Chapter 1

Gerry kept staring at the handkerchief in his hand, recently washed, intently. As the smoke from his cigarette swirled lazily around him, he kept remembering the events of the exhibit. His memory, of course, was a little fuzzy, since it all happened ten years ago. He wondered how Ib was doing. She would be nineteen now and possibly in college. He desperately wished that he had at least asked for her number, but considering she was only nine at the time that would have looked especially suspicious to the other patrons of the exhibit. The handkerchief, though, was his only life line; the only thing that reminded him of her. The room they were in when she used it to quench the blood was all too vivid: the paintings of those disturbing blue dolls, the words written in crayon saying less than amicable things, the story of a young girl that desperately wanted a family and friends but couldn't because she was one of the paintings that haunted them.

All that was all in the past now, he told himself. He put out the cigarette and then folded up the handkerchief neatly, making sure there were no creases. He carried it lovingly to his bedside table and laid it in its usual spot, a little, sophisticated black box. He sat at the edge of his bed and stared at the floor. He knew he had to keep his promise; he had to find Ib.

"But where do I start looking?" he said out loud.

The phone rang, making him jump. He lunged at it and quickly answered with a stern hello. He softened his voice when he heard his mother's own angry voice.

"Gerry! You haven't called your mother in a while."

"Yes, I'm aware mom. I was meaning to, it is close to the holidays after all. How's dad?"

"He's doing fine," she sounded defeated. "He still wants to try going to the exhibit coming to town."

"Who's?"

"Some man, Guertana. You know how obsessed he is with his paintings."

A chill ran down Gerry's spine, but also warmth. Maybe…

"Hey mom. Let's all go. I'll be there in a few hours. We can go tomorrow."

"Sweety, are you sure you can drive all the way over here? It is getting rather late."

"Mom," Gerry sighed, barely containing the chuckle. "It's only three. I'll be there by seven, tops. I'll see you then."

After saying their goodbyes, Gerry put down the phone, and smiled to himself, but the dread was still with him. For one, he would be stepping into another of that man's exhibits. For another, he would probably see Ib. After all, her family loves his works. Though, like him, she would probably try to avoid it.

"It's worth the drive," he sighed to himself.

He packed whatever he needed, careful to put the box with the handkerchief safely nestled between clothes, and rushed towards his car. At this time there would be no traffic.

As soon as he stepped outside, however, a strong, menacing breeze blew through his purple hair, messing it up. Something didn't feel right. In fact, it felt exactly like those times when he and Ib were in the exhibit. He looked around cautiously, making sure there were no creepy sculptures or blood thirsty women paintings anywhere near his vicinity. Of course, he didn't see anything. When he got to his car, he cursed out loud. On the passenger door was what looked like yellow paint, spelling out the words:

Y.