mad surge for town. At the rundown gas station,
I aim for Mrs. Peters’ front porch. Banging my fist on the mahogany door, I
wait in silence for someone to answer.
Nothing.
No lights glow in the Victorian
manor, but they do at the old theater house. Movement flashes across the roof.
The dark outlines of creatures jump off the roof and dive. Fingers gripping the
railing, I haul myself over the porch and slam into the moist grass. Grunting
from the impact, I stumble up to the theater.
Sinister history or not, my
choices are limited at the moment.
A hearty glow seeps through the
partly open door of the theater. I slink through the crack like a cat and bolt
the door shut. To my surprise, the marble hallway is clean and cobweb-free.
I do not understand. The theater
should not be occupied.
The mahogany doors, newly
polished, still hold the faint aroma of lemon. Light music drifts throughout
the corridors. The crystals in the multiple chandeliers overhead twinkle and
ping as a gentle breeze invades an open window. I follow the intoxicating music
through the carved archway and out on to a balcony, where I draw in a breath. A
grand stage and auditorium stretch out below me. Jogging over to the majestic
staircase, I descend into the audience seats, and leap up on stage. Large
golden angels hold up the balconies, including the one I just vacated. The
auditorium is almost identical to the painting in my bedroom, except in the
picture there are no seats, only the ballroom floor.
The theater’s halls assure no
echoes of roaming creatures. A baby grand piano catches my eye. The rare
opportunity and sit down at the piano empowers me. It has been almost a year
since I last touched a piano, but now my fingers are stroking the ivory bars. I
press on the keys. The slow haunting tune I know so well lifts my spirits.A
voice sings. My voice.
“Save
her if you can,
In
darkness, she fades.
Alice
in Wonderland,
She
dreams away.
She’s
shackled in these chains,
She
can’t escape.
Deep
in Hell’s core,
She
opens the door.”
The room magnifies my trained
vocals. The music extinguishes my fears, worries, and memories of the past
hour. Only the music matters. Over the course of the past year, it felt like I
wore a corset and every day it would become tighter and tighter. Every day I
thought, I might die of suffocation; crushed to death by sorrow. As I sing, the
corset loosens, and frees me for one brief blissful moment.
“I thought you told me you
couldn’t sing!”
The piano extinguishes the
beautiful tune by creating a dooming pulse as I hit the wrong key. Ungluing my
tattooed hand from the smooth keys, I spy Mrs. Peters standing on the staircase
with a box of fireworks in her bony arms. Mrs. Peters lowers the fireworks to
the waxed floor and strides up to the stage.
“Sorry! I tried knocking next
door. Nobody answered, so I saw the light on, and–”
“It’s all right, Dearie. I’m not
angry with you, just surprised. You’ve the loveliest voice I’ve ever heard and
you told me you couldn’t sing if your life depended on it.”
Ashamed of the true reason for
not singing in public, I can feel my cheeks burning a shade of burgundy. The
idea of not having my
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