From the upcoming book, “Haunted Heirlooms: Four Antique Dealers Reveal Their Stories” (C) 2022 Anna Maria Manalo. To be released this summer by Beyond The Fray Publishing. Excerpts in this site may not be reprinted in any magazine or blog without written permission from the author.
In this episode I decided to add chapter 7 to the weekly installment for continuity’s sake. In these two episodes, Sam takes a break from the print and flees to the comfort of a restaurant …
(Please remember to read the previous chapter if you need to catch up.)
I hope you all enjoy!
Chapter 6
The drive to Burger King didn’t take long. Stress makes me hungry. It wouldn’t take long with my heavy gas foot, trying to make as much distance between me and that creepy print. The road had been desolate as I made my way down the hill, but the town center just a few miles away exuded some semblance of life. There it was, bright as my headlights. As I turned the car into the large parking lot of the strip mall, relieved to be near civilization, I had a sudden change of heart and decided on fried whole clams instead. I steered out of the lot, turned back onto Elm and drove the extra three miles to the Lobster Catch Diner.
I breathed a sigh which told me I was relieved to be away from the dreadful print in that dreadful house, in that dreadful…
Stop it.
Focus.
No more strange thoughts.
My stomach was gurgling by the time I pulled into the Lobster Catch. It was close to 9 pm.
Right next to the –
It was closed.
I need seafood. Seafood and eat it. Get it? Sea food. I am so flaming starved that my duck boots reminded me of the Peking duck we bought in New York’s Chinatown this past summer. The kids loved it. Away from the parental summer home with the mice in the basement. Pay the rent, eat the print or I’ll give you government cheese.
Focus.
There’s another restaurant somewhere. Jimmies Clams. That’s it. Just keep driving and get a meal before you go stir crazy, Sam.
You wanted clams, you’re going to get clams. Then you’re heading back to the parental summer home even though you don’t want to be there ever again and stay the night. Don’t mind the critters in the basement. They’re there to eat the print. Okay?
Gas foot.
Turn here.
You have reached your destination.
I switched off the engine by the street light curbside and leaned back.
The comforting lights of Jimmies. Still full of people.
I closed my eyes.
Relief.
It dawned with keen awareness…
I was afraid of being alone.
When did that happen?
Check on Alice’s bottle of holy water from Lourdes.
Where, oh where did I …Then I looked down.
A piece of paper was stuck on the bottom of my shoe.
Fuck this.
Don’t tell me.
Yes, the print was stuck on the bottom of my foot, over the gas pedal. I reached down, snatching it.
Then, I flipped it over and realized it was an ad for someone’s political campaign. I sighed.
Getting jumpy, Sam. Too jumpy.
Into the bright lights and scents of New England comfort food. I sat people-watching after I ordered what must be the largest whole fried clam platter complete with extra tartar sauce and a side of… and that’s when I saw it on the wall. A very similar print.
I almost knocked over the gin and tonic I ordered as I strode over to a table by a wall. I stood almost over the couple who were minding their own privacy as I examined the picture. It wasn’t a lithograph, but the background and foreground were the same: The castle with turrets and red pennants in the background and the girl on a swing, in the act of swinging. Quickly, I reached into my pocket for my Iphone and took a picture. I looked around, realized the couple was looking up at me and apologized, explaining my interest in the shot. The guy actually stood up, wiped his beard with a napkin and offered for me to get closer. No, I’m good now. Sorry again.
I walked away and flagged the waitress and asked if she knew who provided the framed photo on the wall, pointing it out as there were others. No, but the owner is here tonight. Would you like me to ask him to come to your table? Please.
Chapter 7
It was close to eleven p.m. by the time I coasted the Volvo back onto the driveway of my parents’ summer house. I had forgotten in my haste to leave, to turn even one light on, so I was in darkness.
The headlights cast an ethereal glow over the front stairs of the house leading to the expansive porch. The front door looked forlorn and so did the dark sightless windows. Like the sightless couple from the lithograph print that stared back at me.
I was afraid to shut off the engine, but I did. Still seated, I pulled out my cellphone to examine the picture from the restaurant with the help of the driver’s side vanity mirror. There it was: The photo I snapped of the picture back at the restaurant. I sat there totally dumbfounded. It’s not the same as my print. Fuck.
I must’ve taken a shot of the wrong print. I must’ve looked ridiculous, even inebriated. But I know what I saw. I saw the same picture, the same exact one as the lithograph, li-tho-graph just inside the house here. Maybe that’s why I got a free dinner. The owner of the restaurant looked suspiciously at me, looked again at the picture on the wall, asked the couple to please don’t mind us, and looked again at my Iphone shot. What castle? He said. I don’t see a girl. He said. Same shot, same lighting. No castle, no turrets, no flags or a girl on a swing. He showed me my own Iphone. Your’s also shows the guitar guy, he said.
So now I looked again, seated in my Volvo with the bluetooth and the eight-speaker system from Bose, perspiring in my armpits and the heat’s not even on. I’m looking at a man who held a guitar, a classical guitar, in his 40’s, grinning at the camera. A local musician with the name of Rodrigo something something who played a gig just a few months ago. No girl, no swing, no castle. Just Rodrigo. I kept examining my Iphone and it didn’t change, even after I put it down and then put the password to unlock the phone again. Nope. Nothing like the dratted lithograph.
I remember how I quickly ate my dinner when it came, served by a frumpy-looking waitress. It looked so good when I ordered it and when I got it, I ate it for the sake of eating it. Extra tartar sauce? Yes. Cocktail? No. Who cares? Meanwhile, as I ate, I kept staring at the framed picture on the wall of – Rodrigo the guitarist. The couple finally left, self-consciously, I might add. Here’s NOT looking at you, kid. Later the owner returned to my table with a look that said pity all over it and told me the meal was on the house and good luck with my cell phone. He seemed to want as much distance from me as Dan, my former friend did.
Fuck you, Dan.
I am outta here. Tonight. I hit the speed dial and Alice’s sleepy voice came on.
“Hey, what’s going on? Are you staying?”
Silence. I was deliberating, as I couldn’t find her holy water.
“Yeah.”
“What happened? Did you burn it?”
“I’m burying it again. I need holy water.”
“I gave you the one from Lourdes.”
“I think it might be in the house there somewhere.”
“You left it here?”
“It’s not up here.”
Silence. She had put the phone down.
Minutes pass.
“The holy water’s here. Just put that print back in the ground… or burn it.”
“I tried. It’s not even scorched.”
Silence. Did I just shock you, Alice or are you thinking?
“Hon?”
“Come home and get the holy water, dear.”
“I’ll bury it again.”
“But leave it alone this time.”
“IF it stays buried.”
She yawned and I knew she was tired.
“So what are you doing? Are you headed home? It’s kinda late.”
“I guess I’m staying.”
“If you are, the priest here said to put it in sacred ground if you can’t put holy water on it. I don’t want it in our parish, so bury it at a church there.”
“What?! Sacred… what?!”
