Ezekial's Train, Chapter One

“'Scuse me suh, 'Scuse me.”


Daniel shifts in his seat and opens his eyes as the porter shakes his shoulder, snapping his head to the side, startled and suddenly aware. “Y'all gone have tuh get offa the train, suh. Yo ticket is only tuh Miama and we done got theah.”


The train. The turbines spinning underneath as the train floats on a perfect cushion of magnetism, light shining from its eyes in the night, showing the bridge beneath and the dark sky above. The fixed metal glare of the Puma's face on the front of the locomotive staring ahead, its gaze as impenetrable as the sphinx. I can sense it even though I'm alone in the dark berth. I can see it. The train's face.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, nervous and fidgety, the old black man shakes Daniel's shoulder again, jostling him a little more aggressively and constantly aware that he is treading on delicate waters touching a white man. “Suh? Suh?”

“Yes!”

The porter steps back, wide eyed, watching the man with the strange accent. “Yah, the train has stopped, hasn't it? Yah.” He shakes his head again, his neck snapping back and forth as he realizes the porter is staring at him. “And where am I again?”

“Miama, suh. Miama, Florida, suh.”

Miami, he thinks. Why Miami? Looking around he notices that he is the only person in the train car now, the only passenger at any rate. It's only the old black porter who stares at him, watching him closely as he walks to the door, glancing around briefly before he remembers his duffel bag and returns to pick it up, heaving it over his shoulder as he climbs down the fold away stairs and off of the train car into the heat that is August in south Florida. The temperature here is like the the deserts of North Africa but with more moisture in the air and it does not suit his Danish constitution or his current mindset.

The colors here are all pastels though, which match the heat nicely. The paint on the train station walls is new and clean, as it is in most places he's seen since coming back form Europe. Only three years after the war's end and America is shiny, clean, and prosperous, whereas back there he would still be looking at rubble, death, and destitution. Prosperity to the victors, But who shall be the final victors?

“Suh! Suh, ya done dropped this there on the train!” Even in agitation the porter's words are drawn out and full of extra sylables as he trots across the platform holding out a sheath of papers, gesturing towards Daniel as he goes. “Massa Christiansen is it, suh? Hope y'all don't mind me lookin' through this book 'a your's, suh. Them's some interestin' pitchers in there. Yes, suh, they is.”

“Yah. Yah, interesting.” He absent mindedly takes the sketchbook form the porter, gently placing it into his coat pocket as he shifts the duffel bag to the ground.

“Suh, what 'a them pictchers of, suh?”

Break

The tower of Castle Kronborg is casting a long shadow today and Daniel stands on the very tippy top point of that shadow, beaming proudly. He can almost imagine that he is standing on the tip top point of the real tower, standing in the clouds, peaking into the heavens like a man in one of the aeroplanes his mum showed him in a magazine. A big papery thing with wings that looked like boards and a spinny propeller that looked like a pinwheel, he could barely believe that it left the ground. Surely, even the adults must know that only something with feathers like a bird could fly. And to carry a person, surely it'd have to have more than just two wings. One day Daniel would show them and build his own aeroplane, but proper, with feathers and everything.

“Damn castle's an eyesore if you ask me.” Even though most people have such a hard time understanding Grandpa Lars' accent, Daniel doesn't have a problem at all. They spend so much time together these days that it's like he's learned two versions of Danish to go with the English his mother is patiently teaching him in the evenings.

“That damn Shakespeare made a joke of the whole thing, and if he hadn't I bet we could've torn the damn thing down by now. Would make a great park down there 'steada that crazy castle.”

“Pa Lars, though,” He stands tall on the tip of the towers shadow and stretches his arms out like wings, “I like the tower. And besides, mum says that we shouldn't read Shakespeare because it's . . . what's the word she uses? Secular.”

“Yeah, and your mum thinks all kind of things too, but I'm old and can't nobody take that away from me.”

Daniel jumps from where he's standing and spreads his arms out as far as he can, waving them as if he'd just jumped from the top of the tower and is gliding down. “Pa Lars, thank you for bringing me here again!” He wraps his arms around his grandpa's legs and laughs, his eight year old voice high pitched and even more childlike than one would expect. “I love you, Pa Lars.”

“Yeah, I guess you're not such a bad kid,” He pats him awkwardly on the head before pushing him away. “Now get off me, alright?”

Break

The compass glides around the paper in a steady arc, pivoting on its center and drawing a perfect circle. There's something about the simplicity of a compass, the simplicity of the circle, that's always appealed to Daniel. The circle of life and the circle of the universe. Surely, if there were a shape to give to God, it would be a circle.

“Danny boy, why are ya drawin' circles again then, eh? I know the period is free exercise, but it's always circles and globes with you, innit?”

“Yah sir, I just am like them. There is something about the maps of the world, do you know?”

“Aye. I suppose I do. And a talent you've got for them too. If you're going to work on maps all the time though, why don't ya work on more o' them nice ones like you've made for the school, then? 'Steada these crazy things you're doing now?”

He looks up form the circle where he's already begun sketching a continent. Savoring the feel of the graphite scraping against the paper, he looks up without stopping, even while he begins to speak. Old Samson's eyes narrow at that, curiously. “They are not being crazy though, sir. They are as I see in my mind. They are as of other earths.” Even at 24 Daniel's voice is a little higher than that of his peers and he's conscious of it.

“Aye, there ya are again with that business then. Lord Danny, what's to become of you? I know you're here for the suffrage of Dr. Mathiasen, and I know it's the point of the school and all, but you're a grown man.”

“We are friends, sir, Sorn and I. He helped me to come here, to America. I am grateful.”

When Dr. Sorn Mathiasen had written to him of a new college he was directing in Pennsylvania Daniel has jumped at the opportunity to come here, to go anywhere in America. Afterall, Dr. Sorn had been kind to him when after he'd enrolled at the People's College in Helsinger, encouraging his eccentricities rather than chastising them. He had encouraged Daniel to keep up with his maps and with his sketching, even though they bore little relevance to the blacksmithing he did for a living. When the opportunity came and with his family thin on the ground here after the Great War it had been hard to say no. With nothing holding him back he'd had no second thoughts of boarding the giant ship Olympic and sailing to America even if it did mean being jammed into a hold with a thousand Irish families along the way. It would be worth it, he knew.

“I know, I know, I've heard the stories, from you and him. There's something he sees in you, I suppose. Can't say I see it though.” Samson shakes his head and walks away, turning mid step as he reaches the next table, “I will say though, boy, that map you made of the globe that we framed there is something else, so there is that. Don't take my old words to heart, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

Break

The colors here are all wrong, colors he's seen before, but never in this assortment. The plants, strange, the sky a dull purple. In the distance he can see a building like none he's even seen, in Europe or in America. It's so hard to look at the terrain though, when the creature is staring at him with such palpable force of will.

Its center head, that which bears the face of man, stares down at him form on high, the other three heads aloof and angled away, the lion in particular paying him only a sideways glance as the human face speaks in the echoing voice that they all have, “There is much we have in mind for you, Ezekial. Much you have not yet begun to imagine.”

The voice speaks in Danish but it is an accent unlike any he's ever heard. “Why do you keep calling me Ezekial?” He tries to shout at the creature, but it comes out as a whisper, calm and collected as a student addressing a teacher.

“Do not ask questions of us, human.”

The face of man shifts it's gaze upward and that of the lion speaks to him, the creatures four wings moving gently in the soft wind as it floats above him. “You are not ready and we will return when you are.”

The bird face looks down with a jerk and widens its eyes in anger, its glance piercing Daniel like a dagger and the creature is gone, floating up with a gentle movement of its wings, floating up to the great rotating sphere from which it came. The concentric circles of the ship spin faster as the creature moves back within it and it is gone in a flash, as is the world in which he stands, strange colors and all.

He is back in the break room at the factory and he is breathing heavily. Other workers try not to stare as he heaves and gasps for breath. The year is 1933 and this is the first time he has seen the angels, but it will not be the last.

Break

“Suh?”

He is back at the train station in Miami now, breathing heavily and shaking. “Yah, yah, that is mine.” He mumbles, dropping the sketchbook form his quivering hand, his fingers moving like one with palsy as he bends over to pick it up.

“Lemme do that fo' ya, suh. I's got it.”

The porter picks it up and puts it in his hand again and before he can begin to register what more the man has to say, Daniel has turned and moved off, bumping into a standing suitcase as he does, stumbling and moving towards the large double doors leading to the rest of the station. “Yah, yah, thank you. It is mine.”

As he steps through the doors a smiling woman hands him a paper cup full of orange juice, forcing it into his shaking hand and babbling to him in words he barely takes in. He takes it and leans against the wall, draining it at a gulp as if it were water and feeling the slight burn of the acidity as it goes down his dry throat.

But why? Why am I here again?

Being a Ghost Sucks (Pt. 3)

Holy shit she's listening. She's going to help me get out of this damn thing! Roberts thoughts are a jumble and he feels a sense of exhilaration and a certainty that if he still had a heart it would be beating wildly. Just knowing that someone was there to help, someone to talk to, and someone to save him from an eternity in a vacuum cleaner was enough to fill him with exultation and hope.

But how the fuck is she going to help me get out of the vacuum cleaner if even I don't know how? And despair creeps back in.

Words appear in the dust once more, “I'm a ghost.” Blurred lines. “I think.”

“You think? You think? Like, you think you're a ghost but you might just be a vacuum spirit, like a dryad but for vacuums, something like that?”

“No! I'm a person.”

“Well you sure look like a vacuum cleaner to me.”

“I mean I was. I died here and woke up in this thing.”

Trish bends over the front of the vacuum cleaner and wipes the dust from the front of it underneath the torn catch bag, “This thing is a Hoover model 8760GT, serial numbe 87625149. Man, for a self aware appliance, you aren't very self aware.”

The dust is still for several long moments. “You're kind of a jerk.”

“Yep, okay, back in the closet for you and then to the dump tomorrow. Have fun at the junk yard!” Trish jumps to her feet and makes as if to grab the Robert's handle.

“No! No! Please, I'm sorry. Just listen to me!”

“Hmm... One more chance mister suckmaster.” The dust is still in response. “Okay, that was a bit harsh. Go on, please.” Maybe I should be nicer, the poor guy is stuck in a Hoover, she thinks, barely suppressing a giggle. She sits back down, brushing the dust away from a spot on the floor directly in front of the vacuum, unsure of exactly where she should be facing.

“I'm scared and alone.”

“Man, you are sad and. . . I mean, look, I feel for you but what do you want me to do?”

“I don't know. I can't do any research like this but there has to be a way.” The words are spelled out slowly, no more than four or five at a time before they have to be smudged away to make room for the next. Suddenly she noticed that the words are all carefully formed, the letters very exacting as if the hand writing them were being very deliberate and precise. “I didn't expect to be a vacuum cleaner. I died in this house and ended up here. Could you try to help me get out? Maybe find a way?”

“I guess I could go on wikipedia.” She bites her lip and pulls a stray clump of wavy blonde hair from in front of her eyes. Robert watches her in the weird way that he does, for the first time wondering how exactly it works since he doesn't have any eyes. He catches himself thinking how cute she is when she's pensive. “So, how'd you die anyway?”

“That's not important.”

“Ha! You have to tell me now, come on! I bet it was something embarrassing! Was it auto-erotic asphyxiation? Like that David Carradine guy?”

“No.”

“Oh, oh, I know, you died on the toilet like Elvis, didn't you!”

“Kind of. Please, this isn't a game.”

“Well, just tell me then!”

“I was drunk. I died of alcohol poisoning at a birthday party for my best friend.”

“Oh shit dude, I'm sorry. Still, it sounds like you died at a baller party. That's kind of cool. I mean, not like cool 'cause you're dead, but you know. . .”

“No, I don't.”

“So, were you like old or what?”

“I was about to turn twenty one.”

“Oh for real? Were you cute? Do you have any pictures?”

“I'm a vacuum cleaner.”

“Oh, right. I guess they took your stuff.” Suddenly it dawns on Trish that she is literally sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor in a pile of dust talking out loud to a vacuum cleaner. Eagerly awaiting its response no less. This can't be healthy.

“Hey, I'm sorry I was a jerk earlier and I'm not trying to be one now, but this is a bit much. Let me clean up and—well, I guess I can't clean up or we can't talk. Tell you what, let me take a shower and change clothes and get my head straight and then we'll talk, OK?”

“OK”

Trish stands and looks down at Robert for a minute, debating whether to put him away before she decides to avoid the issue and just go take a shower. Now I'm talking to a vacuum cleaner. What. The. Fuck. And I asked him if he was cute. Ugh. . .

Sitting in the center of the room Robert sits in his spray of dust, almost happy for the first time since he'd found himself here. I'll have to ask her the date, so I'll know how long it's been, he thinks, but then he wonders if he'd really like to know at all. Now that he knows there might be a way out, it makes it a little more bearable, but only just.

So now that I'm certified crazy and talking to a household appliance, Trish idly thinks in the shower, I should have no problem adapting to a new high school, right? I mean, if I'm uncomfortable I'll just start talking to my desk. Or a pencil. It'll have to be easy to meet cute guys when I'm holding conversations with pencil sharpeners and toilets, right? But when she starts thinking of the logistics of realistically starting at a new school, the odd situation with the vacuum cleaner fades from her mind and by the time she wanders back into her bedroom she's almost forgotten the bizarre events of the last hour.

She walks, stepping over a box and tossing the towel on top of it as she slams the door shut behind her. Digging around in the mass of clothes on the bed she pauses to stretch and yawn. It's been a long day.

Holy shit. She's naked. While lost in his dreams of escape and carefully avoiding what might come after, Robert is startled to see Trish walk in and fling her towel aside. She bends over the bed, facing away from him and pulls out a cute pair of pajamas before turning back, stretching with her arms over her head. Robert isn't sure how since he's been deprived of his body but certain feelings well over him in waves and he, or at least the Hoover, starts to shake a little. Maybe this isn't so bad after all. . .

Yawning, Trish glances over at the vacuum and freezes, her pale skin blushing from head to toe. 

“You. . . You can see, can't you.”

She looks down at the spread of dust on the floor apprehensively, waiting impatiently for an answer. 

“No.”

Oh thank God! She thinks as she lets loose a deep breath and relaxes. That's one thing I don't have to worry about at least.

“OK, that's good. I mean, I guess not for you, but it makes my life easier.”

For an instant Robert feels his conscience twinge but he consoles himself with the thought that if he's going to be stuck in a vacuum cleaner for all eternity after dying a virgin there should be some sort of perks involved. “How?” He tries to stop the shaking so she won't notice that or the way that the letters in the dust are kind of erratic now.

“Um. . . nothing. Still, if it's alright with you I'm going to put you in the closet so I can get some rest, OK?”

“Sure.”

“Sure, huh? I never expected a ghost to use words like 'sure.'” She puts on the pajamas, glancing over her shoulder at the vacuum, wondering suddenly if maybe . . . No, it's just a ghost anyway, better not to think of it. “Tell you what, Robby the Robot Vacuum, we're gonna get you fixed, OK? Besides, if nothing else it'll be a great distraction from this train wreck my stupid parents made of my life, moving me to this dumb podunk town. At least I kind of have a friend now. Maybe I'll meet a nice toaster tomorrow too.”

Trish grabs Robert roughly by the handle and notices a strange shake come from it when she does. Maybe he's scared to be alone? She thinks as she gently sets him down in the closet. Well, screw him. I'm the one stuck with a haunted vacuum cleaner. This whole situation sucks.

She chuckles softly to herself as she readies for bed.

Being a Ghost Sucks (Pt. 2)

“What in the hell…?” Trish stopped trying to pat off the dust that had settled on her head and shoulders like gray snow and kneeled in front of the ruined vacuum cleaner. Two words had just appeared in the pile of dirt at her feet, as if they were being traced by some invisible finger.

“‘Help me’? Help you what? Stop being a shitty exploding vacuum cleaner?”

She ignored the way the temperature in the room suddenly dropped several degrees.

“You have to be kidding me,” she said, rubbing at the goosebumps popping up on her arms as the air continued to chill. “Really? The house is haunted? And by a nut-job vacuum cleaner?”

Fuck this, she thought, and she stood up. Clearly, this whole thing was brought on by the stress of having to switch high schools in the middle of her junior year. Really, who’d blame her for cracking a bit? All she needed to do was go take a shower and pretend she didn’t see anything. Otherwise, she was going to end up in a mental hospital explaining to the good doctors that the ghosts were leaving her messages in her alphabet Spagetti-os.

But before she could put this plan into action, the words in the dirt were swept away and new ones were being written in their place.

“‘Don’t go’? Oh, come on!” she yelled. She couldn’t believe this. A fucking haunted vacuum cleaner? She briefly toyed with the idea of kicking the dust around and chucking the vacuum out the window. That would teach it to ruin ordinary people’s lives by talking at them. It was a tempting idea, at least until her conscience decided to pipe up. What if there really was someone stuck in the vacuum cleaner or something? What if breaking the vacuum left them in Limbo or unable to pass on or something? She knelt back down.

“Ooookay, Mister Vacuum Cleaner –”

Robert.

“You’re a vacuum cleaner named Robert?”

No!

“So you’re really some guy stuck in a vacuum cleaner?” She propped her chin against her palm and chewed over that piece of information for a minute. “Guess that means I should top hoping for shirtless Patrick Swayze to show up. So what happened? Did you like, kill a kitten and get stuck with this as a punishment?”

The temperature sank again.

“Oh, don’t get pissy at me! You’re the one who literally exploded at me, and now I’m covered in whatever-the-hell all is and …”

“Honey, who are you yelling at?”

At the door, her mother looked down at her with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

“I’ve heard yelling…oh, good lord!” Her mother bustled over to her, all but lifting Trish bodily to her feet. Her mother gingerly picked up a chunk of her currently-gray hair, looking for all the world as if someone had just died. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Trish said, rescuing her hair from her mother’s grip. “It’s just, um, I turned on the vacuum and, um, the back just exploded! Can you believe it?” 

Trish briefly wondered if she should tell her mother the truth, but decided trying to explain to her mother that the vacuum cleaner was haunted and exploded to get her attention was a little beyond her abilities at this point.

“That’s just awful,” her mother said. She backed up a pace and gave Trish a once-over. “Well, you seem fine. Why don’t you head into the shower, and I’ll get rid of this thing?”

“No!”

“No?”

“No! I mean, you don’t know that for sure. That’s it’s not going to work, I mean.” Trish grabbed the handle and began dragging it back to the closet. “Don’t waste and all that, right?” 

She opened the closet door and shoved it – him – unceremoniously inside, wincing as the vacuum landed on its -his – side. She turned to face her mother but kept her hand on the doorknob.

Her mom stared at her, half uncertain and half bewildered. “Are you sure you’re alright, honey?”
Trish nodded. “Yep. Definitely. It was just a bunch of dust and stuff. Gross, but it’s not going to kill me.” She still didn’t move away from the door.

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“It was probably just a fluke, like an electrical surge or something.”

“Alright, alright. If you say you’re fine, I believe you. Make sure to clean up. You look like you just stumbled out of a disaster area.” Finally, finally, her mother turned and left, closing the door behind her.

Trish let out the breath she was holding. She cracked open the door to her room and peaked inside. The vacuum cleaner was where she left it, though it somehow managed to right itself, which was kind of creepy. But then, if it could explode, how hard would standing up be?

Trish decided to save that pertinent question for later and pulled out the vacuum and placed it in the middle of her room. She sat crossed-legged in front of it and cleared her throat. “Okay, Robert,” she said, making sure to enunciate clearly despite feeling like an idiot. Who knew how good or bad reception on the Other Side might be? “I’m listening. So um, say something. Or write something. You know what I mean.”

Being A Ghost Sucks (Pt. 1)

Light filters in thin shafts through the slats of the closet and it takes Robert a while to comprehend what that means. Light! Light in the living room for the first time in months, years, who knows? Time travels differently when you're a ghost, but Robert knows that it had been a long, long time since anyone has come to the house. Voices now too, or snatches of voices, passing into the room. Probably another realty tour, just like all the others, but the first in so long! And these voices sound excited.

“And here we have the second bedroom,” Mimi, the realtor, chirps rather than speaks. It's a little small, but it would be great for children, or maybe as a study?” He can hear the fake smile in her voice.

“Oh, Bernie! I love this color! It's such a delightful shade of . . . purple. Oh, don't you know Trisha would just love it to death. You know dear, I--”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you love the house. You been sayin' so ever since we pulled up. Try not to act so excited in front of the realtor, eh?”

“Oh, aren't you two cute. Don't worry, you're the third couple this week to say that! Everyone just loves this house; I certainly don't see it being on the market for very much longer !”

“Yeah, yeah, and how's the closet over here? Trish's got a lotta clothes for a girl her age.”

Heavy footsteps approach and the door creaks open, creasing on either side to slide apart. A tall, heavy set man looks down at Robert looking puzzled, but underneath that determined. The kind of determined look that builds up over years like laugh lines or crow's feet until it's always there. “A vacuum cleaner? Hey look hun, it comes with a free vacuum cleaner.” 

 

He looks back over his shoulder with narrowed, deadpan eyes at Mimi. “Oh yes, the previous tenants left it and it was such a nice model we though we'd leave it with the house for whatever lovely people moved in after!” That inane giggle that so thinly masks a lie. Robert remembers all the times they tried to move him from the house. First in the dumpster they were using when they cleaned the house, second in the back of one of the cleaner's cars. The third time the cleaning company had told the bank about the issue and they'd scoffed at it. The cleaners tried once more and gave up, nervous and afraid.

Each time he'd been moved from the house he'd disappeared, “Poof!” right from wherever they'd moved him and popped right back up here in the closet. Sitting quietly in the exact same spot every time they'd come back, the little indentations in the carpeting lining up perfectly with his little wheels.

“Yeah, doesn't look that nice of a model to me. . .”

“Oh Bernie, come on. Let's see the rest of the house!”

The final three times he'd been moved had been in the back of Mimi's car. She took him to the dump the first time and then, the second time, swearing like a sailor, she'd taken him to the thrift store. The third time, silent and shaking, she'd taken him to the river and dropped him in, only to find him here, dry as a bone and just as she'd found him every other time. Her optimism for selling the house decreased steadily after that.

More days go by. Weeks? Months? Robert doesn't really think in those terms anymore but it's a long time. More time to ruminate on his pathetic little situation. A ghost in a vacuum cleaner has nothing but time on his hands, especially in an abandoned house. Nothing but time to rebuild every little moment of his last day alive. No wonder most poltergeists just end up going crazy and causing mischief.

The last day he'd been alive they'd thrown a big birthday party for his roommate Zack; the biggest one they'd ever thrown at the house. Robert and his other roommate Justin had bought a keg for Zack's birthday and as usual Robert had drank way too much, challenging every male in attendance to a drinking contest and eventually downing a half dozen Four Locos before stumbling into the john.

And then that was it. He'd fallen in the bathroom while vomiting and banged his face on the toilet, rolling over onto his back. By the time they found him he was dead of alcohol poisoning and stiff as a board, but not before his addled spirit had bumbled out of his poor, pale body and drunkenly stumbled, confused and scared, back into his bedroom. The world spinning and a bright light shining in his face he'd tumbled into his closet and hidden there, afraid and shaking, wondering why his hands seemed to fade away near the fingertips. It was a snug fit with the beat up household Hoover in there already.

And then this.

The door opens again and it wakes him from his reverie. This time it's a woman and she sounds like the last one to visit the house. “Bernie's so silly. So what if there's a vacuum cleaner in the closet, it's not like we can't throw it out if it doesn't work. Why can't he just be excited that we got such a good price on this place?”

She grabs Robert by the handle and jerks him out of the closet roughly. “This isn't such a bad looking old Hoover. Now let's see if you work.”

Unwinding his cord from the prongs on the handle she pulls him over by the nearest outlet and he sees that the room is no longer empty. Boxes are stacked haphazardly around the room and a bed frame and mattress are leaned up against the wall. A heap of colorful girls clothes is piled atop the boxes. 

 

Taking in the room he feels a jolt and realizes that he'd been plugged in. Then he hears noise. So much noise. Almost like the sound of a giant vacuum if you were locked inside. Surprise, surprise.The first time he's been plugged in and it's terrifying, like electricity is shooting through his veins and a massive whirring beating against his ear drums, maddening vibration shaking him apart, and then silence.

“Oh, you do work! And strong too. Just another perk to this lovely, lovely house.”

And he's back in the closet.

“What the? A vacuum cleaner? Mom! What do you want me to do with this stupid vacuum cleaner?”

A girl stands at the door this time. Late teens and blonde, she's kind of cute in a messy way. Her hair's a little disheveled and she's wearing a baggy T-shirt but there's definitely a cute factor there. Robert feels like he'd be blushing if he weren't haunting a vacuum.

“Honey, just leave it there for now, we've already filled up the closet in the living room.”

She shakes her shoulders in a petulant huff. “Ugh, like this closet isn't small enough already. Stupid house.”

The rest of the day is spent watching her put clothes in the closet, arranging them carefully at first and then just tossing them in. One of those things girls put their shoes in goes over the hanger rod and slaps roughly against him before shoes fly from across the room and knock him around. A t-shirt ends up draped across his handle and he doesn’t see anything for a while.

“Well, that's the bed and the clothes. Enough for one day anyway, even though I'm sure dad'll bitch at me for not being done. Ugh, at least I can use this damn thing to clean up this dusty room.”

She pulls the shirt off of him and throws it on the floor, kicking off an errant high heel and grabbing him by the handle, dragging him out of the closet. The room is a wreck with half -unpacked boxes everywhere but the bed is upright and covered in blankets now. Already wondering what the hell he's going to do he feels his plug go into the wall.

This time it's not so bad. He can already kind of feel himself getting used to it as she slides him across the carpet, loudly whirring. It's almost nice. But how the hell do I do ghost things? You'd think I'd just take control and roar around.

He focuses on moving on his own. Nothing. On jerking himself from her hand. Nothing. On blowing instead of sucking. Nothing. Finally in a rage he just focuses everything he has into a fit of shaking anger.

“What the. . .”

The handle starts shaking and with small, bursting explosion the catch bag on the back of the vacuum billows out from behind him, spraying dust and debris all over Trish and the floor. “Ah! Damn it!” As Trish pulls back from the cloud of dirt Robert has an idea. 

 

Hair balls and brown dust flutter to the ground, falling in tufts, and showering her feet as well as the carpet. As it falls though, it begins to form into a pattern. What looks like words.

“Help me.”

Sneak Thief (Pt. 3)

Freezing his body in place, Sylvis reaches to his good luck amulet out of habit, touching the raised spot on his tight-knit shirt where he can feel it through the fabric. Suddenly it is very light on his chest.


“Put down whatever you've got and turn around. Now.”


Sylvis puts the envelope back down on the desk, carefully closing the flap and running his fingers over the obviously expensive, woven paper before letting go. Taking a deep breath and putting his empty, black gloved hands out to either side, he turns around.


Standing in the doorway is an old male elf, but short by elf standards. Maybe five and a half feet tall, he's not a very imposing person in stature, but in presence he fills the room. Immediately Sylvis knows that this is the man he's been told to steal from, Enoch Wallisarn. It can be no one else but him, standing there with his back straight and his hands in his pockets, no weapon drawn nor any worn, he must be very confident in his abilities to challenge as he does, even as his skills are belied by his shaggy grey hair and tanned, wrinkled face. Shit, it's just some old guy. What do I gotta be worried about? But he knows that's not exactly true and he can feel all the blood run away from his face.

“Yep, I don't need a weapon to hurt a pip squeak like you, though I don't really got a mind to, yet. Tell me what yer here for boy, and who sent ya, and make me believe it, and I'll let ya on your way.”

Sylvis looks at him and concentrates on keeping calm, keeping his story straight. “I just saw the big house, ya know? Biggest one on the street, it was, and I thought, I'll go there, ya know? Figured you had all kinds of old, valuable--”

His words and his breath are cut off as one. Moving in a blur across the room the old elf pushes Sylvis down on the desk, slamming him on his back and sending baubles crashing to the ground and papers fluttering down in a mess. One of Enoch's hands is wrapped tightly around the his throat and the other is holding a long dagger that Sylvis can feel pushing against his abdomen, pulsing an intense aura of heat from its blade as it's held with just enough pressure to be felt but not wound. Quicker than his eyes could perceive it, the elf has pinned him and he can feel his head getting light. Stars begin to appear at his periphery, but he struggles not to fight, to hold still. The old elf looks down at him with an odd, bemused expression. Almost smirking, he grips tighter until things are just starting to go black before letting go and pulling away, letting Sylvis fall to the floor, grasping for breath and flailing his arms.

“So boy, you still wanna play?”

Sylvis grasps the edge of the desk and pulls himself up, noting that the dagger is no where to be seen. Catching his breath, heaving while bent over, he touches his stomach and feels the drops of blood where the blade barely pierced his skin, cutting a tiny slit in his shirt.

“It. . .” Gasping, he grabs his throat and can feel the heat where it is bruised. “It was just a -cough- contract! A stupid sneak job!” He leans heavily against the solid wooden desk.

“A big one I bet. And they gave it to an amateur like you. They must think I'm getting old.”

“They just said, they said to get the green envelope with the House Cannith crest on it and get out,” Coughing, it's hard for him to go on, but he does his best to stand and look defiant. “They said it would be like stealing candy from a halfling.”

Enoch laughs and in his laugh is the sound of cogs turning with no lubricant. It is the laugh of a man who has seen life and death in equal measures, finding neither much more interesting than the other. “And was it boy, was it?”

“Well, you said you'd let me leave if I told you. . .”

“Yeah, yeah I will. Course they'll kill you if you come back without the envelope.”

Suddenly Sylvis' attention is fixed back on Enoch's face, watching his eyes. He's no longer laughing. “Why. . . ?”

“Boy, they're like as not to kill you even if ya come back with it. My guess is this whole thing is about destroyin' evidence. Startin' with that offer, that letter there in the envelope.”

Maybe I don't want to be in the big time after all. “Please, just let me take it and I'll take my chances.” Sylvis has never been one to beg but seeing the old elf move like he did before, bringing him closer to death than he's ever been, has humbled him a bit.

“Yeah, I'll let you have it. No use to me anymore. They coulda' just asked for it, but that ain't how they work. They don't kill you boy, you be careful of them you working for. They don't play nice.”

“So I can have it?” He makes a half turn toward the desk, picking up the envelope gingerly, watching Enoch all the while.

“Go for it. Aren't you curious what it says?”

Holding the large green envelope, running his fingers over the gold filigree of the House Symbol on its cover, he realizes that he is curious for the first time why they would send him, offering so much money no less, to do nothing but take an envelope the old man would've given away. “Maybe. They said bring it back without opening it though . . .”

“Ha! You won't go far in this world with that kind of thinking.” He pauses, looking at the younger thief there by his desk, still shaking a little from being held so tightly 'round the neck. “Listen kid, I'll give ya some advice for free, and I don't do much for free. Go back to picking pockets. This kinda work ain't for you. Ya don't know it, but you're playin' a bit role and don't nobody cry when they loose a pawn to the other side's knight.”

Looking down at the envelope, he suspects Enoch is right and suddenly he wants nothing more than to be out of here, out of the Skyway, and back to running errands in the lower districts.

***

He's riding in the back of a taxi again, wearing his nicer clothes and halfway back home when his curiosity gets the better of him and he opens the envelope. Lifting back the flap he pulls out a sheath of papers on very high end paper, the House Cannith letterhead emplazoned atop it.

“Enoch, I have a favor to ask of you...”

Sneak Thief (Pt. 2)

“The Master was busy today, it seems.”

Sylvis catches his breath. One of the mahogany bookcases slowly begins to slide forward and Sylvis, seeing that this would be a most inopportune time to be discovered, sinks into the blue shadows in the corner of the room. The weight of his golden charm feels slightly heavier around his neck. He knows that he won’t be seen. Not just yet. Good.

“Aye, it did seem that way,” replied a second voice. This voice is a bit higher pitched.

Sylvis peers past his sanctuary ever so slightly. The sliding bookcase has now slid completely to the side and only the soft light of a candle in the dense, dark library illuminated the faces of the voices.
“And he spoke to them, alone,” said the first, a tall male with a slim handsome face and a short, well trimmed beard. His hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. He probably kept his hair so long to hide his ears, but they still managed to pop out some.

“Rather strange business if you ask me,” said the second, an older, small framed woman who’s head barely reaches the male’s waist. She kept her hair up in a tiny bun. “Did you see ‘em? All of ‘em I mean.”

The handsome one shakes his head as he turns and pulls a wide bound book from the shelf. “I was preparing dinner.” The bookcase slowly moves back.

“Well one of ‘em looked like death. Like death itself. There was a furry one, her mother never taught her ’bout dressing modestly, I’ll tell you that much. Then there was a big ol’ ugly bastard with barely anything coverin’ him up!”

There’s a thud. The bookcase was closed. “They had one of ‘em metal men too. He was touching all the books and the like. It was the last one I couldn’t figure out.”

“How so?”

“She dressed like she belonged in a repair shop but she was high born, I knew that much just by looking at her. Held herself too tall to be a poor girl. Her face was a bit dirty but that wasn’t a face that’s seen any hardship.”

They began to walk through the open thresh hold into the next room and the light slowly slinked away from the dark. “If she’s getting herself involved in anything that Master Enoch’s ever been involved in, those eyes are gonna come back a little bit darker that’s for sure!”

“What do you mean?”

“Hush, you!” she hissed, “You talk too much! Master Enoch’s probably up and about and he’ll have your neck if you’re neglectin’ your duties for chit-chat!”

When the safety of the dark had completely returned, Sylvis stepped out from his hiding spot. Well that’s interesting, he thought. Sylvis had only been given this assignment today. Not five hours ago. Curious. I wonder if those visitors have anything to do with my target?

No time to ponder though. And no time to see what’s behind bookcase number one even though it is an itch he longs to scratch. No. Sylvis looks up. Second floor. Enoch’s office.

The rooms in this place aren’t very beautiful. They are gorgeous. Deep, lush colors and patterns line the walls, not that you could really seem them past the menagerie of portraits and landscapes, most look like a window rather than paint on a canvas. The carpets are an inch thick and are soft like a newborn’s bottom. Definitely imported. Sylvis spots a blood stain in the corner of the carpet in the music room beside the grand piano. He was getting to like this Enoch guy the more he snuck around his home.

And while each of these rooms are stunning, each feels off. Off like someone is watching him but that can’t be. Maybe it’s the thin layer of dust that has settled on the furniture that makes Sylvis listen just a little harder. Maybe you’re just nuts. Which is why you took this shady job in the first place!

No sign of anyone since the library and Sylvis can’t tell if this is a good thing or a bad thing. It probably means nothing but it nags him in the back of his mind. When he gets into the entrance room he takes the arm of the grand staircase on the left. Sylvis himself is left handed and he makes it a point to only trust the left side of things. Right siders are too full of themselves to ever get anything done. Sylvis’ footsteps sound like a dust bunny’s sigh as he maneuvers up the staircase. Only at the top can he appreciate the diamond chandelier in the middle of the room. Damn, that’s some nice shit.

 Sylvis spots a candle in the corner of his eyes and swiftly hides himself under the velvet tablecloth draped over the hall table. The light comes from an old man, drenched in shadow as he exits a room on the far end of the hall. Sylvis smiles. The moonlight of the room outlines an imposing desk. He is exactly where he needs to be.

Sylvis doesn’t breathe as the old man walks past. He won’t even peer out a tad to catch a glimpse of his face. The very essence of this tells him that seeing him means that he’s seen you. The man stops in front of the table Sylvis is under. Sylvis is silent as the grave and won’t even let himself think. It’s a moment that feels like a year but after that moment, the old man passes and walks down the right side of the staircase into the music room.

The door to the office isn’t even locked. Enoch must really think he’s untouchable. Upon opening the door, Sylvis sees what he’s come for. The thief picks it up and inspects the outside. It’s a large, green envelope with golden script written in elvish script- a dialect that Sylvis isn’t familiar with. Certainly old. Maybe as old as Enoch. Sylvis slowly pulls back the envelope’s flap.

“You’ll stop right there if you know what’s good for you,” said Enoch, standing in the doorway.

Sneak Thief (Pt. 1)

The streetlamps in this part of town automatically dim after midnight. It's not that they go out, just that they go barely dim enough to leave a warm glow illuminating the streets and the lawns but not enough to bother the people living here. That's how you can tell it's a swanky neighborhood. That and the fact that even if the lamps were as bright as sunlight they still probably wouldn't touch the fronts of the houses, they're so far back from the sidewalk.

What the hell was I thinking? This job is way out of my league. Sylvis absently thinks to himself. This is the biggest job he's ever taken and certainly his first in this part of town. Even now he's amazed that such a job even came his way, a big break that could put him up there with the big ones, getting high line contracts left and right. If he can pull it off.

He climbs gently out of the shrubbery he's been hiding in patiently for the last three hours, carefully slinging his small satchel tightly over his back. He'd had to wear nice clothes for the taxi ride up, hoping to not make anyone suspicious, but the driver had still given him the stink-eye in the rear view. Surely the taxi guy could spot that he didn't belong here, not in this fancy ass high class neighborhood. Surely he could see that Sylvis was the scum of the earth and probably up to no good. The taxi drivers always could. He'd changed as quietly as he could after sneaking into the bushes, ending up in a tight leather and cloth black jumpsuit, a black mask covering all but his eyes and mouth with leather gloves and boots with soft soles covering his hands and feet.

Pulling the tiny slip of paper out of his pocket he glances at it again, probably the four hundredth time tonight he's done it tonight, and yes, it is still the same address. 2150 Bregandish Way. This address. A quick glance up and down the street shows no carriage lamps, not that anyone is out at this time of night except for the constables and sneak thieves like him. He hopes he's the only one tonight, at least.

He slinks across the street, moving quickly and deftly. He may be small time, but he's got practice and the balance of a ballerina. Small and light, moving silently has never been a problem for Sylvis and it isn't now. Coming up short in front of the ornate iron gate, he stops. It's a little dingier up close than it looked across the street, well kept but old, just like the fence extending to either side. He looks closely at it, moving his eyes over the surface of the filigreed handle, trying his best to spot any traps.

He grasps the handle and gently pulls down. The gate opens. It's not even locked! Not that it would've stopped me. He chuckles and pulls it just far enough open to slip inside and crouch by the hedges behind the fence.

Now that he can see the yard better he can tell that the house is indeed set far back from the road and the walkway leading to it winds through a complex landscape filled with carefully trimmed topiary and fountains. All of the fountains are dry at this time of night though, and grass is still. It's deathly silent tonight and no moon, part of the reason he chose this day to try it, after spending more than a week working up the courage and outfitting himself.

Slinking up to the house, keeping his movements slow and deliberate rather than quick and darting, he makes he way to the front of the house, edging towards the right side. He can't help but be awed by what a house it is. Sylvis has never seen anything like it and even after the taxi ride up and through the other neighborhoods, this house is a monster of wealth and old money. Surely the largest and most complex, even in this most illustrious of neighborhoods where any home would be worth the life of a thousand Sylvis's, this house is magnificent.

Much like the gate, up close it seems worn but well cared for, and it exudes character and class, but with a thin under layer of oddness and something a little sinister. He sneaks around the winding front porch, making his way from window to window, peaking in at the dim rooms inside. Most are dark but for a few with dimmed lights and no occupants. The contact said that only one old man lives here, aside from a couple of live in servants, and as outlandish as it sounded then, Sylvis believes it now. Of course, with a house this size though, he's more worried about his contacts info on the being wrong and less about being caught by an occupant.

Moving down to a dark room near the corner of the house, he tries a window, gingerly fingering the sill, rubbing his hands over the lip and trying his best to find any trace of a trap or enchantment. He opens it and it's easy as anything, sliding up silently and smoothly, almost as if it were well oiled and oft opened. Almost as if it were too good to be true. But it's too late to worry about that now.

Sylvis climbs gingerly over the ledge, his lithe body scaling the high sill with no problem, and he rests his feet on soft, lush carpeting, closing the window gently behind him. Please, for the love of all the deities, let him not have any magic wards here to stop me.

Fingering his good luck charm through the cloth of his shirt, feeling its weight on his chest suspended by its gold chain, he calms himself. If there were real magic here he'd sense it, just like he always has before, but he doesn't. Or at least not the harmful kind. Not yet. Again he kicks himself for believing that the old charm helps him see magic traps, but it hasn't failed him yet.

As his eyes become accustomed to the darkness inside he looks around the room he's in. Something like a large study or a small library, the room is lined with bookcases and shelves of artifacts, carefully arranged. Looking closer, he sees that many of the books are ancient and the artifacts. . . Sweet mother of. . . I could sell all that's in this room alone and live the rest of my days in luxury. What is this place?

Arranged on the shelves are things that he only could've imagine a few minutes before. Artifacts of such value and rarity that someone of his stature could only ever hope to see them in a museum. Taking a quick look around an wondering what else this place might involve he moves to the door, touching the handle gingerly before pausing again. They said that the old man was a prospector, an archaeologist, or something, but this. . . Surely he's a thief as well, Sylvis thinks. The artifacts and artwork here, while worth immeasurable amounts, are so strange and unique that even the most well-heeled would be hard pressed to match them. And this is only the first room.

Taking a deep breath he pulls his instructions out of his pocket once more, knowing he needs to focus before moving on. Reading the top of the carefully folded paper once more has a calming effect, though by this point he could recite the letter by heart.

“2150, Bregandish Way, Azure District, Skyway” and then the name of the occupant, “Enoch Wallisarn.”