The Wraith Poses Question  Zoe’s Cue:  QUESTION

When the rain and thunder subsided on the day she found the small brass key, Zinnia, exhausted from her inner emotional storm, fell into a hard sleep on her lumpy sofa—only to be wakened at periwinkle dawn as the tap-tapping returned, along with strains of melody from the antique music box.

Weary to her marrow, she refused to open her eyes; perhaps if she learned to ignore the insanity which made up the ambiance of her new home, it might eventually disperse…slip out a partially opened window on the freshening April breeze.

But the tap-tapping increased in tempo, volume, and the music box tune began to sound familiar—could it really be “Recuerda Me” (Remember Me)?

The beautifully haunting love song’s plea—too recent to have been crafted with the antique box—played in stark contrast to the exigent tap-tapping; and yet, pondering the context, she perceived a possible…dizzying…connection.

Rising from the couch, walking toward the kitchen, she bumped her hip painfully against the bookcase—which caused the tap-tapping and music to cease abruptly.

Stifling a curse in the blessed silence, she realized her hip action had caused a bottom drawer to come unstuck, revealing a peek of folded onionskin stationery…Zinnia cautiously reached for it, smoothed it open, and read a single bold-typed question:  WHAT DO YOU SEEK?

© R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.

Image ~ Pixabay

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Entrance to the Stranger’s Mystery  Zoe’s Cue:  ENTRANCE

In recurring dreams was an entrance to a cave—or old stone tomb; whose, Zinnia wondered, and why draw her repeatedly as she slept?—not an augur malevolent…more a sensed disaffection, alienation.

She woke parched, fatigued from too much pondering the stranger who’d exited Life in these small rooms she was trying to spin—like Rumpelstiltskin’s straw—into a gilded semblance of home; though it felt like brass cage, and she the unhinged bird amidst wraith’s tap-tapping…

Popping her wake-up diet Coke, she surveyed the bedroom mess—her paltry wardrobe, few possessions, spilled from torn boxes and Glad garbage bags—time to make order of chaotic transition.

Sliding open the closet door, she found another legacy of the late tenant—on moving in she’d paid no notice to what appeared as merely rear wall, or a wood plank door, stored and forgotten; now she saw it was the backside of a bookcase, pushed in tight to accommodate hanging clothes.

Pulling and pushing, Zinnia managed to turn the heavy piece toward her, carefully urging it from the closet; gauzy with dusted cobwebs, it held books and peculiar objects, surely meaningful to ‘he-who’d-succumbed’…if he’d placed it back there, still-life secreted, there was a reason, however obscure.

Sharpening Intuition whispered…this shadow-stained weighty bookcase would likely contain something specific she was meant to discover; perhaps another enigmatic message revealed, like that beneath music box:  “Nobody’s Fault”…sweat prickling above her lip and at temples, she shivered, entranced.

© R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.

Image ~ Pixabay

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Nobody’s Fault


…When she took her rent check to the manager, Zinnia allowed her curiosity out of the cage—“What did the man die of, the guy before me, B-9?”

“Oh,” the woman shrugged, clearly not personally involved with tenants whatsoever, “heart or liver, something—it was nobody’s fault.”

To Zinnia, that closing phrase seemed 6 blocks past ‘odd’, and lacked any semblance of reassurance, if that was intended; since nothing further was forthcoming, she took her raised eyebrows and backed out the door, smiling awkwardly.

Dead-bolting herself within this strange little world, her apartment, she made a tuna sandwich and turned on the Weather Channel.

Her coveted wind chimes played lightly, a kindly sound to encourage the heart as she pondered bus-ing to the library or thrift shop…but the TV meteorologist confirmed rain, now beginning (as if on cue) and quickly gathering vehement force; decision made—she’d stay indoors.

Again the music box silently beckoned…hefting it carefully, she viewed the underside…and read aloud the words printed with indelible black marker:  “nobody’s fault, not your fault.”

© R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.

Image ~ Pixabay

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Point the Way, Wraith

Zoe’s Cue is POINT



Gratitude for the apartment had waned somewhat in her weariness; the dark lingering odor of the previous, newly deceased tenant closed around her in an oppressively pointed way—though not like a period which signifies the end of one life, but rather a disturbing parentheses…as if to include Zinnia somehow.

As buzzards circling over carrion, it was impossible for her thoughts not to return to the stranger; a curiosity induced by the hovering emptiness of his spirit filling shabby corners where lace of pewter cobwebs clung adamantly, despite her determined cleaning.

The peculiar tap-tapping (of still unresolved source) had been replaced by briefly haunting strains of music playing in her half-sleep.

She was certain the sounds didn’t emanate from her one luxury purchase, wind chimes fashioned from various materials…too chilly yet to leave windows open at night.

When she woke again and shuffled to the fridge for a can of eye-opening carbonated caffeine, her focus pointed toward the antique music box which beckoned her to take a second, closer examination.

It was the only object of presumed value the man had left behind, and unlike everything else, was oddly unspoiled by aged grease, grime; she lifted the pristine lid expecting to hear melodious notes—but stern silence reigned.

© R L Cadillac, 2017 ~ All rights reserved.

Image ~ Pixabay

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