Posted on by Lydia Ink

Waiting for 3:15

Described as a level-headed girl by her parents, she prided herself to be just that – levelheaded. She whispered the words, more to herself than to the listening universe, “I’m a level head woman.” She shuddered and re griped the doorknob and turned it.

Where did this all start? She fell in love. Yes, possibly, but she walked away and was content to do so. She found men her own age distasteful. So, when he took notice of her, she took notice of him. Tall, large brown eyes, powerful hands, and a gentleness she had only read about in 19th century novels.

She needed the vacation. She worked 60 hours a week for several weeks in a row and her temper wore thin.

“Go on, get out of here, you’ve done enough. We have the client, and you need a break. We have you booked at the Old Inn; on the lakeside.” So, there she sat, looking at the stars come out over Lake Huron and sipping wine; the weeks of stress and overwork ebbing away. The Old Inn on Lake Huron was an exclusive place that her company bought into. Employers work their employees to near distraction and then send them to the Old Inn for a week or two.

“Good Evening.” His voice mellow and his manners nonintrusive, she nodded only in good manners to his greeting, feeling he wanted no more interruption than she.

On the third night, a Tuesday, they found themselves alone in the old restaurant. The walls filled with pictures of Great Lakes shipwrecks, old and recent. They nodded to each other in greeting, took their seats at separate tables and became engrossed in the menu. A young waiter came bounding out from the kitchen, looked at them both and laughed, “at least sit closer, can’t you see I’m run off my feet?”

She laughed and so did he, and his lined face framed by his graying hair looked beautiful; like a captain of a ship laughing at the breeze. They did not eat together, but after their meal he stood and asked if he could recommend a wine and send it to her. “I notice that you sit out upon the veranda after your dinner.”

“Only if you join me.” She surprised herself by her reply.

“I’m honored and look forward to furthering our acquaintance.”

And that was it. They spent seven days together. Glorious days. He spoke of poetry and poets, shipwrecks, and the history of the great lakes. She felt an attraction that went beyond love making or hesitation. She touched his hand when silence was nothing more than what they both wanted. He never assumed, and she felt freedom with him because there was rest in their relationship. She could not call it friendship; the attraction was too apparent.

They mutually parted at 3:15 on a Tuesday afternoon. He did not ask her for anything she did not volunteer. No telephone numbers, emails, or social media connections. She wanted to return to her job, to her life. Driving back to Lancing she wondered where he went, what he did and if he thought of her but was content with wondering.

Then the clock on her office wall stopped at 3:15 PM every day. She replaced it and that clock stopped every day at 3:15… every day. She took the clock down and didn’t put up another. Every day she noticed the clock at 3:15 PM. No matter where she was or what she was doing. There were days when she didn’t think of him at all until 3:15 PM.

Three months and fifteen days later, she thought she spotted him across the street from her office building. His back was to her, straight and tall, with silver hair. He was talking to a woman; he turned slightly toward her and appeared to be laughing.

“Hey, did you get a call from Joe, he’s waiting for your report. You okay?”

“Yes, I heard from Joe, I just sent it to him.” Annoyed with the interruption, she turned back to her window and looked down he disappeared.

Her boss called her into his office a few days later. “Listen, I’m just saying you’ve been a little preoccupied. I’m not complaining, your work has been exceptional,”

“Then why the lecture?”

“Because everyone is coming into my office complaining that you’ve been sharp, impatient and downright rude. That’s just not you. You’ve never been nice like a teddy bear, but I had no complaints. Go back to the Old Inn, get some rest and see if you don’t come back in a better mood. I don’t want to lose you; you are important to this company.”

She rose without a word. Threatening her job was not the best way to get through to her. She walked into her office, grabbed her purse, shut out the lights and walked out. That night she sent out her resume to a headhunter, told him she was out of town for a few weeks and to get back to her if anyone was interested. His reply made her relax:  “You’ve got an excellent reputation, I’m sure we can find what you are looking for. Do you want to stay local?

Did she? Maybe if she left the area, the haunting would stop. The word haunting stopped her. Was she being haunted? She grabbed her smart phone to make a phone call: 3:15. Something had changed in the setting to Fiji time.

“Yes, same room, your boss called ahead. Room 315, do you have any luggage?”

“I didn’t have room 315.”

“Let me double check. Yes, a little over three months ago. Yes, room 315, but if you’d like another room, we can see if we can accommodate. I’m afraid it will not be on the lakeside.”

“No. I’ll take it and I can handle my luggage.” The man behind the counter frowned slightly but handed her the old fashion key to her room. She walked the old staircase, broad and ornate on the ground level, but by the third floor the old risers narrowed and creaked. Room 315 was at the end of the hall. She unlocked the door and turned the nob.

Walking in, she breathed a sigh of relief. The room looked the same, deep blue curtains, a large comfortable bed. The room looked underwater and relaxing. She pushed the door shut and felt at home, waiting for 3:15.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

I Could Have Been Teaching Fiction Not Living It

It’s important for me to remain invisible. Impossible? Well, you’re right, it is impossible. So I do my best.

As a young wallflower, I was exceptional.  When I grew older, I’ll admit I didn’t want to be so invisible. Until I met him and then I met them. It’s complicated, as they used to say. I’ll try to be brief. Why? Well, there’s a trick to being nearly invisible. Keep moving. I learned that almost too late. I’ll forget it someday, out of exhaustion.

I mentioned I was a wallflower. Yeah, it was painful through my teen years and the surrounding girls in my high school weren’t too kind. Sure, I had core friends, one especially, Jennifer. She’ll picture in later.

So, during my wallflower years I read lots of novels and decided I liked to read. I went to a higher end but smaller college back east and something happened. My skin cleared up, I lost weight, and even my parents were hesitant when I came home for Christmas. After four years at said college I decided I wanted to teach literature on a higher level and by golly I started in for my PhD. What a ride, except for a major interruption.

Now this may sound petty, but a highlight for me was my 10-year high school reunion. Yup, I dressed it up and walked in on demure and smiling. No one knew me, but I made sure that I met all the thick-waisted moms who tormented me in the hallways. I didn’t speak to them, just their balding husbands. I stayed maybe an hour when who should walk in but my old friend Jennifer.

Jennifer had changed from thick glasses, long straight hair, and dowdy dresses to a sleek, slender, gorgeous woman in high heels and tight jeans. What changed the most was the tall, dark stranger who escorted her in. We hugged, cried, and laughed at our own petty drama. Her boyfriend stood and smiled at us like a benevolent older uncle. We left the school gym and met at a local bar. Her boyfriend wasn’t with her?

“Was he a prop?” I asked.

“No. Well, sort of. We… travel together.”

“Where did you meet?”

“College. He’s a professor. You know my attraction for older men.”

“No, I didn’t realize that, but you were always sort of secretive.”

“Are you staying with your parents?” Jennifer asked. The question gave me a chill.

“No,” I lied, “they moved to Florida.”  My parents would no more think of moving to Florida than they would move to Alaska, but I felt a quiver of distrust. Suddenly Jennifer looked like a wax figure; beautiful and unchangeable. We seemed to realize at once a chill; she was my enemy and I hers.

“I’m sorry it had to end this way,” Jennifer’s voice was suddenly a hiss and snake like. “It’s the good and evil thing you understand.” She left the table and walked away. Her friend was waiting outside.

I sat in that bar all night. I panicked when I had to leave, so hustled to the nearest church. Closed. Dark. I saw shadows everywhere. They met me outside Saint Monica’s. What choice did I have but to join them?

“Is she a vampire?” I asked.

“A demon. Her choice. We work to eliminate them.”

“Eliminate?”

“Yes.” The man in black stared at me without blinking. It was a test, I know.

“I’m in,” I said.

Sure, my immediate family knows. It’s not so bad. The old buildings, the ancient writings, all appeal to me. I’ve been around the world and I’m on my third workable language. You wouldn’t believe how evil gets around. If I make it to 55, I’m automatically retired to a basement somewhere in Paris or Rome, they won’t tell me. I don’t blame them. It won’t be bad, the daylight still means freedom in this fight.

Yeah, I’m looking forward to meeting Jennifer again. Life could have been a little different; I could have been teaching fiction, not living it.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Her New Ancestral Home

“I say we go, right.”

“I say we don’t, we should go left.”

“Arthur, left is down, we should go right and up.”

Arthur fought the urge to be glib. It was her fault they were in the mess they were in. She was the explorer, the woman who wanted to know every inch of Ring, her soon-to-be ancestral home. He would have said so too if he didn’t sound like a schoolboy. “Well, this is your soon-to-be ancestral home I suppose you know best.”  It was a juvenile and sarcastic remark, but he didn’t care.

“Shut up, Arthur, this is serious, we are lost!  Something is down here, and we need to find a way out!”

“Will you try to stay calm, Julie, your panic is not helping in this situation.”

“Shut. Up.  Can’t you say anything original?”

“Pardon me dear, but I seem at a loss on how to please you.”

“I don’t want to be pleased; I want some serious insight during a serious time!”

Arthur remained silent and stared at her.  He wondered why he found her attractive; especially now.  She had been crying. Her hair looked like she had showered under raw sewage and her clothes smelled.  In her defense, she had just been through a harrowing experience.  Perhaps when this was all done, he would reconsider their engagement.  She could keep the ring.

“You can keep your damned ring, Arthur.”

Arthur started; had she read his mind?

“I know you had to buy the brand-new shiny thing that cost more than I can hawk it for because your family wasn’t about to relinquish a tiny morsel of the family jewels to bedeck a woman like me.”

“Like you, dear?”

“Yes, like me.  The girl who must work, the girl you met in the shop.  The only shining modicum of thankfulness they have about me is that I worked in a leather goods shop and not a pub.  Well, I’ll tell you what Sir Arthur what’s-your-name, I will apply at the first pub I come across if I get out of this mess.  The. First.  And I will live well, and I will save my money for the books I want to read, and I will buy a little cottage and I will join the CATHOLIC church, you bastard!”

She blubbered again and faced the two tunnels; the decision was one or the other.  Arthur felt an unreasonable disgust.  The situation was sobering, but not necessarily hopeless.  Either tunnel would lead back to Ring; one to the cliff side and the other to the cemetery; the family crypt.  But the crypt was the less inviting, and with the recent panic attack that Julie had, he wanted to avoid the moldering old place.   If he had been with Margaret, she wouldn’t have melted into hysterics.  Her rather long straight nose would have lifted as if she could sniff the correct direction and she would have made her recommendation.  If he had been with Margaret, he would have had proper lighting, good sturdy shoes and a methodical map laid out upon the note pad she always had with her.  She was a romantic woman, but a practical one.

“Yes, yes, you pathetic little man. If Margaret were here, no doubt she would have made everything right, but she’s not here.  I suggest you decide.”

“All right, Julie, but only if you stop that infernal sobbing and tell me right now that you will not blame me if the decision is wrong.  I do not want to spend the next hour or two of my life listening to hack and sob all over the old bricks.  There’s enough water down here and dangers of slipping and sliding, I don’t want you adding to; I can’t stomach that.”

Julie stood gaping at him. 

“Well?”

“All right, I promise,” she said, sniffing hard and wiping her eyes as best she could while squaring her shoulders.  Arthur felt no pang of passion but a softening of his heart.  Julie turned from being a besmirched raving woman to a young vulnerable girl despite the muck and the smell. 

“We go left.  You stay behind me and close.  Here, grab onto my belt.  Don’t let go.  If this is wrong, if there is a dead end, we turn about and try the other tunnels.  No more of your running mad.”

Julie’s eyes watered, but she held onto her emotions and nodded. Arthur knew she wanted to defend herself again, to insist that she saw a woman, a woman in white garb just behind him while they wandered the tunnels he knew.  Julie had screamed, turned in terror and fled.  He had no recourse but to follow, and they had lost their way.  His entire family and staff were no doubt out shouting his name; they had been in the tunnels for at least three hours.  The thought of his mother in any distress caused him to grind his teeth in frustration. 

The tunnel was dripping with water, the old stones were soft with mildew, and the squelching noise beneath their feet would probably haunt Arthur’s dreams if he lived to see another night’s rest. 

“I’m… I’m very sorry I panicked.”

“It happens.”

“But I lead you away from that awful woman.”

Arthur turned around, his ire was rising, “Julie, there was no woman.”

Julie gave a violent hiccup, and her eyes were wide with fear. She nodded at Arthur. He stared at her a moment, hesitated, looked at her once more and then continued in silence. After several minutes, he felt the ground beneath him inclined upward.

He knew that below his home was a deep aqua flow.  The flow was the life-giving force of the place and throughout the history of his family, especially during the broad middle ages, the aqua flow gave the inhabitants of the old keep a source of water during sieges of armies and weather.  Tunnels made by hundreds of hands over hundreds of years intersect below the old keep.  What he wanted to avoid more than anything was a dead end, or a collapsed wall. Back tracking in these labyrinths of darkness would only melt Julie into more hysterics.

Yes, the tunnel was taking a definite slant upward.  He had been correct.  This tunnel was one of the oldest, and they used it in the early middle ages to fetch water from a deep well.  His grandfather had made repairs to the old tunnel when he himself was a young man, when Victoria was early on the throne.  He made a silent prayer of thanks for his family’s bizarre bend toward the macabre. His hand then found something hard and sharp-edged.  Jumping despite he hung on to what he found. With trembling fingertip he traced the lines of a cross, then brushing off the years of dust and mud, he traced the lines of a crucifix.  Success, he had been right; it was the old tunnel, and it would soon open to the night air if memory served right.

“We are close, Julie.”  But he was aware, with his words, that she wasn’t behind him.  Not noticing that the grip on his belt had loosened, so consumed with their forward progress, he turned with a jerk and surprise to no one there.  All he saw was blackness.  No, no, this could not be.  He could not allow her the terror of eternal darkness, afraid and alone, but he struggled to turn back and retrace his steps.  Why?  The answer was obvious; it terrified him.

How could he not notice she was no longer behind him?  How could she have tripped or let loose without a sound?  He pulled at the crucifix upon the wall until it inched upon the brick wall and then pulled away.  Without thought Arthur walked back down, tripped, and fell.  Getting up quickly among a tangle of arms and legs, he pushed himself back.  It was Julie and her body was repulsive to him, as if he had stumbled upon the remains of a stranger in the dark.

Taking a deep breath and keeping a firm grip on the old crucifix, he pulled her by her arms with little ceremony back toward the opening of the tunnel.  She was completely dead weight, her head lulled between her arms and her hair caught on the rough floor, causing her face, pale, open-eyed and ghastly, to look up at him in a blank expression.  Finally, out of desperation, he stooped down and wrapped his arms around her waist, allowing her head to rest upon his left shoulder, her forehead wedged upon his jaw.  It was here he sobbed because he could see that her eyes were glassy and that something had savaged her neck. 

“Arthur!”

His sister Estella’s voice.

“Arthur, where are you?”

He said nothing but kept pulling Julie forward, upward toward the door he knew would lead to the outside, to fresh air, to her cottage, her new job at the pub and all the romance novels she cared to read.

“Arthur!  Oh God, Arthur.  Father!  Father, he’s here.  Help us.”

But it was John Seward who first reached them.  He took the young woman from Arthur’s arms, Estella bent over her too. Silence only answered their entreaties. 

Posted on by Lydia Ink

Her Hunt His Folly

The best part of her day is when everyone she works with sets off for home or some other dubious spot that lends a sparkle to their otherwise lack-luster eyes. She enjoys her coworkers; feels no animosity towards them but enjoys the quiet promoted by their absence and the residue of relief, even joy they leave, calling it a day. 

There is no shuffling, no one-sided phone conversations, no opening and shutting of doors, no murmur of business as usual, just a silent desertion that most, her being the exception, would consider an eerie peace.

She goes about the small office, closing window blinds, locking necessary doors and making notes to help start her next working morning. These menial tasks comfort her in a rushed and bustling world. Her evening tasks give credence to the fact that she has survived another day.

She has kept to the job for five consecutive years. 

She is proud of that fact, and she is also proud of the fact that she has maintained her resolve not to hunt any longer, though pondering the drive, which lingers within her mind and tingles along her arms and legs keeps her up at night.

The last successful hunt wasn’t her fault, and that fiasco strengthened her resolve to retire from all the complications and angst a hunt can cause. She was tired, exhausted really, and there he was, ready to rescue her; they all wanted to rescue her. That was the crucible of her hunt; empowering a man to come to her rescue, which invoked her power. Her prowess.

Philadelphia went smoothly, the hunt lasted three years and basically she tired of it and finished it and moved to Atlanta. The heat in Atlanta was excruciating. She felt so mercenary in Atlanta. In each city she had fulfilled a hunt and that complicated things for the next hunt. Her success in Philly gave her too much confidence, she did not research Atlanta at all. The only fact she focused upon was that Atlanta seemed happening sharp, and she was in the mood to fit in. The heat hit her like a ton of bricks and she got messy, greedy. 

Minneapolis was just what the doctor ordered. But Minneapolis proved too fertile a place after Atlanta’s heat. She knew change was impossible. Philosophy of the ancients were for chumps and religion too. Trying to rise above the time bending reality of who we are today because of evolution, is contrary to the basic construction and purpose of the world. Humans are humans; some to hunt, some to be prey.

Her hunt began in the primordial ooze, and the creation of an alphabet and a pulpit are props of defense for the weak. In each city there were those who seemed to sense that she wasn’t right. Men who either couldn’t find their socks in the morning or needed that deep mental and heartfelt connection avoided her. 

Conversations on Plato or meditation exercises she despised. Prey who talked fables and fairytales as if there was a basis other than deception about it sickened her. No, those were not her type. What brought about her hunt were men, prey, who insisted that she needed rescuing.

Sex was spontaneous to these types of men and well calculated to her. As any huntress, she had her role to play; the desperate moves, the weak knees, her weeping and his inevitable vitality expanding in his chest and the moving of heaven and earth to keep her safe.

She lasted in New York (before Philadelphia) for almost two entire years but woke up one morning, felt that driving urge to make him beg for mercy, and slipped the tiny needle in while he finished his last supplication for mercy.

She was grateful that in Atlanta there was no beneficiary money–not coming so quickly from Philadelphia. That would have definitely sent up some red flags to the densest of people. Philadelphia set her up for life–as wild a ride as that was. She even wondered if she couldn’t become capable of actual love, but she needed to feel him drain, fade away, dissipate. Now, five years later, not really needing to work but needing a place to belong, she had avoided the rescuing type. 

She tried hard not to involve herself at all with coworkers. There were too many knights in shining armor or bored husbands to go around. She kept to the company of women in the workplace. Her hunt did not include them. She knew what to avoid; the more expensive restaurants and upscale bars were the happy hunting grounds. No clubs. 

The fact of the matter was, however, she wasn’t getting any younger. She still liked to keep that perfect distance in age, but the rescuing type were not frequenting restaurants and bars as much. Perhaps she was finally seeing them go extinct. Though there was the hard working delivery man who expanded his chest when she signed for deliveries. Smelling his mind amused her.

Attempting to keep to herself, she let him know she was not from the area. She could almost hear his mind contemplate her history. Obviously hurt by some bastard, or perhaps the love of her life perished in some fiery crash flittered through his open mind. They would chit-chat about the weather and he would try to make eye contact with her… perhaps on Monday she could manage a little sorrow.

Posted on by Lydia Ink

The Indispensable Secretary

Being unwed was inconvenient at times. Divorcee was a polite enough title, and she found it comforting that she did not, in fact, have to state she was a divorcee twice, nay three times over to her emanate employer.

“Divorced? Yes, three times to date,” seemed crude rather than caviler. Besides, when asked of her marital state: “Single, married, divorced or widowed, ma’am?” She felt a 1940s pause and with a downward glance, as if in sorrow, she answered: “Single.” Her answer to the nasal, narrow-faced man with the scars of bad complexion during adolescence didn’t seem to phase him, but she knew better. It was his task to find her the next perfect position in which she could work her way through life.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t until she was on the bus, destined for somewhere in her busy life, did she admit she to herself that ‘single,’ may have been a tad bit deceptive. The word single is desultory. She had been close to being married and subsequently divorced three times. She may make it to the altar yet; one never knew.

The first was close-encounter to matrimony bliss was her first employer. He was old enough to be her father or a young grandfather. Gregory was stoic, down to business and marginally successful. The look on his face when she fell upon his shoulder weeping for no apparent reason, and then her abject apology awakened his long dormant gallantry and he invited her out to dinner.

He became intrigued by her solitary life, and perhaps he even had her followed. She couldn’t be sure, but during her walk from the bus stop to her studio apartment, she felt a man following her. She told this to no one. Well, one person, but she had been on her third sherry and he was shouting directions to the bartender and throwing her sideways glances. It was closing time. Decent wait staff is hard to find.

Gregory died in his bed before he could propose.

The second possible matrimonial offer was with Gregory’s younger brother, Howard. She felt sure he had her followed her after his brother’s death. Howard retained her for two weeks until another lawyer could take over the practice; that lawyer didn’t want her. The brother, Howard, seemed always angry with her, but she kept her professional decorum, understood the anger of pent up attraction (or morbid curiosity Gregory did die in bed) and worked until the practice no longer needed her.

The night after she lost her job and was mourning her late employer, she heard a rapid knock upon her door. When she opened the door, Howard began speaking immediately. “Did you sleep with my brother? You know he had a diseased heart. You slept with him and killed him.” She attempted to close the door in his face, but he shoved it in and… well.

Howard helped her find another position. She found the work satisfactory, and she was content in her relationship with Howard. He was so much like his brother; pot bellied, thinning hair and lonely. The problem with their lasting happiness was that Howard was married. She did not hound him about divorcing and they continued seeing each other discreetly for five years. His death frankly was a little more profitable; he left her his apartment uptown. The view from the apartment was glorious and his wife purple during the reading of the will. Oh well, the neighbors were not friendly, so she sold it for a nice tidy sum and remained in her old neighborhood. The sherry was fine just down the block, despite the rude owner and shy bartender.

A third attempt at marriage threw her into despair. He being just a few years younger than her made his advances awkward. What could she do when he headed for the elevator at the same time? He started using the stairs just when she decided she needed the exercise and started using the stairs as well. She became concerned when his late nights at the office often coincided with her.

Once, on the way out, alone in the elevator, he remained stoically silent, looking straight ahead. She, too, remained silent and said nothing. When the doors opened, she stepped ahead at the same time he did, and they collided. Apologizing profusely, he stepped back and allowed her to walk through first. She caught the eye rolling of the security guard and the young lawyer stopped to talk about the baseball game and walked out of the office building alone. She understood the young man’s dilemma. He a junior partner in a large law firm, she a secretary with profound experience. She had no choice but to hand in her resignation.

The scarred young man with the nasal voice left a deadpan offer on her voice mail. Another law firm; smaller, with only one lawyer to look after. His secretary left for maternity leave and just couldn’t return. He needed her in a hurry. The bus ride was a little longer, but she had her books and crochet to keep her occupied. She accepted. The practice is rather dusty with old wills, old furniture and an old lawyer. This suits her.