Sigrid
Portrait of a woman who devoted her life to study of the dark arts. At the end of said life, she reaped the consequence in a dark and terrible place. Enter Rodney, a man with a taste for spy thrillers at the local library. There's nothing special about this latest book, but it carries a special passenger—from the Twilight Zone.
Rodney made lunch after his five mile run at the nature park. He carried the BLT and iced tea into the living room of his townhouse. It was his habit to read while eating, being careful not to stain the pages. He was used to finding all kinds of book markers left behind, but this one was unusually thick. It was an old color photo of a red-haired woman sitting in bed, wearing a nightie. The view was from the waist up; nothing suggestive about it, except for the teasing look. But those green eyes—they were looking right at him. On back was written Sigrid.
"Well, Sigrid, I've had less attractive bookmarks." He read for awhile, then followed his usual routines until his preferred TV shows came on. These carried him up to his customary bedtime of eleven. He never had trouble getting to sleep, or dreamed much. Tonight, he was pulled into a dream he instantly recognized as the lucid state.
Only a cone of vision had waking clarity. All else had the hazy outlines of dreams, unless he looked at them. A blurred dresser became clear, right down to makeup jars, a brush, and a photo. The mirror held a clear image of a white-haired woman in a familiar nightie. At least she wasn't a vampire. He turned to face her. "Who are you?"
"I think you know. You have my picture. You and I will have much fun." Her accent sounded German.
"You're Sigrid? It seems you lived a full life."
"Yes. I wanted to live forever, but not like this. I thought I would be forever young."
Rodney shrugged. "Make a deal with the devil, and that happens." He had never considered a woman so far out of his age range, but Sigrid had supernatural enhancements and a hypnotic hold on him. He started toward her, unable to resist. "That photo is haunted . . ."
He awoke next morning to a rather messy finding. "Wow, what a dream. This isn't like me!" He hurried to take a shower and get dressed for the morning run. The first order of business was to toss Sigrid's picture in the trash after cutting it in half. "Haunt somebody else, succubus."
His run wasn't up to par. He walked half of the five miles, feeling washed out like one does when he hasn't slept well. Apparently, extended time in the lucid state was the same as being awake. By noon, he was feeling better, especially after doing Chinese with some friends.
When he got home and found Sigrid's picture on the night stand, he knew the psychic vampire would soon use him up, then throw him aside like a paper coffee cup. The various talismans had proved indestructible. You could give it to an unsuspecting joker for quick relief. If planted somewhere like a library, it had to be found by someone before the visitations ended. Perhaps this poor sap had expired before Rodney stumbled onto the photo.
He stayed up past midnight to minimize his exposure to the dream plane. He also planned to question Sigrid to distract her. She was waiting when he fell asleep.
"Sigrid, where is this place?"
"My bedroom."
He risked getting close enough to pinch her arm. She pulled it back and rubbed at the sore spot. "So you can be hurt. I suspect that has its uses here, so I won't waste my time." He went to the bedroom door and came out in the living room. Since there was only one other door, it meant this was an apartment. He exited to a corridor with other such doors, saw a dim lobby farther along.
Sigrid appeared at her door, seemingly the limit of her reach. He followed her back in like a marionette.
"Sigrid . . . what's the name of this building?"
"This is my room."
There was still the bedroom window. Rodney climbed out.
"You can't get away. Come to me."
"I won't go far. I just . . . want to check something." Resisting her was hard work, but he staggered back far enough to see it was a building of four stories. Above the covered entrance was a lighted sign that read "Palisades". Beyond, the moon played keepaway among marbled clouds.
Sigrid was at her window. "I see you."
He climbed back in, now in her embrace. "How did this happen to you?" She had other things in mind than chatting.
The next morning produced the same revolting result. Rodney rushed to shower it away, get rid of Sigrid's perfumed essence. He felt even more drained. How long could this go on? Surely not more than a week. He did an internet search for "Palisades". It turned out to be an assisted living facility. Though seen in daytime, it matched what he saw in the nocturnal vision.
Rodney sat on the bed and picked up the photo. "Okay, Miss Sigrid. Now I know where you spent your last days. It's time to pay the place a little visit." In the photo, Sigrid had exchanged her teasing look for one that was angry. "Get mad, witch. I'm gonna beat you at your own game."
He drove the twelve miles carefully, still tired out from the night's festivities. Pulling into the parking lot was eerie, especially seeing Sigrid's window. Someone else lived there now, oblivious to the goings on when Sigrid practiced her spell craft in those last days. He was required to sign in, but his business wouldn't take long. A passing aide, whose tag said "Torianna", provided the opportunity.
"I'm a relative of Sigrid, and wondered if you have any pictures of her." He showed her his haunted photo of a young Sigrid, its expression back to normal. The aide looked skeptical. "She wore this rose colored polish on her toes. The left foot had a bunion, and the chest had more freckles than I've ever seen."
"That's her," the relieved aide said. She entered a small memorial room, paged through one of the albums. There was Sigrid, exactly as in the dream, except for being dressed and holding a little dog. He thanked the aide and headed home.
There he emptied out his wallet, except for a few bucks and an expired card. Cutting a slit in the liner produced a handy pocket for Sigrid's picture. She was plenty mad now, silently cursing him an a bizarre little video. He sealed her inside and headed out.
His destination was the seediest part of town outside the shipyard gates. Near a cluster of nondescript men, he pretended to drop his wallet near a light pole, knowing no one would call his attention to it. He watched from the corner of a drug store. One of them had already rifled the walled and pinched the goodies. With no trash can handy, he tucked it into his back pocket.
Package delivered, curse transferred.
Rodney sweated the rest of the day, dreading the reappearance of the picture, but it didn't happen. And his sleep was undisturbed.
Picture of a man who has rid himself of a picture; a photo of a sorceress who has, through the dark arts, achieved immortality—in the Twilight Zone.