Page 3 of The Art of Obsession
I stagger to the bathroom and collapse in front of the toilet, retching until my stomach is empty. At leastthatis much more rational, my left brain congratulates me.
Now, I need to get the taste out of my mouth. So, I make a beeline for the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of wine, I yank out the cork and pour myself a glass. My hands are still trembling as I take it to the sitting room where I dump the sketches onto the coffee table.
At first, I sit, swirl my wine, and drink half the bottle while sorting through my options. After a few minutes, I settle on staying here, hoping I won’t turn out like some protagonist in a horror movie. Then again, if it’s only her, she usually survives. Lot of injuries but survival nonetheless.
What else am I supposed to do? Walk into a police station, drop the sketches onto the counter, and tell them I need a restraining order against some mystery stalker? I’ll sound like a crazy Booktok girlie! Not that restraining orders do much anyway.
If he can get to me in some secure, high-tech cabin off the grid, he can get to me anywhere. At first, I consider asking to stay with my boss. But the last thing I need is to create trouble and endanger my career. Not when I rushed through my last assignment. Not when I’m supporting my parents in a nice retirement home. I spent years working for this career, earning a proud Master’s Degree in History and a double minor in Folklore Studies and Cultural Heritage Studies. My Bachelor’s was in Journalism, but the past has always attracted me.
I prefer sadness and nostalgia to other emotions.
The sketches don’t provoke emotions of sadness or nostalgia. I study them, flipping through them, hoping for some clue. A signature. A style I recognize. Anything. I even research artists online, but it could be some anonymous street artist for all I know.
Nothing.
I drink more. Frustration swirls with fear, but I can’t focus. I open my journal, take out my quill pen, and scrawl across the page:What does he want?
The wine dulls the edge of my panic, and I curl up on the couch with the wool throw, exhaustion pulling me under. But the shadows on the ceiling still feel like they’re watching.
2
That’s when I knew. I had found my muse
Chapter Playlist:
“Every Breath You Take” – Sting – Nightcore Cover
“Monster” – Meg and Dia
“Chokehold” – Sleep Token
ACHERON
She is mine.
She simply doesn’t know it yet.
The first time I saw her was in the remote cemetery since I frequent isolated and haunted locales for inspiration. She emerged through the mist like a spirit from another age. Her silhouette was delicate yet commanding, her body moving like watercolor spilling across a canvas, soft and fluid, yet deliberate. Like calligraphy—every step, every sway, a flourish. Her vintage white dress clung to her figure, her long dark hair cascading down her chest in gentle waves. She stepped into the cemetery as if it were her stage, completely unaware that she had captivated her audience of one.
I remember how she knelt at each gravestone, drawing her leather-bound book from her satchel. The quill pen she held waslike an extension of her fingers, gliding across the pages as she scrawled notes in an elegant script. She didn’t just visit the dead; she communed with them. She whispered to the gravestones as if the souls could whisper back. Her soft, melodic voice danced in the air, and I imagined the dead were as bewitched as I was, clawing at their coffins to hear her better.
She even brought a picnic: a modest spread of bread, cheese, and honey. The sight of her lifting a slice of bread was so simple, yet it burned into my mind. I could almost taste the honey on her lips, and all I could think about was stealing a kiss…and her breath. I sketched her as she moved from grave to grave, capturing her every angle, every motion. She didn’t notice me. So utterly consumed by her world.
That’s when I knew. I had found my muse.
She was a world unto herself. Everleigh Lennox.
When she finally packed her things and left, I followed her. The hotel she chose was plain, unassuming. But being rich and famous has its advantages. A polite word, a quick signature, and a generous tip to the staff, and I secured a key to her room. The door opened without a sound. Inside, I found her cocoa cooling on the nightstand. It was easy enough to add a little something. Just enough to ensure she would sleep deeply, blissfully unaware.
The sketch I left on her pillow was my favorite: her soft, delicate form clad in the antique nightgown that accentuated her contours in all the right ways.
Authentic and refreshing, Everleigh doesn’t fake some vintage, bookworm cliche. Unlike me, she has little to no social media presence. While she could have a large internet audience intrigued by her work and travels as a historian—hell, even her unique fashion finds—Everleigh is married to her work.
She sweeps into the past. Not with confidence or eagerness…but with honor and respect. Much like I do with my work.
Watching her now as she examines my sketches in her new AirBnB, I wonder if she recognizes my style. I’ve painted cityscapes and crafted such vast murals, they stand as recognized landmarks. The surreal masks I wear during performances have become my signature, my shield. The anonymous artist, who draws crowds with his performative art set to dark music themes, has won infamy. I step into the spotlight, creating art for a roaring audience, but none of it moves me anymore. Not like her.
Everleigh Lennox. The name took me minutes to uncover, but her story? That unraveled like a tapestry. The adopted and adored daughter of John and Glenda Lennox came into their lives after years of fruitless attempts at children. Her determination and resourcefulness are admirable. Scholarships and internships paved her way to the Smithsonian, where she honed her passion for preserving the past. She’s devoted to history.
