David Nickle: The Caretakers

“Andrea followed her, but I don’t know how far she’ll get,” said Leslie. His hand moved to the nape of Evelyn’s neck and slid down the flesh of her back. “She’s not wearing boots. Not like Amy.”

Evelyn took Leslie’s hand, lifted it away, and Leslie sighed.

She let her fingers intertwine with his and drew him back down the hall in the direction of the bar.

“Not today?” asked Leslie, and Evelyn said, “Not now,” and as they emerged into the bar, Leslie agreed: “Especially not now.”

“Oh,” whispered Evelyn.

Bill had not moved from his seat in one of the easy chairs. Miss Erish had positioned herself on the sofa at his right-hand side. She wore a dark green jacket over a snow-white blouse, a matching green skirt. Her hair was bound and tucked beneath a small red cap, from which descended a funereal-black spiderweb veil that provided only nominal concealment. Her skin gleamed in the low light, like carved mahogany: sanded, stained, and nearly as hard. She saw them immediately and with one hand waved them over.

“Mr. Allen was explaining to me about Miss Wilson’s escape ,” she said, and motioned to the empty sofa alongside her. “You will sit.”

Leslie sat at the far end—coward!—and so Evelyn sat between them. Miss Erish was scented with clove oil and cinnamon this morning, a favorite of hers. In her lap rested a tablet, screen glowing softly yellow around the edges of its burgundy folio. She patted Evelyn on the knee and returned her attention to Bill.

“She was frightened?”

“Yes,” said Bill. “Or that was my impression.”

“I wasn’t here when she left,” said Evelyn, as Miss Erish glanced her way.

“Well, no matter. Miss Retson shall fetch her.”

“I’m sure she will,” said Leslie.

“Do you want to know what I think?” Miss Erish looked to each of them, as though it were a question with more than one possible response. “I think that the Spheres have realigned.”

“Have they?” said Bill. Leslie nodded.

“Don’t all look so worried,” continued Miss Erish. “They have not slipped . No no. The heavens will not tumble on us any more than the sea will rise to consume us. The realignment is a blessed adjustment. It is a return to order. But one might feel it, were one sensitive to the deeper movements.”

Miss Erish paused, her mouth hanging expectantly. Evelyn was the one who asked.

“Do you believe that Amy—Miss Wilson might be sensitive in such a way?”

“It scarcely matters what I believe,” said Miss Erish. Her hands settled on her tablet case. She opened it, and her fingertips made a clicking sound as she entered the passcode on the screen. An email then appeared… one from amwilson7@gmail.com, but not one that Evelyn had seen before. Miss Erish didn’t appear to mind, so Evelyn started to read it over her shoulder.

“You may read it aloud,” said Miss Erish.

Evelyn nodded, and went back to the beginning.

“ Dear Miss Erish ,” she read. “ Thank you so very much for everything. I have just got internet up and running in the apartment ( Amy had abbreviated to apt .) , and this is the first email that I am sending using it. I am looking out at a view on the Park, which I never thought I would see from my own place!!! It is so beautiful. Classes start in two days, so I have to finish unpacking. But I wanted to thank you Miss Erish. I could never have afforded this by myself. Love XO Amy.”

“I was rereading that note just this morning,” said Miss Erish, “as I waited. I had been looking forward to seeing Miss Wilson, you see. She had seemed grateful for all I have done for her.”

“We’re all grateful,” said Bill, and both Leslie and Evelyn nodded and agreed until Miss Erish appeared satisfied. She shut the folio on her tablet, and as she did, it seemed to Evelyn as though the light dimmed throughout. It was, of course, coincidental, and Evelyn saw that as she looked up and over her shoulder. Clouds had moved in and brought more snow. It was falling fast enough that the freeway across the river was now only visible by the stream of headlights.

Miss Erish tucked the still-glowing tablet between her hip and the sofa cushion, folded her hands in her lap, and looked about brightly.

“Mr. Hunter,” she said. “You’ve put on weight.”

Leslie shifted and sat a little straighter—as though that might conceal the spread of his belly over his belt.

“I oughtn’t be surprised,” she said. “If you enjoy beer as much every night as you did the last, of course you’ll fatten. It is like drinking cake.”

Leslie’s expression betrayed only the faintest breath of surprise for himself. Evelyn knew how unlikely it was that Miss Erish would have been here at the bar last night when the rest had arrived, and obviously Leslie hadn’t noticed her either. But Miss Erish’s senses were sharp, her intuition sharper; Evelyn wouldn’t put it past her to have simply correctly surmised by a barely perceptible redness in Leslie’s eyes, a hint of sourness on his breath.

“I’m worried about that weather,” said Evelyn, and Miss Erish nodded in agreement.

“They oughtn’t be out in it.” Miss Erish turned the tablet in her lap. “They ought to be here .”

“Why don’t I call Andrea? See how she is?” said Evelyn.

Miss Erish looked down and made a dismissive flutter with one hand.

Evelyn stepped away and made for the lobby. Miss Erish didn’t care for calls, in or out, during a meeting: it disrupted the foci as she put it. It was a dilution .

The lobby was scarcely busier now than it had been when Evelyn rose. In fact, it might have been busier at half past five than it was now. Even the concierge desk was empty. Evelyn pulled out her phone. There was another text from her daughter:

STOP IT

Evelyn let that sit while she scrolled through her contact directory and found Andrea’s number.

She answered after four rings.

“We’re all right.”

“Hello to you too, Andrea. I’m glad to hear that. It looks awful outside. You caught up with Amy?”

“It is awful outside. Yes, we caught up. We’re in a coffee shop down the promenade.”

Evelyn told her about Miss Erish.

“It’s pretty bad outside,” said Andrea. “I think we better hole up here for a while.”

Evelyn peered out the windows. Snow was drifting high in the parking lot, making shallow parabolae between the cars there. The sky was darkened to a necrotic purple. Even absent any other motivation for staying in their coffee shop, Andrea had a point.

“How is Amy?” she asked.

“She’s…” A pause, presumably while Andrea asked Amy how she was. “Amy is fine .”

Evelyn doubted that and said so.

Andrea paused again, but this time, it was not to ask Amy a question. Evelyn could hear the sound of chair legs clattering along tile, and the shift in acoustics indicated that Andrea was on the move. When she spoke again, her tone had shifted too.

“Amy’s not fine; of course she’s not. She says she’s not coming back.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Has she said why?”

“She says—” Andrea paused again for a second and whispered, “—she thinks Miss Erish is a vampire .”

“Does she?”

“Well not literally. But she… she’s got some metaphysical ideas.”

“Would it help if I spoke with her?”

“What are you going to say?”

“I don’t know,” said Evelyn, “I’ll have to listen to what she says first.”

The concierge returned to the desk. He was an older gentleman, excessively thin, the dark flesh of his cheeks still soft, though. He met Evelyn’s eye and offered a hesitant smile before his mouth pursed severely and he made to busy himself at his computer screen.