Without a Trace

  • 12 Oct - 18 Oct, 2019
  • Mag The Weekly
  • Fiction


"Emily,” calls a man.

“Ash,” I call out as soon as he comes into view.

“I have been waiting for you,” Ash says.

“I have been waiting for you too,” I say, somewhat, breathlessly and then wonder briefly if I have been.

“Come, I want to take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“There is a lovely river nearby. I have prepared us a picnic.”

“Oh, I love picnics,” I say and then I look at the sky and wonder why it is always so dull.

“Every time you leave, I worry if you’d return again.”

I frown incredulously. “Every time I leave?”

“Yes.”

“But where do I go, do you know? I don’t remember being anywhere but here, and yet here is so … so unknown to me…”

“You think too much.”

“On the contrary, I don’t think enough, because I can’t seem to remember much about anything and I know I have forgotten something.”

“All you need to know is that you belong here.”

Belong here? I blink in confusion. What does that even mean? All I know is that I feel lost. But before my thoughts can go any further, we approach the river and I see a small bridge made of dove grey bricks just like painted bridges in fairytale books. I glance around. Everything is so beautiful. Flowers everywhere. Trees. The only gloomy view is the grey sky. If I don’t look up, then everything looks perfect.

“Here it is,” Ash says, pointing at a red carpet with a picnic basket on it.

“What’s in the picnic basket?” I ask.

“Let’s see,” he says, sitting down and opening it.

I sit across from him and though I am quite charmed by him, I am also aware that something is not quite right with this picture.

“Well, we have orange juice, crusty white bread rolls, cheese, olives, sausages, two bowls of salad and some chocolate cakes.”

“Did you make this picnic basket yourself?” I ask.

He laughs. “I wish I could say yes, but no, I am not much good at these things. Jenkins organised it all.”

“Jenkins? Who is Jenkins?”

“My valet.”

“Valet? Of course! What was I thinking?” I remark, as I burst into laughter.

We start eating. Well, at least I am. He just plays with his food.

“Aren’t you eating?”

“Of course.”

I raise my brow. “Doesn’t look like you are!”

“Emily, I am eating. Look!” he says, pointing at the food.

I can’t help but gasp. The food is nearly gone, and I know that I couldn’t have eaten it all. Even the juice bottle is nearly empty, and I know that my lips never touched it. Something is not right here. But what is it?

“Let’s go,” Ash says, wiping his lips with a napkin.

“Go? Go where?”

“Home.”

I want to ask where home is, but I never get the chance.

The sun coming through the window is too harsh. I look at the clock by my bedside. It is 9:22am. Oh, shit! I am late for work. But then I remember that Trudi was going to call Mr Carson to tell him that I was taking the day off. I feel hungry, but as I try to get up, my body collapses like jelly. What on earth is wrong with me? I must be coming down with something. Then I notice something from the corner of my eye. I look up at the painting. The painting has changed. I can clearly see a mansion in the distance and a bridge over a river. Trudi was right. We have to take this painting to an art dealer. I am distracted when my cellphone rings. It is Trudi.

“How are you feeling?”

“Very tired. I feel as if I haven’t slept in days.”

“You wanna see a doctor?”

“If I don’t get any better by tomorrow, then I’ll go and see a doctor.”

“You don’t wanna go today?”

“No, I think I just wanna rest today.”

“Well, okay then. But call me if you need anything,” Trudi says.

“I will.”

After our phone conversation, I lie in bed and try to gather my thoughts. I feel strange. I don’t feel sick, but I feel weak … kind of out of whack. And I feel like that I must remember something, but I don’t know what. I haven’t forgotten anything. I am sure Trudi would’ve noticed if something was wrong with my memory.

“Emily, Emily.”

I turn around. It is Ash.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Ash says eagerly, reaching to hold my hands. I flinch at his touch. It is the first time that I have touched his hands and they are colder than ice. I can’t help but withdraw my hands from his.

“You are so cold,” I say.

“As cold as this sky.”

I look up at the sky. Jeez! It is even bleaker than before.

“Well, I hope you are warm on the inside?”

“I am. I am as warm as that blood that courses through your veins.”

“I am more concerned about the temperature of your blood.”

He smiles. “Come. I have a guest at the house.”

“A guest?”

“I think you will be pleasantly surprised when you see her.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes.”

“Who is she?”

“You’ll soon find out,” he says.

Upon reaching the mansion, a young woman with long wavy black hair, wearing a white lacy blouse and a long black skirt appears by the door. She is a stunning-looking woman, but there is something familiar about her. It is as if I know her. Or maybe I have seen her somewhere before. But where, I wonder?

“This is Lady Margaret, Emily,” Ash introduces her to me.

Margaret!

I know this face, or I think I know. I squint at her.

“Hello, my dear,” Margaret says.

There is something familiar about her voice too. Where have I heard it before? Then I gasp in horror and disbelief. I know both the voice and the face. Now the fog lifts and I remember everything.

“Aunt … Maggie?” I utter the words slowly and fearfully. I love Aunt Maggie, but this new version of Aunt Maggie is totally freaking me out. She looks about the same age as me – 20. But how could that be? She is 72 years old. It can’t be her. “I … I … am sorry,” I stammer, “you reminded me of my aunt.”

“But I am your aunt, darling.”

I am completely struck mute. This is not real. It can’t be. This is just a dream. I have to wake up.

“This is not a dream, darling. I assure you,” Margaret says, as if reading my thoughts.

My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach when I think of Trudi. She would go right out of her mind if something were to happen to me. And I have a bad feeling that something has already happened to me. Then I notice that the sky has gone from bleak to black, with a pale moon and even paler stars. Hardly any light anywhere except for what is emanating through the open doorway of the mansion. “I have to go,” I say, with a voice trembling with fear.

“Go? But you can’t go anywhere,” Margaret says calmly.

“Trudi will miss me,” I cry.

“She’ll get over it,” Margaret says.

“No, she won’t,” I protest. “If you were truly our aunt, then you’d know this. And you’d never do that to her or to me. We grieved for you when you went missing. We thought you were dead.”

“I am sorry for that, but as you can see, I am perfectly fine. In fact, I am better than fine. I am great,” Margaret says, as she traces my jaw with the tip of her icy cold finger.

“Let’s go inside,” Ash says, gripping my arm.

“No,” I cry. “I have to go back.”

“You can’t go back, my dear. You can never go back,” Margaret says. “The portal is closed.”

“Portal? What portal? How did I get here?”

“You got my painting, didn’t you?”

“You mean that cheap painting?”

Margaret laughs. “That cheap painting was a portal.”

“Portal to where?”

“Portal to here.”

“And where is here?”

“Let’s go inside and we will tell you,” Ash says, his eyes darting around, looking fearful.

“No, I want to go back,” I cry.

“You can’t. Now, let’s go inside,” Ash insists. “It is dangerous to stay out here at night.”

“Why? What’s going to happen at night?”

“The wolves,” Ash says, firming his grip on my arm.

“What do you mean?” I ask, wincing in pain from Ash’s grip on my arm.

“We have the day and they have the night.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” I cry. “Wolves! Where is this place? Let me go.” I struggle in vain against Ash’s iron grip. “I want to go back … to go back to the life I had before.”

“Trust me, my dear, this life is so much better,” Margaret says, though with less composure. She, too, seems frightened of something.

“Abandon yourself to this life, Emily, I urge you,” Ash says.

“And I urge you to let me go,” I scream.

“Hush, be quiet,” Ash hisses. “They will hear you and they will come for you.”

“Who?”

“The wolves.”

“The wolves? The only wolves are you two. Let me go,” I scream again.

“I said be quiet,” Ash warns through clenched teeth.

Tears fill my eyes and I look at Margaret. “How did you become young again?”

“It is the magic of this place, darling. No one ever grows old.”

“But you were already old,” I shout.

“Be quiet, Emily. They’ll hear you,” Ash warns me again.

“I don’t care. Let them hear me.”

“You don’t know what you are saying,” Ash says angrily.

“And you have no right to keep me here against my will,” I shout.”

“You can’t go back. We already told you that. The portal is closed. And you came here on your own free will.

“Free will? I can’t even remember how I got here?”

“Through your dreams.”

“My dreams?”

“The painting was a portal to another dimension, but the fact that you took it and then dreamt this place.

“Stop,” I shout.

“No, you stop. Stop shouting or the wolves will come for you and if they do, then you will become one of them,” Ash says.

“One of them? What do you mean one of them?”

“You will become a wolf,” Margaret says.

“A wolf?! Why are you doing this, Aunt Maggie?” I ask, bawling my eyes out. “Why are you holding me here against my will? Why are you exposing me to the danger of turning into a wolf? Have you gone mad? You used to be so nice, so loving. What happened to you?”

“She became one of us,” Ash says, his face close to mine, his lips next to my neck.

“One of you? And what is that?”

“A vampire.”

Trudi stood in her sister’s apartment, completely grief-stricken and in total shock. People just don’t disappear into thin air. Someone must have seen something or heard something. But no one had. Trudi wiped her tears with a tissue paper. She had come to collect Emily’s belongings. Emily didn’t have a lot of stuff. She rented her apartment fully furnished, so aside from her clothes, some sheets and towels, she had nothing else for Trudi to pack. Only the painting. But the painting didn’t worth anything. It was cracked and the color had faded. She now wondered what did she see in the painting a week ago when she said to Emily that the cracks had disappeared and the color was sharper.

“Excuse me, Ma’am,” said a man.

“Yes,” Trudi responded, turning to face a short pudgy man with thick grey hair.

“My name is Jenkins. I have come to clean the apartment.”

“Oh yes…”

“I am very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Trudi said, with a sniffle.

“Would you like me to get rid of that painting for you?” Jenkins asked, gesturing at the painting on the floor.

“Yes, if it is not too much of a bother.”

“Not at all, Ma’am. It is all part of a day’s work,” Jenkins said politely.

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