Before Sam registered what had happened, Ash hopped off the beanbag and danced away, laughing and twirling like she was an eight-year-old girl again. Just like when they were kids, when they knew kissing was something grownups did but they hadn’t grasped the meaning behind it. One of them would run up to the other, plant a kiss on their cheek, and run away giggling, the other in hot pursuit. They hadn’t played that game since the second or third grade, so Ash planting a kiss on Sam now was…unexpected.
Not just unexpected. Earth-shattering.
He and Ash had always been close. They shared a blanket when watching movies… walked arm-in-arm. Their closeness raised more than a few eyebrows, and rumors about their relationship had plagued them for years, but they’d never been anything other than friends. Best friends.
Sam had given up on hoping for more a long time ago.
Mr. Williams’ comments that morning floated back to him. He had scolded Ash for wearing so little in front of Sam because, in Mr. Williams’ mind, Sam was a potential suitor. Then for him to turn around and tell Sam to hold in there, that Ash would come around. It had been…uncomfortable to be reminded of the feelings he had for Ash.
No, he thought. The feelings I used to have for her.
Seeing Ash in her undies was nothing new to him. Hell, her swimsuits were more provocative, but years of bottling up any attraction he had for her had conditioned him not to notice. He was no longer plagued by pangs of jealousy seeing her on another guy’s arm or listening to yet another recounting of her hooking up with her latest boyfriend.
He had grown blind to the feelings. Much in the same way he no longer noticed all the creaks, squeals, and rattles of the Tercel. It was never going to change, so there was no point in paying attention to it.
But then she kissed him.
Sure, they’d kissed before. Given each other pecks on the cheeks occasionally for birthdays or Christmas, that sort of thing. But a kiss on the lips, and with her straddling him like that…
A maelstrom of thoughts and emotions swirled through Sam too quickly for him to make sense of anything.
A motion caught his attention. Ash has stripped off her pants and was slipping a skirt over her legs, one she’d picked up at the thrift store in Dunwich. He caught a brief glimpse of her panties before the skirt was over her hips.
She turned from side to side, inspecting her reflection in the mirror. “What do you think?” She was focused on the mirror, so she didn’t see his expression, which he imagined looked something like a frog that had eaten a particularly homicidal wasp.
“Um…” His thoughts were still churning like a life raft stuck in river rapids.
With a scrunch of her nose, she shook her head. “God, why am I asking you for fashion advice?” She didn’t wait for a response, slipping the skirt off and stepping out of it.
Try as he might, he couldn’t avert his eyes. It was a small room and hard to ignore all the commotion. The Styrofoam pellets in the beanbag squealed as he leaned back, trying to put some distance between the two of them. But that only put Ash—and her unintended striptease—in his direct line of sight. In a burst of inspiration, he grabbed the painting and pretended to study it.
Right, because I’ve always been such an art aficionado. Smooth, Sam. The gaudy, ornate frame did a great job blocking her increasing nudity…and his increasing arousal.
Jesus, what is wrong with me?
Ash was his best friend. The sight of her in her underwear shouldn’t arouse him. She was pretty, sure, but he didn’t think of her as a girl. Not anymore. She’s just Ash. His friend. His partner in crime. His buddy.
“I need the full-length mirror.” Her words burst his spiraling thoughts like a dart through a balloon. With an armload of clothes, Ash headed to the bathroom. The second story of the house was much smaller than the bottom. There was just enough space for her bedroom, bathroom, and a vestigial attic that was more broom closet than anything. She called back over her shoulder, “See how those clothes fit.”
“Um… Yeah, okay.” He had no intention of trying on any clothes. The last thing he wanted was to disrobe while in his current…state.
Now that she was gone, he no longer needed the painting to hide his traitorous erection. The painting bounced when he tossed it on the bed. He messed up the neat pile of clothes she’d laid out for him to make it look like he’d done what she asked.
Get it together, Sam. This isn’t your first accidental boner. Nothing new, just find a distraction.
His gaze fell on the old school radio, long forgotten on a shelf under a large bay window. With a crackle and pop, the retro device came to life. Most of the stations it was likely to pick up came from Dunwich. Dunwich wasn’t that far, not as the bird flew at least, but Elsbury had notoriously poor reception despite the fact that it was separated from Dunwich by only forests, grasslands, and low hills. So it was only on clear days that the thing could pick up Dunwich stations.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
It should have been possible to pick up some from Arkham, too, but that was a rare occasion. Like, all nine planets aligned rare. Otherwise, it was just local stations. Three local stations, to be exact. Two were legit stations, in that they had hosts and programming and music. News mostly, a smattering of national, but mostly local. Advertisements, talk radio. Once a week they broadcasted open mic night at the local pub.
A third station was operated by some crackpot in the hills above town. The frequency changed daily, and you’d never hear music. Or news. As far as Sam could tell it was 24 hours of the host rambling. Sometimes it sounded like he was speaking in tongues. How the host had time to record it all Sam had no idea, but it was always on for anyone who wanted to listen and persistent enough to find the day’s frequency.
When Sam and Ash were freshmen, they had listened to the station for two whole days. They pounded back soda and coffee, determined to stay awake for the host to take a break. But they failed, falling asleep after 49 hours. And when they awoke eight hours later, the host was still talking.
With every turn of the dial, the speakers popped and crackled with static. He had to go through the range of frequencies twice before he finally found it. A shiver ran up his spine as the host’s deep, emotionless voice came out of the speakers.
“—will feed her cat ocean fish paté for dinner even though Truffles has told her no fewer than seven times that chicken and gravy is his favorite.”
Sam laughed and shook his head. It had been years since he’d listened, but it was the same crazy stuff.
“In 147 hours, the harbinger cometh. The four C’s are our only hope. Community, charity, carrots, and—”
“Anything good on?”
Sam jumped about three feet in the air. Ash dropped a large stack of clothes by the now-empty shopping bags, and a smaller stack went into the laundry hamper. She was wearing pajamas—a pair of gray Victoria’s Secret sweats and matching top. Sam couldn’t help noticing how the pajamas hugged her curves and how the shirt left a wide expanse of flat stomach exposed. A tingling sensation ran up his spine.
Her brows crinkled, and she plopped onto the bed, crossing her legs and hugging a pillow to her chest like she was hiding behind it.
Crap—did she notice him looking? Can this day get any more awkward? He turned back to the radio, but before he could comment on the lack of selection, Ash cried out.
“What did you do?” She held the painting out like an accusation. He didn’t notice it at first, but then he saw it. The frame had split along the back.
It must have happened when I threw it on the bed.
“Shit, Ash. I’m so sorry. Can we fix it?” She handed it over, and he inspected it. Sam spent a lot of time playing with Legos as a kid, and as he grew, his interest morphed into more complicated hobbies like building computers, model airplanes, and other such things. He was good with his hands. If either of them could fix the frame, it would be him.
The panel that made up the back had popped out, one corner protruding like it no longer fit properly. He hoped he could just pop it back into place, but as soon as he removed his thumbs, it flexed back out.
“Careful!”
“Guess it won’t be that easy. Does your dad have any wood glue?”
“I’m not sure.”
“We could just leave it. The frame is still structurally sound.” Sam applied pressure to the frame, trying to bend it. It didn’t move.
“No, it won’t lie right against the wall. But what if we took that piece off?”
There weren’t any nails or staples. If ancient glue was the only thing holding it together, he could probably pry it off with no issues.
The thin sheet of wood squeaked as he worked his fingertips under it, and with barely a tug, the panel peeled off with a hollow thump.
“Shit!” She fumbled to catch it, but the thin panelboard bounced off her hand and spun to the floor.
“Woah, look at this.” Sam angled the frame so the light caught it. Words were scrawled across the canvas in black ink in two different handwritings and what looked like two different languages. The writing was old, probably as old as the painting itself. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. It was probably the flowing, curly handwriting. People just don’t write like that anymore.
“What language is this in?” he wondered.
“English, duh.”
Sam shook his head but didn’t rise to the bait. “Not that. This one.”
“I’m barely passing English. You think I can identify a foreign language? Who am I, Dr. Daniel Jackson?”
The script at the top of the canvas had some English letters, but there were some weird ones too. “Greek? Russian, maybe?”
“Again, you’re asking the wrong person. But I think you’re focusing on the wrong thing. What does the English say?”
The loopy script made his eyes itch. The squiggly loops swam in his vision like he was looking at one of those Magic Eye pictures that were so popular in grade school. Just like one of those trippy pictures, it took Sam a minute of staring before the words fell into recognizable patterns.
True love’s kiss to begin anew
Issue, Bounty, and Love be Blessed
Cleave, unite, ere new moon
Else fields and house will lay in Death
“That’s a shitty poem. It doesn’t even rhyme right. And they spelled ‘ear’ wrong.”
“Ere means ‘before,’” he explained. “In this case, ‘before the new moon.’”
“That doesn’t even make sense.” Ash sounded a little disappointed. “Why would you cut something and then put it right back together?”
Sam looked at her in surprise.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just surprised you know what cleave means.”
“Asshole!”
Sam just nodded, not arguing the point. “This is Early Modern English. Well, not exactly. It’s—”
“Sorry, Professor Dyer, but I don’t really care.”
He growled and continued, “Cleave can also mean…like…to stick or adhere. This is a love poem, so I’m going to go out on a limb and say it means to consummate the relationship. To have sex.”
“I know what consummate means.”
“I’m just making sure.” But the grin he shot her was anything but innocent.
“Kissing, sex, bounty. So, what is this, an ancient Kama Sutra?”
“I think the Kama Sutra is already the ancient Kama Sutra.” This time, Ash rewarded his sass by punching him in the shoulder. He pretended like it didn’t hurt. “Judy said it was supposed to bring good luck to a newly-wedded couple. These must be how you trigger the blessing.”
“Blessing, really?”
“Gimme a break. It says ‘be blessed,’ okay?” Sam trailed his fingers over the flowing script. The back of the canvas was coarse, but the trails of ink were smooth to the touch. “I think it’s a translation of whatever this other language is. It’s in a similar format, see?”
“Whatever. That’s not important.”
“Okay, what is important then?”
“Deciding where I’m going to put it.”
Ash took the painting from him and walked to the bookshelf facing the bed, setting it on the second-to-highest shelf. Standing back to admire her work, she nodded.
“That’ll do until I can get the stud finder and mount it on the wall.” She turned, grinning like a fool. “Whoever P.H.L. is was one dramatic bitch. I love it!”