The picture right beside it is of Wilder and a pretty woman dressed in that same style of clothing. Finally, there’s a picture with the three of them, and I wonder if this is the Samuel and Lucy he was telling me about.
There are other pictures too. One of Wilder standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. It’s in black and white, and he’s wearing clothes that, again, seem like something out of a Jane Austen movie. He looks dapper and excited, with a smile on his face that I’m sure doesn’t get much use these days.
In other pictures, I see him wearing clothing from various eras, and it feels like I’m looking at a museum display of fashion through the decades.
There’s even one of him on a beach wearing some getup that looks like a tank top and long shorts all put together, and he’s got a handlebar mustache.
My favorite, though, is when I notice the pictures of him that I would assume are from the 1930s or 40s.
He looks like an Irish mobster from the Mafia movies I like to watch from that time period, like he could have been running around with Bugsy Siegel, Al Capone, or Lucky Luciano.
He’s wearing a really nice suit, his hair slicked back in kind of a pompadour, and he appears to be standing in front of a hotel, but it’s not one I recognize. Maybe he’s in Vegas. Hard to say with the limited view of the background.
I keep looking through the photos on the wall until I stumble across one of him standing next to a beautiful woman. She’s wearing an elaborate costume, and I remember him telling me about the stage actress he loved once upon a time. She has a Marilyn Monroe aura about her, but in a less over-the-top way.
There are dozens of pictures lining the walls of Wilder in various places in his life, doing different things with different people, sightseeing and visiting landmarks. The things he must have seen in his long life. I can’t even imagine it, and it’s got to be lonely sometimes, but maybe he’s found a way to deal with it. It’s not something I can understand, given my own relationship with mortality.
He’s an interesting guy, and more talkative than I thought he might be. I have so many more questions that I’d love to ask him. Learning about him is a nice distraction from what’s going on with me.
I leave his office and continue wandering around the house, admiring the antiques and the different pieces of furniture, but when I turn around again to head back to the kitchen to look for a snack, my breath catches in my throat as I’m faced with a glowing being hovering in front of me, blocking the entrance to the hallway.
“What are you?”
It doesn’t answer me. Not that I expected it to, since it doesn’t look like a person. I can’t explain exactly what it does look like—a blob, maybe, but a glowing blob. I definitely have a sense of unease around it.
Maybe I should call Wilder before something goes wrong, but even as I reach for my phone in my back pocket, my chest tightens and my stomach sours.
The next thing I know, there’s a sharp pain in my chest.
Oh no. Fuck. What’s happening? Is this thing doing something to me?
I crumple to the floor on my knees, staring at the thing in front of me, willing it to go away.
I’m surprised when it actually starts to fade, but it’s replaced by something else, something far less pleasant.
It’s an image of me running through a field, but I don’t get the sense that I’m being chased.
Rather, I’m the one doing the chasing.
Ahead of me, I hear the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing, and when I look down, I’m holding a dagger in my hand.
I shake my hand out, trying to drop the dagger, but I’m still locked in this vision, running, chasing, with this knife in my hand.
What’s going on?
I’m aware enough that I’m trying to resist the vision, but I can’t, and then a voice speaks to me, “You have to do what you have to do, Keagan. This man stole from you. He stole your whole future. The one you could have had.”
“What man? What future? Who is that talking?”
“There was so much money, but he stole it.”
“Money?” I shake my head. “Who is this?”
“When you find him, you know what you need to do. Make him tell you where the money is. Make him tell you.”
I try to close my eyes, but it feels impossible.
My legs ache from the running, even though I’m vaguely aware that I’m still safely inside Wilder’s home.
