Inescapable, p.1
Inescapable, page 1
INESCAPABLE
a ghost story
Copyright © 2023 by D.K. Stone
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used without prior written consent of the publisher.
Stonehouse Publishing Inc. is an independent publishing house, incorporated in 2014.
Cover design and layout by Elizabeth Friesen.Drawing, Aimee en déshabillé, D.K. Stone
Printed in Canada
Stonehouse Publishing would like to thank and acknowledge the support of the Alberta Government funding for the arts, through the Alberta Media Fund.
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data
D.K. Stone
Inescapable: A Ghost Story
Novel
ISBN 978-1-988754-46-8
First edition
INESCAPABLE
a ghost story
a novel by
D.K. STONE
*NOTE: The characters and situations portrayed in this novel are all fictitious. Any resemblance to real artists, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Though some of the places described in this story do exist, the artists, characters, and actions which take place in Calgary, Banff, and New York City are entirely fictional. Any commentary on artists, public figures, living or dead, and the art world is purely fictional and has no basis in fact.
“I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.”
— Jack Kerouac, On the Road
For my beloved ghosts.
PROLOGUE
When Aimee Westerberg opened her eyes, her husband was in the chair next to the bed. George reached out, tugging a wayward auburn curl. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Morning yourself,” she grumbled.
“Been waiting for you to wake up for an hour.”
She groaned. George was backlit by morning sunlight, his grey hair painted gold, transforming him into the earlier version of him she’d never known. Aimee’s lashes fluttered closed and she tugged the blankets higher. “Go ’way,” she said. “I’m sleeping.”
He chuckled at her tone.
Ten years of marriage had proven them opposites in more ways than one, but the differences had only bound them closer. Except, Aimee thought in chagrin, when it’s five in the goddamned morning.
Half a minute passed in silence.
“Sunshine,” he called softly. “I know you’re awake.”
“Am not.”
George slid the chair closer, the scrape of hardwood like sandpaper over her nerves. “I want to get out to paint,” he said. “It’s beautiful today. Sky’s full of clouds. Mount Rundle’s gorgeous.” He sighed and Aimee could imagine George smiling the way he did in the studio. Breathing in the colours as he called it.
“The sun on the mountain. The light on Lake Vermillion. It’s a bright cadmium yellow with just a hint of crimson in the edges. But we need to go.” George’s voice grew chiding. “It won’t last.”
She made a non-committal grunt. George and his damned hikes! She’d expected he’d outgrow that at some point, but he never had. When he’d been the teacher, and she the student, George’s obsession with painting from life had inspired her. Lately, her amusement had worn thin.
“Come now, Aimee.” He pulled the blankets off her shoulders and she shivered. “I finished the underpainting this week, but I need the play of light over the mountains for the highlights.”
“I will,” she said. “But not yet. It’s too early.”
“It’s never too early.” He nudged the bed with his foot, jiggling the mattress. “C’mon now. For me, sunshine.”
George’s tone was firm, the sound of someone who expected to get his way. Maybe, Aimee thought, if I just lay here he’ll leave me be. But she knew that wasn’t likely. Once George Westerberg got something into his mind he could not let go. His determination was downright irritating.
“Ai-mee,” he sang.
“Another hour.”
He chuckled, but the happy sound rankled her. “Ten minutes, and then we go.” The blanket slid down another inch. “For me, darling. It’s only a half hour walk to where I’ve been setting up.”
“An hour.”
“Fifteen minutes.” Another tug.
Her jaw clenched. “I said an hour.”
“Twenty and—”
“Fuck it, George!” she snapped, jerking the duvet back up to her chin. “I’m the one who drove out from Calgary last night, not you!” Her words held a petulant tinge. “I’m tired, alright?”
Long seconds of silence passed. Aimee forced her eyes shut and waited for sleep to retake her, but her heart pounded in her temple, any exhaustion burned away in her quick-fire temper. Another minute passed and she opened one eye. George sat at her side as he had before, staring out the window to the mountains beyond. His brow was furrowed. He stood, rolling his shoulders and winced. The tendinitis was bothering him again.
“I’ll go downstairs and set up myself up on the porch then,” he said, stretching his arm. “You sleep.”
He left her side, closing the door behind him, quiet footsteps marking his passage down the stairs. Aimee’s guilt rose in time to the sound. A childhood of want had taught Aimee many lessons, and gratitude was foremost among them. They had this cabin, this room, this very life, because George was a successful artist, and artists of all kinds needed to follow the whims of their muse. (That she’d once been the source of George’s artistic energy—and wasn’t any longer—was a twist to her gut.) The worry that had been building since she’d awoken with him at her side grew into a knot of panic, frustration replaced with fear.
If she didn’t have George, what did she have?
With a groan of defeat, Aimee sat up, pushing the riot of knotted red hair away from her face. “Just hold on, George,” she shouted at the closed door. “I’m coming!”
Downstairs, her husband whooped in triumph and Aimee grimaced.
She hated mornings.
—
Aimee was coming down the stairs from the bedroom clad in jeans and a t-shirt when she heard the sound: a whine like a dog’s howl, or child’s cry, somewhere outside; loud for half a second, then gone. Halfway between floors, she paused. Beyond the window, dawn was gilding the Rockies, the peaked roofs of Banff twinkling in the sunlight. George would be anxious to go. She put her foot down on the next riser.
A deafening crash rocked the kitchen below.
The sound launched her into motion; she sprinted down the stairs two at a time, bare toes gripping the floor as she headed through the kitchen to the half-open doors to the porch. The glass of one panel was a web of cracks held together by the wooden frame. Her husband slumped beside it, forehead bleeding.
“George!”
He lay on his back, legs twisted beneath him, his newest painting —Mount Rundle, Dawn with its half-cured oils—tossed against the wall at his side. She blinked. The carefully articulated light and shadow he’d so proudly shown her when she arrived last night was a muddy smear, lines of dark pigment rising birdlike into a gouged sky, while echoing hatches of colours marred the door frame. Instinctively her fingers went to the canvas—to protect it, to fix it—but George’s voice dragged her attention back.
“Aimee,” he croaked.
Her hand jerked away as if burned. She dropped to her knees. “What’s wrong? Did you fall?” She parted his hair, catching sight of blood pouring from a small cut, then ran her hands over his limbs, searching for more damage while George writhed against an unseen force.
“It’s only a little cut,” she said. “Did you wrench your back? You must’ve slipped on—”
“M-my chest—” he said haltingly. “Can’t breathe.”
Aimee’s throat caught.
“My god.” She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, dialling 911. Random thoughts pulsed like lightning through Aimee’s mind: George was fifty-nine; ten years older than Aimee’s own father had been when he’d died. Her mother had nearly lost everything that year. The untimely death unsettled their small suburban life with the ferocity that left Aimee aching even decades later.
“911 dispatch,” a brusque voice answered. “What is your emergency?”
“My husband’s fallen,” Aimee said, amazed by the calmness in her voice. “I think it’s an angina attack. He’s cut his head and—”
George clawed for her arm and she yelped in surprise, her eyes jerking back to him. His face had faded to the colour of raw canvas. “Need the nitro,” George said through clenched teeth. “Now!”
A flash of memory superimposed on the scene: George’s insistence that he complete an updated will after he’d returned home from New York last fall. The hours he’d spent with their lawyer, arranging for charity contributions and bequeathments. She’d been asked to leave the room not once, but twice, that day, while George had gone through a seemingly endless list of minutiae.
“What’s going on?” she’d asked.
“Nothing. I’m just getting ready in case.”
“In case of what?”
“Oh Aimee,” he’d laughed. “A man my age can’t pretend the sun will shine forever...”
George groaned and his grip on her arm loosened. Aimee searched his pockets one handed, fear turning into sharp-edged panic. “Where is it, George? Where’s the bottle?”
&nbs p; “Ma’am?” the dispatcher interrupted. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Aimee snapped. “I’m still here.” She couldn’t find the nitro!
“Ma’am, we’re sending an ambulance, but I need you to stay on the line. I’m going to talk you through this...”
The dispatcher’s words rolled over Aimee, unheard.
“Hurry!” George rasped. “My chest—Get the nitro. I—”
Cradling the phone against her shoulder, Aimee’s search redoubled. She tore from one pocket to the other as the first teardrops tumbled over her cheeks. They fell in splotches on George’s shirt. A random thought appeared: There were paint flecks across the fabric—colours she recognized from the now-destroyed canvas—and those colours would never be matched again.
“Hurry!” George cried.
“I’m trying!” Aimee’s fingers caught on the small shape of a plastic bottle. “Got it!”
“Ma’am?” The woman on the phone was still asking questions but Aimee wasn’t listening. She tugged the bottle free, biting the cap to unscrew it. George took a hissing breath as she brought it to his lips. His eyes were half-closed, a line of spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth.
“Open!” she ordered. “Hurry, George! Open your mouth. I have the nitro!”
Another memory floated forward: George’s last angiogram had shown a minor blockage; “Nothing to worry about,” had been the doctor’s words that day, “just a part of growing old.” Aimee had wanted George to get a second opinion, but he’d refused. “Old is old, sunshine. Nothing but the truth.”
“Ma’am, I need you to answer me,” the dispatcher said. “Is your husband still breathing?”
“Yes! Yes, he’s breathing,” Aimee replied. George’s mouth fell slack, and she squirted the liquid under his tongue. She counted the seconds, waiting for George to relax, to return to her the way he’d done all the times before. “Angina’s nothing to worry about, Aimee. Just a little blip with the old ticker.” But today, his expression didn’t change. Aimee leaned closer, searching for a clue, her heart pounding so loudly she could hear it in her ears.
“George? George, can you hear me? I—”
Without warning, he arched and began to thrash, animal sounds rising from deep inside his chest. His head banged against the floor. George—who never showed pain, who taped up broken fingers so he could paint, who refused aspirin for headaches, and ignored the tendinitis that had plagued him all winter—writhed in agony, the tendons in his neck tightening into ropes.
“George!” Aimee screamed.
“Ma’am,” the dispatcher continued. “You need to check if—”
George’s pupils were dilated, his gaze glassy.
“Something’s wrong! The nitro’s not working!” Aimee shrieked. A stream of images danced across her thoughts: Aimee, a student, mixing pigments by hand in George’s class; the takeout dinner from Maple Grill they’d shared late last night; George’s cabin studio, filled with half-finished works; the last argument she’d had with Jacqueline when Aimee admitted she didn’t really understand why George was changing his will yet again; her refusal to get out of bed that morning when George had asked her.
“He needs an ambulance!” Aimee cried. “Hurry, please!”
“EMS is on its way. They’ll be there in just a few minutes.”
Aimee dropped the cell with a clatter and grabbed George’s shoulders, pulling until he was half in her arms, loose-limbed and heavy. “Hold on, George. The ambulance is coming.”
Another, solitary flash: George Westerberg, feted Canadian artist and playboy, standing at an opening at the Gainsborough Gallery—the very opening that Aimee thought of as ‘theirs’. This was the moment that changed things. She’d attended the gala as his one-time student from the Alberta College of Art and Design (now graduated from and starving). She was supposed to be making the connections that would launch her non-existent career. Partway through the night she’d turned to catch him watching her from across the room. George was old enough to be her father—they argued as much as talked while she toiled in his studio—but there was nothing paternal about his gaze that night. Danger and desire smoldered in his dark eyes, unspoken promise in a hungry smile.
He walked toward her, stopping a half-step too close for a teacher-student chat.
“Aimee, Aimee, Ai-mee,” he chuckled, giving her a once over. “Must say, you look all grown up in that dress.” His gaze drifted down, caressing her curves before rising.
She lifted her chin, and smirked. “I always was grown up,” she said. “You’ve finally noticed.”
On the floor, George gulped for air like a fish out of water, eyes bulging. He fumbled blindly for her hand. “Aimee, listen. If I—If I don’t make it, I want you to know—”
“Stop! You’re going to be fine.”
“But if I—”
“You’ve had angina before. It’s nothing to worry about!”
“Aimee listen!” His fingers tightened into a vise, silencing her. “The will, Aimee. I never explained why I asked you to leave that day.” A tinny voice echoed from the forgotten phone, distracting Aimee from his words. “I couldn’t tell you then, but—” He took a heaving breath. “But when I was in New York—”
The EMT’s voice echoed distantly and Aimee scrambled to grab the phone.
“We can talk about this later, George. Just hold on. Okay?” She put the phone to her ear, catching the last few words.
“—will be there shortly, but you need to put your husband into the recovery position. Lay him on his side. Make sure his mouth is free of obstructions—”
“Aimee, listen.” George’s grip loosened. “If I don’t make it, when I’m d—”
“No!” She couldn’t bear to hear him say it, couldn’t imagine him—George, her husband, the most celebrated modern painter Canada had seen in a generation—dead and gone. The first, thin wail of an ambulance rose in the distance. “You’re not going to die. Stay with me, George. The ambulance is almost here.”
She stared out over the bowl of mountains that cupped the town of Banff in its hollow, desperately willing the EMS team to come faster. The sky above the limestone ridge was a bright cornflower blue, crimson clouds fading as dawn passed into day. A new day, her mind whispered. Nothing would ever be the same. Not now. Not after this.
“Aimee, listen,” George said. “I need you to know that—”
“What?!” Aimee shouted, tears wrenching through her.
“Just listen,” he whispered, voice fading. She caught George’s gaze and held it. His fingers squeezed once, but it was faint and weak. “W-want you to know that I always loved you,” he said. “No matter what happened between us. No matter what I did or—”
“I love you too, but hold on, alright? Just a minute longer.”
“Don’t think I can.” George’s lips were blue, his skin ashen, but it was his expression which terrified her. His lids drooped, his body slumping, as if all that had been him—bold, brash, and genius—was leaking away into the morning air.
“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Stay with me, George. Stay.”
The siren had grown into a scream.
He gave her a wavering smile. “I’ll try.”
CHAPTER ONE
When Aimee Westerberg opened her eyes, her husband was waiting in the chair next to the bed.
“Morning, sunshine.”
She pressed her eyes closed, heart pounding in her ears. “Go away,” she hissed.
The ghost, of course, ignored her.
It didn’t surprise her to discover George in the cabin. She’d come to expect these flickers of pervasive memory in the long year since his death. They appeared when stress or grief overwhelmed her and in the last months, there’d been more than enough of that. She counted to ten, hoping the vision would fade.
“I know you’re awake,” George said.
She opened her eyes to find him smiling and her heart twisted. Unlike the fateful day last year, there was no morning light pouring through the window behind him. Spring storm clouds clogged the mountain valley much as they’d done when she’d arrived. This season matched her mood: day after day of sleet grey rain and darkness.
