Page 4 of Edge of Wonder

Searching the room, I saw no immediate signs of Julian, which wasn’t surprising. Often, ghosts let people settle in before making their presence known. They preferred to wait for them to lower their guard; as I’d said earlier, time made no difference to the dead.

I pushed aside a series of gears and pins to set my bag on Julian’s workbench. Dust and cobwebs clung to the neglected tools, and a spider scurried across the table, slipping beneath the folds of my pack. I brushed it away before it set up a new home among my belongings.

The floorboards above my head creaked.

I went still, curious to see what unearthly high jinks were in store. So much for waiting until I let my guard down. This ghost was impatient.

Steady footsteps moved across the beams. Each step was followed by a faint dragging sound as if an object trailed behind its owner. The footsteps alone could scare off the faint of heart, but the slow-moving scrape sounded truly sinister.

It was a classic ghost manifestation. Not even original in its presentation. I’d been hoping for a challenge, but at least the job would be easy money.

Another creak, and then all was quiet.

Undeterred, I lit a few candles and opened a window, hoping to get rid of the musty smell. An hour or two passed while I checked the house to make sure I wasn't sharing it with any wild creatures. Ghosts were one thing, but squirrels and snakes were another. The last thing I needed was to wake up to a critter staring me in the face. Sadly, due to the decrepit state of most of my haunts, it happened way more often than I’d like.

With the house clear of anything larger than a mouse, I unpacked my belongings in one of the bedrooms and then went downstairs to prepare my dinner. Besides a few non-perishable items, half a turkey sandwich and a jug of ale were all I'd purchased from the tavern.

I selected the cleanest plate from the kitchen and made my way back to Julian’s workroom. The plan was to act normal and let the ghost come to me. It was always better to ease into a ghost removal. The one time I’d burst into the room armed to the hilt with enchantment hadn’t ended well—for me or the ghost.

While I’d been in the kitchen, the air had chilled to an uncomfortable degree. All I had to do now was wait. I leaned against the workbench, boots crossed at the ankles, and sank my teeth into the turkey sandwich.

The air grew colder as I chewed. I took a swig from the jug of ale and pushed away from the bench to wander the room.

A portrait of Julian Granger dominated the back wall. Painted in dark hues, the brush strokes captured the man’s austere features, which were framed with tufts of white hair. Deep wrinkles lined his face and added to his roughened appearance. His lips were flat and unsmiling beneath a pair of rheumy eyes.

“So obviously, he wasn’t a looker,” I joked as I finished my sandwich and brushed the crumbs from my fingers.

Someone giggled.

The muffled squeak came from over my left shoulder. I tensed but didn’t turn, waiting to see if I’d hear it again. After a long moment of silence, I continued my exploration, pausing in front of another painting. This one was vastly different, not a stern portrait, but a dreamy landscape.

The canvas depicted a forest-lined path. Multi-colored leaves dotted the branches, and the ground was a checkerboard of thick moss and slate. In the center, stood a young woman dressed in a long white gown. Her back was to the viewer, but her focus was drawn to the tree line. I followed it, noting the dark silhouette concealed within the shadows.

Something stalked the vision in white.

My shoulders tightened, and a sheen of sweat broke out on my skin. The scene was strangely similar to the hazy and shapeless dreams I’d suffered since I was a child.

Night terrors.

The visions woke me in a blind panic, gasping for air even as the images dissipated, leaving only a gnawing dread in their wake.

I leaned closer to the painting, studying the elusive figure standing in the shadows.

The frame rattled.

Startled, I stumbled back a few steps and hit the workbench, sending up a cloud of dust. A gear slid off the edge and landed perfectly upright. It held there for a few seconds, then as if pushed, it rolled slowly across the floor. The gear settled into a crevice before falling onto its side. I exhaled a breath that formed into icy crystals from the rapidly dropping temperature.

Tick-tock.

A clock on the wall sprang to life as the second hand began a circular journey around its face.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

More clocks joined in, increasing in number. The noise grew so loud it echoed in my ears.

I shouted over the uproar, “Julian, I know you’re here! We need to talk. My name is Sebastian Ward, and I’ve come a long way to speak with you.”

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