Good morning, friends! Snow falls gently outside my window now, but the storm of school work is not far behind. Let’s get right to it, and see what Chloe makes of the grandmother she never knew she had.
Writing Music: Kronos Quartet performing Philip Glass
Chloe finally relinquished her coat to the coat rack and followed the doctor to the steps, straightening her turtleneck sweater as she went.
“Is it not a pity, Miss…?”
“Is it not a pity, Miss Chloe, that such a treasure of a place be treated so?” He gave the wooden crow carved into the bannister a light tap with his pointer finger. “Everyone ought to be allowed their eccentricities, but this—” his eyes rolled at the dozens upon dozens of crow drawings. “–is a bit much, even for me.” He grimaced, reminding Chloe of an angry toad.
Good thing he started chuckling so she could laugh, even falling in step with him on the stairs. “Guess this explains why Mom never wanted a pet.”
“Ha! Indeed. Your mother is a history teacher, correct?”
“That’s right, Doctor…?”
“Dr. Artair. Yes, she’s even applying for tenure at the University in Milwaukee.”
“You must be very proud.”
Thomas appeared then. Chloe waved down to him, and he waved back with a cloth wrapped around ice. He continued on to the living room, quiet now but for hushed voices and crackling flames.
“I wonder, then, what she would make of these.” Dr. Artair used the stirring spoon to point at the crow pictures.
The second level was only half a dozen stairs away. Only one lamp seemed to be shining out of side onto dark green wallpaper. One door closed, who knew how many hid from sight. One of those doors led to her. The grandmother who made her children draw nothing but crows… “She probably hated having to make so many,” Chloe said.
But Dr. Artair tisked Chloe’s words, and rapped a few of the pictures with the spoon. “Look a little closer.”
So Chloe leaned in, eyes squinting to see whatever it was she was meant to see. One drawing was just a series of hard, crude strokes with a black crayon. Another was more like pencil, a bit finer, with some shading. One had a peculiar smell to it, almost like sulfur.
“The corners. Look to the corners,” Dr. Artair whispered.
And there, finally, Chloe saw numbers smaller than a fly, written with precise, perfect lines: 1893.
Chloe gasped. “These aren’t all Mom and her brothers. These…” She thudded down the stairs and back up again, scanning row upon row of pictures, finding more and more dates. 1923. 1947. 1882. 1904. 1950. 1867. “She had to make more. Someone was always making them…”
Floorboards near them creaked loudly. Thock. A shuffling sound. Thock. Another shuffle.
Chloe looked over Dr. Artair’s shoulders to the top of the stairs.
They were no longer alone.
An old woman, draped in black lace and bent as a question mark, hobbled to the top of the stairs with a knobby wooden cane clutched by a gloved hand. Knotted locks of silver hair peeked out from the thick veil covering her head and shoulders. “Yes.” The woman’s voice seemed to claw at the very air between them. “A Perdido must make the sign to be protected. You.” She pointed the cane at Chloe. “You will make the next sign.”
Word Count: 527 Total Count: 7961
Gah, I hate interrupting a story, but I’m afraid we have no choice this week. I do hope you’ll stay tuned anyway–I’ve a lovely author interview to share, and Blondie wants to talk about her current projects. (Oh yes–she’s got quite a few manuscripts flying around!)
For a complete list of installments for What Happened When Grandmother Failed to Die, click here.
Read on, share on, and write on, my friends!