Page 22 of Muzzled

“A nurse checked the wrong box on my birth record when I was born.”

All this time, he’d been chasing the wrong Micah Wheaton, thanks to a nurse who was probably overworked and exhausted when she’d filled out the newborn paperwork.

Yet, somehow, he was on the right track and he couldn’t shake the feeling Micah was the key to his target, to his freedom from the hunt. But if so, what was the connection?

Opening his messaging app, he tapped on her number.

I had an amazing time tonight. Do you have any plans for Friday?

*

Mike tossed herpaintbrush aside and stood, swinging her purse over her shoulder as she stormed from the basement suite and into the muggy night.

She was grateful Logan was gone for the evening, so he hadn’t been witness to the pieces she’d been creating for hours, only to cover the horrific images with a coat of her cheapest black acrylic paint to seal them away. The dim streetlights did little to banish the pictures from her mind. The tortured gray spirits plagued her thoughts, darting through the dark alleys and crouching behind shrubs as she walked toward the deserted festival street.

One more night was all she had to handle before she would see Ryan again, and with that would hopefully come the rest she needed so badly. It had been a week since their date to the gardens, and she’d slept like a rock that night. But with every passing evening, the images became more insistent, more demanding in their presence, and had increased in their frequency when the sun set. Ryan’s voice calmed them for a brief time after each call, but the respite was short-lived, the need to bring the visions to life keeping her awake long into the early morning hours.

Even now, she could see a charcoal spirit watching her from a rooftop, its blackened eyes hollow and mouth open in a silent scream. It made no move to touch her, no attempt to break the visual barrier, but its mere existence sent chills down her spine as she hastened her trek to the convenience store up the street.

With their next festival days away, she and Logan had been putting in long hours during the day, organizing supplies, placing rush orders for the paints and pastels running low, and shipping out the last of the website orders as they trickled to a stop.

The influx of fresh pieces necessary to hit peak sales during the exhibition forced her to shove the silent spooks aside, to recreate old works when her head refused to dredge up any work that didn’t focus on the spirits closing in on her.

She stepped into the bright fluorescent lights of the store and exhaled loudly as she pulled the door closed behind her, keeping her unwelcome guest outside. Taking her time to peruse the selections, she finally settled on a small tub of ice cream, firing off a quick text to Ryan while she waited in line to pay.

Her phone rang immediately.

“Hey,” she breathed, setting her ice cream on the counter and passing the clerk some cash. “How’s your day been?”

“I’ve reconciled seven accounts and completed the filing for local and federal taxes for two corporations,” he replied. “So while productive, it’s been a long, boring day filled with too many numbers and too many details. How are the sale pieces coming along?”

Mouthing a thank-you to the cashier, she slipped the bag onto her wrist and pushed through the doors, scouring the rooftops for company. “I’m still a little off, but managed to get three more done. Not my best work, but passable.”

She could almost hear the frown in his voice. “I didn’t break your inspiration for good, did I?”

“Not at all.” She laughed, relief flooding her as she scanned the area and found nothing watching her. “Every artist goes through slumps from time to time. If anything, these phone breaks are probably saving my sanity right now.”

Literally.

She looked behind her to ensure she was still alone as he cleared his throat. “I’ve been a little hesitant on calling in case I was interrupting your vision or something.”

“All you’d ever be interrupting is Logan’s whining about being banished to the backyard to practice his nozzle pressure technique for spray-painting,” she assured him, slowing her pace as she approached her suite. “We’re still good for tomorrow?”

He launched into her options for their movie date and she leaned against the brick wall of her temporary home, relishing in the quiet both inside her head and out of it. “I’m not much in a horror mood,” she said, searching through her purse for her key. “How about the last one you said? It’s supposed to be weird and funny.”

“I’ll buy the passes tonight,” he replied. “Are you home?”

Locking the door behind her, she took the steps two at a time. “Yeah. I guess I better get to bed before Logan gets back. Night, Ryan.”

“Good night, Micah.”

Unwilling to waste even a minute of her respite, she jumped into bed and closed her eyes before the darkness crept back into her.

*

Ryan patted hispockets to ensure he had everything before tugging his motel room door closed. He hummed while he walked down the hall and froze as he caught sight of his car.

“Seph,” he greeted slowly, looking around the empty lot for his master as he bowed his head. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

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