Page 5 of Man of His Dreams

Wait. Had Miss Amelie called him Phillip? How the hell did she know his name?

Even as he tried to pursue that line of thought, however, his hands rose to the keyboard and began to type. For the first time in weeks, he saw his story.

It was past two in the morning when Flip finally climbed into his enormous bed, setting down his phone without even bothering to check the whereabouts of his suitcase. He’d written over four thousand words tonight, a huge daily number for him and more than he’d managed in all of the preceding weeks. Not only that, but the next scenes had already crystallized and he’d made some notes to remember them. He’d only stopped writing because his vision was getting too blurry.

Rain still fell but more softly, pattering against the street and the buildings’ exteriors. There wasn’t much else in the way of noise at this hour. In the darkness, aboard his huge bed, Flip easily imagined himself afloat on a calm sea, thousands of miles from his troubles. He let the pretend waves carry him straight into sleep.

And, as it turned out, into a dream.

Chapter

Three

Scratch leaned against the wall near the door, watching Flip, who sat on the edge of the bed. It was dark outside; the only light inside the room came from a pair of lanterns that flanked the door. The flickering flames sent shadows dancing on the walls, and although the shadows looked disconcertingly like people, they didn’t frighten Flip. Nor did Scratch, in the same suit as last night but with a different tie and pocket square.

“What are you doing on that little computer of yours?” Scratch asked.

“Writing a novel.”

Scratch whistled. “We got us a writer. Nice. I like the click-clack of typewriters better, though. They’re like music.” He spread his hands and moved his fingers as if typing—or playing a piano—and hummed a tune that Flip didn’t recognize.

“I’m not musical.”

“Nah, everyone’s got music in them somewhere. You just haven’t found yours, is all.” Scratch tilted his hat at a more rakish angle and winked.

“I don’t need music. I need my luggage.” Flip sighed dramatically and fell back onto the bed. The dream’s ceiling was festooned with dusty spiderwebs, certainly not true in real life, and the shadows were especially lively up there. They looked like human figures moving around, but he couldn’t make out what they were doing.

The mattress dipped slightly as Scratch sat beside him. “Back, oh, ’bout a hundred and fifty years ago, this was a tenement house. A whole family would live in this one room. Hot summer nights, they’d sleep out on the gallery, getting sucked dry by mosquitoes while hoping for a cooling breeze.”

Maybe Flip had read this somewhere about his building, or maybe his subconscious had created the story out of whole cloth. “I’m going to be gone from here before it gets too hot.”

“Where will you go?”

“No fucking idea.” Flip decided it was stupid to spend a dream lying flat, so he sat up and turned to look at Scratch. “Honestly, it’s kinda weird, not knowing what I’m going to do. I used to have plans.”

Looking wistful, Scratch removed his hat and moved it around in his hands. His soft brown curls were cut short and oiled into place. “I did too,” he said softly.

“What were they?” Flip was curious to see what his dreaming mind would come up with.

“Well, they weren’t very specific plans. But… a little more fun. And I was saving money from my job—I was a piano player at a house in Storyville, and sometimes I worked at my cousin’s coffeehouse too, only there I poured liquor. I figured someday soon I’d buy myself a little Creole cottage. Maybe even marry some nice girl and have some kids.”

Interesting. Flip hadn’t realized his subconscious harbored picket-fence hopes. “And did your plans come true?”

Scratch gave him a level look. “Nah, man. But look, it ain’t too late for you. You can?—”

“It’s not too late for you either.”

That brought wry laughter. “It’s hard to start a family when you’re dead.”

Flip blinked at him.

The shadows on the ceiling stopped moving, as if they were listening to the conversation, and the room filled with the cloying scent of flowers. Flip shivered, wrapped his arms around himself, and chewed his lip. There was a truth in this dream, if only he could grasp it.

“I’m a ghost.” Scratch’s voice was matter-of-fact but his eyes held a deep sorrow.

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Doesn’t matter whether you believe—we’re here. More of us than living folks. People have been dying in this place for hundreds of years, and not all of us pass on.”

---