A Leap in Time (2 page)

Mr. Ashton died several years ago peacefully in his sleep. Now she was left on her own to do all the things they enjoyed together. It made me wonder how often she felt lonely or sad. She carried on happily enough and God knows she was busy, but I still wondered.

In the last few months, she mentioned Troy more and more often. I couldn’t help but speculate whether she was making plans to find him.

Chapter Three

Something woke me. I lay there, ears perked for anything out of the ordinary. Was it a storm? I listened for wind and/or rain. I didn’t remember hearing about a change in the weather and, let’s face it, it’s LA—we never expect rain. It wasn’t uncommon for the Santa Ana winds to blow throughout the night and day though. Unless the winds were a culprit in making a forest fire worse, they went unmentioned in the forecast.

I supposed it could be a burglar. Not really likely in my neighborhood, but in this day and age…

No more sounds came, unless you count the neighbor’s pomeranian. The little guy barked pretty much nonstop. I guess I dozed off.

Then voices…

Muffled voices, like a group of people were talking far away.

I sat up. How that could make me hear better, I had no idea. My ears must be playing tricks. What were horses doing in my neighborhood at—I checked the bedside clock—four-thirty in the morning?

Clip clop, clip clop. I got out of bed and went to the window. A streetlight illuminated the pavement. No horses. But the sound of their hooves was close. They had to be here someplace. I leaned forward to see far left and right. Still nothing. The voices continued. Maybe they were in our driveway. Sure—they might be down below where I couldn’t see them. But there certainly wasn’t a horse in the yard!

My downstairs neighbors or, as I like to call them, the party crew, often entertained late at night, so it wasn’t unusual for their talking or music to vibrate the walls well into the early hours of morning. They were both artists marching to the beat of their own drum. The fact that they were very sweet, amazing cooks, and the cutest couple didn’t hurt their cause in asking for forgivness for keeping us all awake. Maybe the horses were on someone’s television.

Should I phone Mrs. Ashton?

I didn’t want to get Jake and Pete in trouble.

The curse of being a light sleeper continued to haunt me well past my college days. Despite our polar opposite lifestyles and personalities, we all got along well. Whenever they had a house party or BBQ, they often brought me a plate of whatever they were cooking.

I listened more intently, but the sound didn’t seem to be coming from their apartment. I made my way down the hall to the living room, one hand bracing on the wall. The streetlight shined through the bathroom and kitchen windows so I didn’t have to turn on the overhead hall light.

Not sure what was feeding the fear inside me I peeked around the corner into the living room. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary and after a few minutes of anxiously waiting for something—anything—to look different, I reassured myself that all was fine and stepped into the room to turn on the lamp by the couch.

I pushed aside the drapes and peered out. Everything was quiet, as it should have been, thank God! No horse in sight.

So, if it wasn’t the party crew making all that noise, who was?

Could I be dreaming? The DVD box’s clock read four-thirty. The same as in the bedroom. I groaned at my rotten luck for waking up so damn early. There’s nothing worse than being wide-awake at a ridiculous hour. I’d spend the whole day feeling dead tired desperately craving sleep.

I might as well make a cup of tea and maybe catch up on some reading. Or yoga. I had been thinking of doing that for a while; this could be the perfect time. It could become part of my new routine. Not this early, but five-thirty seemed doable. I toyed with the idea and in spite of my good intentions; I just didn’t have it in me to do anything productive before sunrise.

I headed back to the bedroom for my pink plaid flannel robe. There was always a chill in the air early mornings and my old college robe was exactly what I needed.

It felt like hours waiting for the kettle to boil, adding to my already agitated frame of mind. And then I heard it. The soothing sounds of nature—you know the kind you buy on a CD—sliced through the silence at this ungodly hour. This time it was clearly coming from the living room…my living room.

I stood frozen to the spot. I couldn’t be completely sure, but it sounded like water trickling. Maybe a pipe had burst in the street. I moved back to the living room, my feet feeling like they were weighed down with metal, and looked out the window again. But everything seemed perfectly still. I made the rounds of each window in the apartment. Nothing.

I must be dreaming. No doubt about it.

The sounds were loud and clear now, almost defeaning. It didn’t make any sense. Unless I was sleepwalking.
Don’t be ridiculous, Lexi.
The sound of water was unmistakable yet now there was another distinct sound. My God, it sounded like a flock of birds chirping. Where is this coming from?

Then I realized.

It had to be Louise playing her nature music again. Louise, my lovely and gorgeous next door neighbor couldn’t sleep unless she listened to CDs of nature ranging from chirping birds to loud babbling brooks. She insisted the CDs helped her get the restorative sleep she needed. To her credit, whatever she was doing seemed to be working. She always looked healthy, fit and alert so who was I to judge her choice of music? Of course, teaching yoga six days a week certainly contributed to her glowing skin and perfect body. Poor Mrs. Ashton had to listen to those sounds every night piping down from Louise’s apartment. But jeez—at four-thirty in the morning?

I tiptoed to the wall separating Louise’s apartment from mine and pressed my ear against the white paint. Nothing. I felt a trepidation I couldn’t explain. Okay, it was more than trepidation, it was flat-out fear. The gurgling water and chirping birds were crystal clear and close in promixity, and yet there was nothing to indicate the source of the sound. The TV was off, the radio was off, and my alarm clock was off. So, what the hell was happening?

This must be the beginning of the end for my sanity. It’s the state of hallucination that happens from pure exhaustion. Too exhausted to think or care about any other scenarios, I decided against the tea, turned off the stove and practically ran back to bed, covering right up to my head with the duvet, breathing in the scent of lavender from the fabric softener.

Seven long days passed. On the surface, life was status quo, with work and a somewhat busy work-related social calendar, but at home something seemed different, a little weird. I was hardly sleeping. The sounds emanating from my living room persisted near dawn every morning. Unmistakable sounds: water, chirping birds and on occasion, muffled voices followed by horses trotting.

The idea of something supernatural invading my living room was absolutely nuts. The only explanation was that there wasn’t one. I had my landlord check for leaks in the apartments. He came up empty. A part of me knew he wouldn’t find anything, but I needed the reasurrance. My logical mind didn’t want to deal with the madness that possessed my apartment.

One thing for certain, all the weirdness started after I brought that portrait home. I was pretty sure the sounds were coming from the damn painting itself. Feeling especially courageous one early dawn, I shielded myself behind the wall while craining my neck to take a closer peek at the painting. At first, I was convinced I would catch the menacing ghost in the act of wreaking havoc on my living room. Instead, I saw shadows moving in the painting itself sending me scurrying back to bed, burying my head under the comforter. Damn, I knew it...

Every night the sounds became clearer, a little louder and sharper. It was as if the painting was building up its courage by declaring its presence to me. And how could I forget the sound of the occasional horses trotting by? The commotion was a complete mystery. I couldn’t see horses anywhere in the painting. Even if I had, how could their hooves make clip clop—street sounds on the pasture setting? My stomach was in knots making me edgy all the time, but I didn’t dare tell anyone, not my best friends Charlotte and Kate, and not even Mrs. Ashton.

I became accustomed to waking at four-thirty in the morning and laying frozen ‘till five-thirty when the sounds suddenly stopped. Immobilized, too scared to fall back to sleep and too tired to start the day, my mind would race from the second the sounds stopped ‘till it was time to get up for work at six-thirty. Was the painting haunted? What was so significant about that one hour of time, and why couldn’t it be at a more humane hour?

The antique shop owner had said the painting was special because it was the painter’s last work before he died. Could the painter be haunting me for purchasing his painting? A little ungrateful, if you ask me. Cursing under my breath, I grudgingly got out of bed.

Thankfully, it was a slow month at work so my overtired slacking off went unnoticed. I thought about going back to the antique store to ask the owner about the portrait, but what would I say? “Hi sir, remember me? I’m the woman who purchased the oil painting from you last week. Do you happen to know if the thing is possessed?”

Maybe then, someone besides me would confirm that I’m losing my damn mind.

The days passed and the sounds continued. I went back and forth about telling Kate and Charlotte, but decided against it for now. They knew something was off, but they probably assumed I’d heard from Mark, or worse, was seeing him again. They couldn’t be more wrong. Mark was definitely out.

Since college and our move to Los Angeles, Kate, Charlotte and I had a tradition of Sunday morning brunches. It was the perfect way to wrap up the weekend and preparing for the week ahead. There was nothing I enjoyed more than our ritual. Until lately—because of my secret. I needed to tell them soon—but not ‘till I had this thing figured out. A ghost? A demon? An emotional breakdown?

There was only one answer, and that was to face the painting, literally. When the sounds started tomorrow morning, I would muster all the courage my five foot three frame had and confront the portrait head-on. What was the harm in a little confrontation? It wasn’t like the painting was actually going to attack me, right?
God help me!

Funny thing, once I made up my mind, I felt better. Until thoughts of the painting played in my mind, bringing the anxiety and fear to a new level. Given the insanity of the last week, a large glass of Pinot Grigio was in order. I sipped it slowly while my chicken grilled. I even indulged with a large bowl of Chunky Monkey ice cream. Holy heaven, was this symbolic of my last meal?

The wine churned in my stomach at the thought of dying at the hands of this possessed painting.
Stop Lexi, you’re being insane.

I cleaned up at record speed, as if I was late for something, preferably not my own death. Pushing the thought away, I filled the tub with my favorite scented lavender bubble bath and lowered myself in for a leisurely, relaxing soak. Eventually, my skin pruned and the bath water cooled, so I had no choice but to get moving. I lathered on my favorite jasmine-vanilla lotion and dressed in my white and pink polka dot cotton pajama shorts set. Just another ordinary night.

With a deep breath, I set my alarm for four a.m.

In bed I prayed for sleep to overtake me, I couldn’t help but reminisce about college, simpler days, and my first encounter with my two dearest and oldest friends. Charlotte was my college roommate during freshman year and Kate lived in the room across from us with another roommate. Within a month, the three of us were inseparable, and by second semester, we lived together in a larger dorm suite upstairs. We couldn’t be more different and yet have so much in common. Charlotte, in her very proper Savannah upbringing, was gorgeous in every way. Her father was a corporate attorney for one of the largest oil companies in the nation and her mother was a stay-at-home mom who lunched and played tennis in her free time. They were the perfect image for snobbery and snootiness, but they were anything but that. For all the zen energy Charlotte possessed, Kate and I teetered closer to the opposite end of that spectrum.

Kate was more like me personality-wise, spirited with high energy and directness, apologizing for nothing. She was gorgeous in her own way; her spitfire personality made her the life of the party. She was around my height of five foot three, with shoulder length red hair, mischievous green eyes and an olive complexion, which she proudly credits to her Italian roots. From the day we met Kate, we knew she’d do well in whatever path she chose. All she wanted to be was a banker, managing investment portfolios of high profile clients. With the help of a family friend in the banking business, during senior year she landed an internship at a great global bank, and through her internship mentor, she landed her first job working as a junior executive for the bank reporting directly to him. Things couldn’t have worked out better or fallen into place in a more perfect way had she planned them herself.

With that final thought in my head, I sank into the mattress, peaceful sleep enfolding me. The alarm went off at four. I lay there waiting, listening. Like clockwork, the sounds began at four-thirty. My stomach was in knots as I made my way to the living room. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Who was I kidding? I’m no match for a ghost or some haunted painting. What did I think I could actually do? My grand plan was feeling less grand by the second as fear turned my legs to jelly.

Bracing myself behind the hallway wall, I peered into the living room. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one flying around waiting to attack me. No horse prancing on the carpet. Okay, maybe this wasn’t so bad.

Feeling a little braver, I tiptoed into the room, my eyes scanning every inch. I heaved a sigh of relief feeling like a dope. What had I been I thinking? A painting can’t make sounds. Horses and people can’t jump out of it.