Gina Ranalli - House of Fallen Trees

She gingerly sat on the bed. For some reason, she was afraid it would collapse beneath her due to its age but, of course, that was a ridiculous fear. Rory slept in it on a regular basis and it obviously held his weight.

Sensing her trepidation, Rory said, “Relax. That bed is older than some of the trees in the forest. Probably made from trees in the forest. Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s delicate.”

Returning his smile, she lay back, her head on the nearest pillow, eyes studying the mural above her. “She was a beautiful woman.”

“She was,” he said. “Not my type, but beautiful nonetheless.”

Chuckling politely at his joke, Karen made no reply. After a moment, she said, “Do you know who painted it?”

“No,” Rory said. “It never occurred to me to try to find out. Maybe I should, huh?”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“Everything about this place has been so hard to track down. It’s like they were a family of ghosts. So little is known about them. Most of the townies either didn’t know they were out here or they didn’t want to know.”

Karen looked at him. “Why do you suppose that was?”

“No clue. Probably just afraid of eccentrics. That part hasn’t really changed much around here. The people in Fallen Trees don’t care much for different.”

“Ah.” She thought about Sean then, wondering how he’d fit in with the townies. If he had fit in at all. Somehow, she doubted it.

Rory consulted his watch. “Well, would you look at that. I think we can safely say the sun is past the yardarm. Up for a cocktail?”

A cocktail sounded wonderful and Karen said as much. “But, I like this room. Mind if I hang out in here a little while longer?”

“Not at all.” He smiled at her again and for a second, she thought it might actually be genuine. “Try not to fall asleep though. That bed is mighty comfy.”

“Will do. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

Once Rory had left, Karen returned her full attention to the mural above the bed. Though cracked and fading in places, it had stood the test of time remarkably well, especially considering all the windows in this room. How had the sunlight not damaged it more?

Maybe it never hit the ceiling in a way that it could, she thought, gazing into Mrs. Storm’s fierce blue eyes. It was still peculiar though. Almost as peculiar as having your wife’s portrait painted above your bed in the first place.

The painting was of a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a high-collared cream dress. High cheekbones, full lips, her expression serious; perhaps even grim. Quite a stunning woman, as Karen had noted previously. Maybe somewhere around 30 years of age, though there were hints of growing crow’s feet and laugh lines. Age was hard to determine even in the clearest of portraits from that era.

Karen put her hands behind her head and turned her attention to the windows and the spectacular view of the forest around them. Everything was green out there, except for the sky, which remained a dense, almost oppressive gray.

It must be gorgeous here when the weather is clear, she thought. So much different than what I’m used to.

She would have been content to continue ruminating on the beauty of her surroundings but her thoughts were interrupted when a thin shower of dust fell down onto her face, a few specks landing in her right eye.

Flinching, she blinked furiously and rubbed the eye, about to get up and head to the bathroom to flush it out.

But before she could, her left eye naturally rolled up and she saw the painting of Mrs. Storm above. She stopped rubbing her eye and stared up at the ceiling.

Either she was crazy or the fine, barely noticeable cracks in the paint had grown, becoming thicker — more obvious.

“What the…?” She frowned, her irritated eye forgotten, and attempted to push herself up onto her elbows.

She could barely move. Her arms, neck and legs worked fine but it was as though her back and buttocks had become glued to the bed. Instantly terrified, she cried out, struggling to sit up while above her the ceiling cracked further, the paint and plaster raining down on her, coating her entire body with white powder.

Looking up, she saw that the wife of Captain Storm no longer looked grim, her eyes no longer vacantly staring into some unseen past.

Mrs. Storm was now smiling, the faded intense blue eyes gazing directly down on Karen’s horrified, dust covered face.

Karen’s whimpers blossomed into screams as the ceiling broke apart, larger and larger chunks of old wood and plaster crashed down on her…around her…bouncing off the bed and onto the floor with deafening thuds. She tried to protect her face, her eyes, while plaster dust choked off her screams and she found herself gagging despite the nearly paralyzing panic. It sounded as if the world was ending and then the mural began to peel free from the rest of the ceiling, as though it weren’t made of paint at all, but paper, like a poster cut into the shape of a woman from the waist up.

It came down fast, blanketing Karen, Mrs. Storm’s smiling face pressed against her own, blocking out the light, and Karen discovered it wasn’t made of paper at all, but more of some sort of dark membranous skin which quickly spread, wrapping itself around her head and torso, tightening itself until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything at all except feel the frantic pounding of her heart…

Blind.

She was blind and suffocating. Still trying to scream, she kicked her legs, pushing against the mattress until she rolled off the bed and hit the floor, landing painfully on her left shoulder.

Thrashing wildly, she barely heard someone shouting her name until it sounded as though the lips were pressed right to her ear.

“Karen! Wake up!”

Light immediately filled her vision and she was free, shrieking, her body drenched in perspiration.

Saul crouched beside her on the floor, shaking her by the right shoulder, his brown eyes wide with concern. “You had a nightmare, but it’s over now.”

“No.” Karen shook her head as the tears broke free and she raised a hand to wipe them away, certain her fingers would come away covered in plaster dust. She choked out a sob when she saw they were clean. “It wasn’t a nightmare. It was real.”

It had been real, hadn’t it?

Her eyes went immediately to the mural above the bed. It was just as it had been when she’d first entered the room with Rory. The ceiling around it was perfectly intact with only a few thin cracks to show its age.

“But…”

It couldn’t have been a dream. It had been so terrifying. She’d never had a dream even remotely like it.

“Come on,” Saul said. “Let’s get you up.”

He helped her into a sitting position and she winced at the pain in her shoulder. She knew she’d have a bruise there come tomorrow.

“What was the dream about?”

It was Rory, standing at the foot of the bed, surprising her. She hadn’t even known he was in the room with them.

“I…” She began. “It was…”

Saul, sensing her reluctance, said, “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

And she didn’t want to. How could she? They probably already thought she was insane.

When Saul assisted her to her feet and suggested she sit on the bed, she eyed the mural once more and refused. “I’m okay,” she said. “I can stand.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I could probably use some aspirin though. My head is killing me.”

“I’ll get it,” Rory said and disappeared into the bathroom.

She looked again at the mural with suspicion — a look which Saul caught.