He Could See Me

I followed Slade closely through the masked crowd and into an antique shop.

The shop was unlit. Behind the counter sat a proprietor wearing a mask made of human skin.

“What are you selling? We don’t bother with anything that isn’t rare or unusual.”

Slade took a black box out of the bag and pushed it across the counter.

The owner opened it.

Inside was a bracelet of twenty-four beads, dark red as blood.

He held it beneath a light to examine it.

There was something inside the beads too. Fine white grains glittered like a galaxy of stars.

The proprietor made a delighted sound.

“Now this is something special.”

Slade’s rough, hoarse voice emerged from behind the mask.

He reeked so strongly of blood that he seemed like a monster whispering up from the depths of hell.

“Made from twenty-four ribs. Give me a price.”

I understood at once.

My ribs.

“No! You can’t sell them!” I screamed.

The proprietor’s head snapped up.

Beneath the human-skin mask, his dark, clouded eyes flashed coldly.

Straight at me.

He could see my ghost.

“What filthy thing dares come into my shop?” he roared.

He tore a red cloth from a shrine behind him.

An uncanny bronze Buddha stood inside.

It had six eyes.

One shot out a beam of golden light.

I had no time to dodge. Its force struck me and hurled me away.

Pain ripped through me.

In midair, I watched my spirit turn transparent.

I was disappearing.

Then something warm caught me.

The force gathered the fading pieces of my spirit, slowly bringing them together again.

I turned.

An old monk stood there, his beard and eyebrows white, his eyes blind.

He pressed his palms together.

“Amitabha. You poor soul.”

His eyes were cloudy and motionless, yet somehow I felt he could see me.

And he looked familiar.

I thought I had seen him somewhere before, but I couldn’t remember where.

He moved a hand gently.

“Go.”

Wind swept from his sleeve and carried me into a vast, spinning darkness.

When I recovered, I was back in the hospital room.

Only this time, Julian wasn’t there.

What was happening?

Was I free?

I turned and rushed for the door.

The moment I crossed it, the invisible force dragged me back.

“Mom, what if Lucian asks me to paint again?” Pearl complained miserably. “He spent all that money on me. He must be planning to pursue me. I can’t keep hiding from him.”

I had no words.

Lust really hadn’t improved her intelligence.

Vivian, at least, retained some sense.

“He’s interested in Pearl the painter.”

“But that’s me!”

“Of course it is. You’re simply a painter whose hands have suffered nerve damage. A painter who can no longer hold a brush.”

She had already arranged everything.

She took a medical report out of her bag.

“This is your diagnosis from overseas. Post it on your social media account. Announce that you’re giving up painting.”

Pearl’s eyes lit up. She clung to her mother affectionately.

“You’re so clever. Now nobody can expose me for not knowing how to paint.”

Excitement gave way to a little concern.

“But what if Stella comes back, finds out I’ve taken her identity, and refuses to cooperate?”

Vivian gave an unreadable, cold little smile.

“Don’t worry. She’ll be very cooperative.”

Pearl still didn’t know I was dead.

She nodded as if her mother’s reassurance made perfect sense.

“True. She only has a good life because of our family. She should be honored that I even want her artistic identity. She ought to be thanking me.”