N. Walters: Night of the Tiger

Images flashed in her brain—the unholy demons, the cave, the skeletons and him . “Damn it!” She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes for a brief moment, knowing there was only one way to free herself from the remnants of her nightmare.

Whirling around, she stomped down the hallway in her stocking feet, leaving the mangled bed behind her. She thought about going downstairs and starting a pot of coffee, but her studio beckoned. She pushed open the door to her office and went straight to her drafting table. A lot of artists used computer programs to create their art. She was no different and used technology for a lot of her work, but when possible, Aimee preferred to do it the old-fashioned way with pencils, pen and ink.

She automatically turned on all the lights before sitting on her stool. The blank sheet of paper called to her, and she grabbed her T-square and began marking out a grid. Her fingers flew as the familiar task took over. She’d done this hundreds of times—no, thousands of times.

Grabbing a pencil, she began to sketch as the story unfolded in her head. “What was it he called you?” She closed her eyes and let herself remember. “Lady of the beast.”

Aimee made a note to do some research later today. For now, she needed to get the details down while they were fresh in her mind. Letting the world around her fall away, she immersed herself in the drawings unfolding before her as her fingers flew across the paper. The cave and all its hellish denizens were soon depicted down to the minutest detail.

The voice of the woman popped back into her head. What was it she’d said? “You are the key,” Aimee muttered. The key to what? Who was the woman and why had she helped?

She kept sketching, letting her fingers fly across the pages in broad strokes. Images tumbled from her mind onto the paper. She didn’t hear the clock ticking on the wall behind her, nor the squeaks and groans of the house as the wind whipped around it, trying to find a crevice to slip inside.

Her fingers began to cramp, and Aimee finally set her pencil down and flexed her hand to work out the kinks. She straightened and groaned as the muscles in her back protested. Blinking, she stared around the room, surprised that it was filled with sunlight.

She glanced at the large, round clock mounted on the wall above her desk and was startled to see it was just after eleven. She’d been working for a little more than seven hours straight. Standing was quite a feat as her muscles were stiff, silently objecting to her ill treatment.

Pages of artwork were scattered across her drafting table. There were more pages on the floor. Aimee ignored them. She knew what was there. As a graphic artist, she was used to drawing the pictures that went with someone else’s story. But this was different. It was the best work she’d ever done, also the most disturbing.

It was pure dumb luck that a comic-company executive had seen some of her sketches hanging in a local gift shop about ten years ago and sought her out with a job offer. Since then, she’d worked with many different writers, helping to create comics and graphic novels that sold around the world. The Internet and her computer allowed her to work from home. That was important to Aimee.

But the drawings she’d created late at night and into the early morning these past few months were not for work. They were personal. She’d decided to create a comic of her own based on her nightmares. “Might as well be of some use,” she told the sketches before turning her back on them and leaving her office behind.

Maybe she’d call it Lady of the Beast . It was catchy and had a sense of power about it. She hoped that by putting her fears and dreams down on paper she’d somehow be able to exorcise them from her life. So far it hadn’t worked, but she wasn’t giving up.

She stopped at the doorway to her room and stared at the mess that was her bed. It was time to get back to real life. Striding forward, she grabbed a corner of her comforter, yanked it off and dropped it on the floor in a heap. She stripped the bed and gathered all the soiled linens, as well as the wet towels from the bathroom, before trotting downstairs.

Not pausing in the kitchen, Aimee went straight to the laundry room and dumped all the linens on the floor. She sorted through them and stuffed a load of sheets and towels in the washer. After setting it to the proper cycle, she padded to the kitchen.

“Coffee,” she muttered as she dug out the can of dark roast from the refrigerator and set it on the counter. Her stomach growled in protest as she filled the pot with water and scooped out spoonfuls of coffee grounds into the filter. She flicked the switch on the side of the coffeemaker and opened the cupboard door as the machine began to gurgle. Her stomach growled again as she searched the near-empty cupboard.

“I’ve got to go grocery shopping,” she muttered, shoving aside a few bottles of dried spices to get to a box in the back. The cupboards were all but bare. They always got that way before she made herself go to town. She’d grown up just outside the small community of Salvation, North Carolina, but she’d never felt as though she were a part of it, had always felt as though she were on the outside looking in.

Aimee grabbed the box of crackers and set it on the counter before rummaging in the refrigerator. A half-empty bottle of ketchup and some mayonnaise long past the expiry date were not appetizing in the least. She gave a crow of triumph when she came up with a jar of peanut butter. There wasn’t much there, but there was enough to spread on the dozen or so crackers she’d found.

After she’d emptied both the cracker box and peanut butter jar, she poured a cup of coffee and sipped the dark brew as she made a grocery list. Opening the refrigerator, she peered inside. It was almost empty and about as appealing as her cupboards.

She dumped a block of blue cheese that she was almost certain was supposed to be mozzarella into the garbage. Several bottles of condiments followed. Her grocery list grew with each passing second. She’d go to the post office while she was in town and check the mail too. She was expecting some art supplies she’d ordered online a couple weeks ago as well as a check for the last graphic novel she’d illustrated.

The nightmare hovered in the back of her mind, but Aimee shoved it aside. With the sun shining in through the windows and the mundane chores of life surrounding her, it was easy to convince herself the happenings of last night were nothing more than a dream.

A week later

Wind skittered over the parched ground, pushing dried leaves in front of it. Dust whipped up, swirling in an exotic dance before being dispersed by the cool breeze. A rabbit hopped across the clearing, stopped, lifted its pink nose and sniffed the air. A deer froze at the edge of the woods, sensing everything was not as it should be.

Evil.

On the wind and moving steadily closer. The rabbit bounded quickly into the woods. The deer bolted, racing deep into the forest, not looking back. The birds took flight, while the smaller woodland creatures burrowed into their dens and hidey-holes. Crows cawed raucously, flapping their wings as they soared above the clearing.

The sound of a truck interrupted their chatter. Another quickly followed it. Voices rang out as a convoy of vehicles flanked either side of the large clearing. Metal clanked as equipment was unloaded. Canvas flapped in the wind as tents were raised.

Shade’s Carnival has come to Salvation, North Carolina.

Aimee sighed as she climbed out of the low-slung, vintage red Mustang. This was the last place she wanted to be tonight, but her friend had insisted.