Chilly...

This is the story I was working on last week before I got the message from my sister. I had had a dream the night before about graverobbers selling the things they had taken. As the dream faded I thought, "there's a story in there." This was my start. I think there is something here, I'm just not sure what it will be. But at least this way I won't forget it while I wait.




She could feel the breeze even though there was no air movement. No curtains blowing. No gently moving leaves on the palm tree in the living room. But she could still feel the cool breeze. There would be a thin spot here letting in the air she just needed to find it.

She walked toward the big bay window and right out of the breeze. Okay, that wasn't it. She retraced her steps to feel where the breeze picked back up. She took three steps backwards and the gooseflesh on her arms let her know she was there. She reached out to see if she could feel the edges of the cold air while looking around the room to see where else it might be coming from. Was there a vent that she wasn't seeing at first? Maybe the A/C was running and it was just very quiet. Or one of those bladeless fans tucked in a corner someplace. Nothing.

So now she knew.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. Blocking out what she could see so she could focus on what she felt. She took a step forward into the chilly air, stretching her fingertips out and feeling the edges of...a stream? It felt like a stream. A stream of air, not of water, but flowing air, in a channel, there were definite boundaries. It was flowing towards something. Away from where she stood flowing toward... She opened her eyes and looked. A painting. There was a painting on the wall.

"Have you always had this piece?"

"We actually just bought this. Isn't it wonderful? I was..." the homeowner trailed off realizing that she would not have asked if it weren't significant. "Is this where it's coming from? I mean, it's just a painting?"

She smiled. "Nothing is just anything. Everything you own you own for a reason. Everything means something to you. Some things mean more than others. Art often means quite a lot."

The homeowner sighed. He didn't want to get rid of the piece. He had paid a lot for it and it was an important work. Or at least that's what the art dealer had told him. He actually didn't know much about art, just that expensive was better. Or at least that was his theory.

"So can you fix it?"

She turned and gave him a puzzled look, "Fix it?"

"Yes, can you make it stop...well...stop being so off putting."

She smiled now. "Is that what you feel? That's it's off putting?"

"Isn't that what you feel? It's cold here, when the rest of the room is warm. If you stay too long you start to feel, well, you start to feel..." The homeowner trailed off again.

She understood. He didn't understand what he felt when he was standing in that stream of cold. He just knew he felt something. And most people didn't like to feel much of anything. Especially someone who thought she could fix his painting.

"No, I can't fix it, because it's not broken."

"Well I don't mean it's broken, necessarily, but can you stop it from doing whatever it is that it's doing? That's why I hired you, afterall."

She shook her head. "No, you hired me to find out where the chill was coming from. I've let you know. That was our transaction."

"You were highly recommended!"

"I have no doubt of that. And I did my job. The painting is the source of the chill."

"Will you tell me how I can fix it myself then?"

"Give it back?"

"Give it back? You mean try to get a refund from the art dealer?"

"Oh no. They didn't own it any more than you do. This piece, this doesn't belong here at all. It's supposed to be on the other side."

"The other side?"

"Yes."

"Of what?"

"Of this." She waved her hand around his living room.

"Of my house?"

"No. Of all of this. You bought an artifact. Like the gold from a Pharaoh's tomb. This was supposed to travel with its original owner. That's what it was painted for. That's what it was imbued with. Someone stole it from the dead. You can either give it back to them, or one day discover what is on the other side of that stream."

"Stream?"

"The chill. The cold breeze. It's a stream. And eventually it will flow strong enough that you won't be able to resist it. The painting was designed for a tomb. And it's not broken. It will be in a tomb. One way or the other."