Felicity Phillips was ten minutes early. She was never late. She parked her restored F-150 Ford pickup next to the old feed store and dashed toward the front door of the Ice House. Fiddling with a half open umbrella, she looked for the key. By the time she found it, she was soaked by a drenching spring rain.Inside, she hurried to the storeroom, wishing that she might have left a change of dry clothes. No such luck. She had only thirty minutes before the doors would open to the public. If the rain doesn’t stop, she thought, no one would be here anyway, so no need to hurry. She took the journal and cashbox to the counter in case anyone braved the storm, took off her sweatshirt to let it dry, and proceeded to make a quick visual inventory of the sculptures, painting, and photos waiting for the tourists who would visit the Ice House Gallery.Even before the cloudburst, Felicity knew this would not be her day. She had been awakened by a call at 5:00 a.m., confident it was her brother. He had arrived in town a week before and was the only one who knew her new number.“Hello Phil, is it you?” she had asked.There was a long silence before she heard an odd, baleful voice. “I saw you last night. I watched as you undressed, I…”  She had slammed down the phone, feeling both anger and fear.Preparing to receive visitors to the Ice House Gallery, Felicity remained unnerved by the ominous voice on the phone. As a volunteer, she worked at the gallery on alternate weekends. “It is better to be here,” she thought, “than home alone.”Glancing at the two rustic chairs made from reclaimed hickory and faded barn wood, she saw that someone had propped a lifelike mannequin on the chair closest to the side door. Approaching the figure, she found it ghoulish—parched white skin, faded blue eyes, a realistic gash across the forehead.A thunderbolt startled her and she looked away for a moment. But, the figure drew her back. Where did it come from? Is it for sale? Who made it? She knew all of the artists in this mountain community and had never seen anything like it before. Not here anyway. Once, in a Philadelphia gallery she had greeted a lifelike sculpture at the door of a gallery, as others watched in amusement. This one was nearly as realistic, but decidedly more macabre. |
She had slammed down the phone, feeling both anger and fear.Preparing to receive visitors to the Ice House Gallery, Felicity remained unnerved by the ominous voice on the phone. As a volunteer, she worked at the gallery on alternate weekends. “It is better to be here,” she thought, “than home alone.”Glancing at the two rustic chairs made from reclaimed hickory and faded barn wood, she saw that someone had propped a lifelike mannequin on the chair closest to the side door. Approaching the figure, she found it ghoulish—parched white skin, faded blue eyes, a realistic gash across the forehead.A thunderbolt startled her and she looked away for a moment. But, the figure drew her back. Where did it come from? Is it for sale? Who made it? She knew all of the artists in this mountain community and had never seen anything like it before. Not here anyway. Once, in a Philadelphia gallery she had greeted a lifelike sculpture at the door of a gallery, as others watched in amusement. This one was nearly as realistic, but decidedly more macabre.