the flush on my cheeks, but my heart pounded unpleasantly the whole way home.
It was only when I approached my front door that a horrible feeling descended on me. I couldn't get inside fast enough. I darted through the house and into my room, where I shut my door and leaned against it, waiting for my heartbeat to slow. I pressed my hand against my mouth and allowed my thoughts to center on the terrifying thing that had been bothering me while I walked home.
Someone had been watching me.
~
The next morning I walked across town to Psychic Gem to ask about my application. I felt optimistic and polite, but I was given the explanation that although they didn't hire during the winter I might receive a call in the summer when tourist season began.
I should have expected as much.
Not yet ready to head back outside, I wandered into the book section. I vainly hoped to find something the library didn't have, like a step-by-step guide on past lives or a how-to manual. But it was another book that caught my eye. It was black with faded gold letters stamped into the spine. Mythology of the Pacific Northwest . I lifted it off the shelf. I had no money, but I had to have this book. I needed it.
I waited until the orange-haired cashier turned her back before dashing out the door. I had to hope she wouldn't notice the missing book until it was too late. I felt guilty, but also relieved. This book, I knew, would teach me something.
For a while I walked around aimlessly, book clutched to my chest. I passed the closed schools and half-empty parks, wondering what to do to fill the hours. Suddenly I remembered something Joy had said, something about a photograph of me . . .
A photograph of someone who looked like me.
My feet turned in the direction of the library, hurrying me along. I was eager to see the photograph, eager to confirm that I really had lived a hundred years ago.
Walking down the library's basement stairs, I couldn't help but envision spider webs and moldy boxes and piles and piles of unorganized paperwork. The basement was pretty damp, but to my surprise everything was clean and neatly stacked on heavy-duty metal shelves reaching nearly to the ceiling.
I headed to the back, towards the oldest records. I looked up warily, wondering if there was any danger of the crushed, crumbly boxes falling on my head. None of them moved, so I concluded I was safe.
Setting aside the mythology book, I spotted a box labeled 1904 , wedged inexplicably between 1910 and 1923. I struggled to heft it down without dropping it or falling off the footstool. I set it on a small table against the wall and wiped my brow. Then I lifted the lid and started rifling purposefully through it. I encountered a few photographs of people and the town, building plans, business ledgers, and yellowed newspaper articles, none of it in any particular order.
I wondered if any of this stuff could give me a clue about Ahaziel, but I quickly dismissed the notion. He wouldn't have allowed history to record him, I knew somehow. There wouldn't have been anything to record. But how could he manage that? He had to have been born somewhere, sometime, and so there had to be some kind of record for him. He was a person, after all.
What kind of person lives for a hundred years? I asked myself. Was he like me, saddled with a past life? Or had he been here all along, never dying?
After a few minutes I came across an old, browning photograph of a girl and I knew it was the one Joy had mentioned. The image was somewhat faded and stained, but still her resemblance to me was undeniable. She looked a couple years younger than me, but my own light eyes stared back at me, their expression shuttered. Except for the dated hairstyle and clothing, I could have been looking at a picture of myself.
Abruptly I tucked the picture back among the other papers. I couldn't get the box back on the shelf, so I left it on the table, grabbed my book and turned to go, convinced more than
It was only when I approached my front door that a horrible feeling descended on me. I couldn't get inside fast enough. I darted through the house and into my room, where I shut my door and leaned against it, waiting for my heartbeat to slow. I pressed my hand against my mouth and allowed my thoughts to center on the terrifying thing that had been bothering me while I walked home.
Someone had been watching me.
~
The next morning I walked across town to Psychic Gem to ask about my application. I felt optimistic and polite, but I was given the explanation that although they didn't hire during the winter I might receive a call in the summer when tourist season began.
I should have expected as much.
Not yet ready to head back outside, I wandered into the book section. I vainly hoped to find something the library didn't have, like a step-by-step guide on past lives or a how-to manual. But it was another book that caught my eye. It was black with faded gold letters stamped into the spine. Mythology of the Pacific Northwest . I lifted it off the shelf. I had no money, but I had to have this book. I needed it.
I waited until the orange-haired cashier turned her back before dashing out the door. I had to hope she wouldn't notice the missing book until it was too late. I felt guilty, but also relieved. This book, I knew, would teach me something.
For a while I walked around aimlessly, book clutched to my chest. I passed the closed schools and half-empty parks, wondering what to do to fill the hours. Suddenly I remembered something Joy had said, something about a photograph of me . . .
A photograph of someone who looked like me.
My feet turned in the direction of the library, hurrying me along. I was eager to see the photograph, eager to confirm that I really had lived a hundred years ago.
Walking down the library's basement stairs, I couldn't help but envision spider webs and moldy boxes and piles and piles of unorganized paperwork. The basement was pretty damp, but to my surprise everything was clean and neatly stacked on heavy-duty metal shelves reaching nearly to the ceiling.
I headed to the back, towards the oldest records. I looked up warily, wondering if there was any danger of the crushed, crumbly boxes falling on my head. None of them moved, so I concluded I was safe.
Setting aside the mythology book, I spotted a box labeled 1904 , wedged inexplicably between 1910 and 1923. I struggled to heft it down without dropping it or falling off the footstool. I set it on a small table against the wall and wiped my brow. Then I lifted the lid and started rifling purposefully through it. I encountered a few photographs of people and the town, building plans, business ledgers, and yellowed newspaper articles, none of it in any particular order.
I wondered if any of this stuff could give me a clue about Ahaziel, but I quickly dismissed the notion. He wouldn't have allowed history to record him, I knew somehow. There wouldn't have been anything to record. But how could he manage that? He had to have been born somewhere, sometime, and so there had to be some kind of record for him. He was a person, after all.
What kind of person lives for a hundred years? I asked myself. Was he like me, saddled with a past life? Or had he been here all along, never dying?
After a few minutes I came across an old, browning photograph of a girl and I knew it was the one Joy had mentioned. The image was somewhat faded and stained, but still her resemblance to me was undeniable. She looked a couple years younger than me, but my own light eyes stared back at me, their expression shuttered. Except for the dated hairstyle and clothing, I could have been looking at a picture of myself.
Abruptly I tucked the picture back among the other papers. I couldn't get the box back on the shelf, so I left it on the table, grabbed my book and turned to go, convinced more than
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