Page 44 of Florescentia

To entice his appetites.

Chapter Thirteen

The Eclipse

There was never such a crowded empty house. One dweller, but many memories called it home.

Adjusting to only five senses was the hardest part of being in this place. My shadow formed an arm, a hand, even fingers. Each one moved with each other, to grasp and touch. Due to my diet, feeding occurred, technically, at all times. Energy was absorbed through the surface, my skin, as the fleshy people would say.

The phalanges dragged against the walls. The fingertips could find crumbs of residual energy. I could taste it. All energy had flavor, each a different savor. Upon touching the walls, a glimpse of laughter, someone engaging in a playful chase. When my hand brushed against the railing, the distant thuds of footsteps over the years. At the end of the hallway, a photograph. The same one I’d seen when I first built my human shape.

The frame was old, the photograph was not. The wood seemed to be handmade, nothing elaborate but also not too plain. The second my finger touched the photograph, a conversation blossomed.

“No, you must smile.” The wailing Iris’s voice, now soft as petals.

“How long will it take?”

“Not long. Just be still.”

“If you wanted me to be still, perhaps a comfortable chair?”

“Would you like a lobster and champagne too?” A joke, it seemed.

“Extra butter, make sure the champagne is cold.”

The voices faded in playful laughter when my hand was removed, the lingering taste the sickly-sweet warmth of a hearth.

The tall hallway window was fitted with molding, intense rays of light piercing the veils and combating the darkness of the furnishings. When I touched the window, there was that sour sense of worry, the depth of longing.

In the hallway was a display of glasses, a decanter filled with golden fluid. I touched a crystal glass; the light from the window scattered when it hit the surface. I turned it, watching the specks dance across the marble table. The energy on the bar was gloomy, dark. There were small hints of joy, but overwhelmed by the taste of classic despair.

I opened the decanter, my finger stretching within to touch the liquid. A bitterness stung like the bite from an insect. Quickly, I capped it again.

Disgusting things. How do they drink this? They might as well drink the river water.

Before I could get any more upset about such a foul taste, something came wafting from within the home.

Like a sudden symphony, a calling.

It was melodic, the call of someone who had known the stars.

Lucia.

The call was sweet, a decadent note covering the bite of apprehension.

With the bottle in hand, I formed my human skin, my more tangible form, just for her. I remembered the coverings this time, the clothing I’d seen at the funeral. But with each step closer to the call, a shot of dread. It was almost aromatic.

I ventured to the end of the hall, right in front of the library door. It was grand and closed off. Would it open to me?

I knocked, but no answer.

My ear touched the door. There was no noise I could hear, but I could sense her in there, waiting. I could let her marinate in anticipation a while longer, but I had a feeling I could do that without hiding from her.

With a heavy palm, the door opened without a fight. The inside was much like the other parts of the home, a prized display of craftsmanship and wealth succumbing to disrepair and dust. Things once a point of pride now abandoned, forgotten. Not only the indoor foliage, but even the lives that used to come and go, the furry ones. Water dishes dry, the sounds of paws no longer scattering in the halls, they did not check for food in the garden anymore. The cut flowers in the vases were just as crisp as the formerly living potted plants.

Within the library, small ambient lights of burning wax. The glowing water bugs were still covered. I wondered if those were deceased like the plants as well.

My new eyes were forced to adjust to the dark as I stepped deeper into the lair.