Since college days, Maura had wanted to retire comfortably and early, with her health and pocket book in excellent shape. That part of the plan worked out for her by her fifty-fifth birthday when she was offered a "package." Her long, boring, underappreciated years spent plugging away in a windowless, cheerless office paid off with little fanfair. The human relations employee offered an ample pension, medical insurance, retained stock options to her on an unanticipated but otherwise typical Tuesday. Plus, the company was closing shop. Maura jumped on it with glee.
Now, she was supposed to be living the dream. She had joyfully celebrated her freedom with friends, but within a month life was altered beyond belief. And life became progressively weirder as the days rolled by. Maura knew it was all because of her bucket list.
She'd stumbled upon the list as she downsized. It fluttered to the floor from an old and forgotten journal she'd tossed into the recycle bin. The page was thin and yellowed, chewed on by bugs or mice. Unfamiliar as it was, the handwriting looked like her own. She had no memory of making the list but was intrigued enough to start her exciting new life by marking off all the items her younger self had wanted to do.
Only days into the adventure, and she was convinced that her proverbial bucket list had come from an old nightmare. One she had as a teenager after she'd been egged on by peers to watch a movie and had encountered that chainsaw from Texas.
The first item was strange but didn't set off alarms. It was near her home town of Baton Rouge, so she'd driven the forty or so minutes to get there for a one night stay. A place called Myrtles Plantation beckoned her. She imagined strolling the immaculate gardens, bathing in an ancient bathtub (surely the guesthouse was retrofitted), and enjoying a peaceful night away from city noises. Never having "done" the plantation circuit so close to home, this seemed a great way to start.
Things did not go as anticipated. The place was beautiful, but her heart raced when she read the pamphlet displayed at the check in counter. Sitting on a comfortable mattress on an antique bed frame in the small room, she thought she should be thrilled. Instead, she wondered at the high price for a night's stay. Great. The place was expensive and said to be one of the most haunted houses in America. Not just Louisiana. Nope. The entire U.S.of A. How had she never heard of it? Too busy working? Too scared of paranormal phenomenon? Both? She'd had little time away from work and couldn't watch those manufactured television stories put out by ghosthunters who never saw a ghost. She could imagine ghosts and thought those people were nuts. Couldn't pay her enough.
"OK. You can do this. One night and then you're gone." She'd said it aloud, hoping lurking spirits would haunt someone else annoying them by staying longer.
But she'd heard a noise in the night. Seen a wisp of a woman wearing a green turban, carrying a cake, and slipping through a door to the main house. Gooseflesh covered her body and her hair felt electrified. Was this Chloe of the pamphlet, the slave girl who poisoned three people with oleandar leaves? Or was it the fever dream of a scaredy cat? She went with the second idea and left before the sun rose.
Her house sold within two weeks. She barely had time to look at the next items on the bucket list but was excited to find Machu Pucchu, (yay) a place that really was on her list, coming up soon.
She would drive her car to Houston for the second item, since it was less than a day's drive away. She'd sell the car there for whatever she could get. She wanted to quickly mark off the second item, a chapel, (thank goodness.) She'd take an easy cab ride to the chapel, click a few snapshots, and get to the airport hotel in the evening of the same day. She'd be ready for South America early the next morning. She hated hurrying to an airport only to wait impatiently to board for a long flight.
The day started as her days usually began with building her vocabulary from an app on her phone. Every morning she silently used the word in sentences as she scrubbed away the cotton that accumulated during sleep. She was happy when a word was familiar, providing a confidence boost. And she already knew many of the proffered words, but she enjoyed educating herself and keeping her mind flexible. So, before driving to Houston, she learned a brand new word. She had to look up the meaning.
'Pareidolia - noun. The perception of apparently significant patterns or recognizable images, especially faces, in random or accidental arrangements of shapes and lines.'
Item two astonished her. The chapel walls were hung with paintings by Mark Rothko in large rectangular swaths of colors said by many to have a calming effect. But this was where the strangeness began, or maybe it just continued and she hadn't noticed, yet.
Faces in the painting appeared where solid color should be. Strange faces. Menacing, devilish faces leered at her as she sat on the wooden bench trying to overcome terror. Only extreme effort allowed her to remain motionless, hoping for better vibes. There would be no chance of meditating in this place. Unsettling thoughts crept into her mind. The word pateidolia scrolled across her brain on a continual loop.
Her body began to shake. Her nightmares were coming alive. Sweat trickled down her spine. No longer able to sit, she stood abruptly and double-timed herself outside. Blinking in the bright sunlight, she found it amazing that darkness had not consumed the earth. Vowing to never return, she crossed The Rothko Chapel in Houston, Texas off her bucket list. She breathed in the fresh air, straightened her shoulders and read the next item.
Convento de San Francisco, Lima, Peru. She'd get that done next week and then on to Machu Picchu! Her steps lightened the further she walked from the chapel. She found a bench in the shade and pulled up information on the convent.
"BENEATH THE CHURCH AT THE Franciscan Monastery in Lima, Peru, there is an ossuary where the skulls and bones of an estimated 70,000 people are decoratively arranged."
She didn't remember adding the monastery to her list. She didn't remember writing the list. What was happening? Why devils and death, bones in ossuaries? The trembling began again. She rummaged through her purse until she found the complimentary matches she had received from the man who escorted her to her room at the haunted Myrtles home. She ran a match across the abrasive strip, intent upon burning the list. A sudden gust of wind arose and blew the flame out before the fire reached the page. She tried again. Same result. Again, more fervently, cupping her hand as she'd seen smokers do. Again. Again. No matches left.
And then she was running. Pumping her legs. Heart racing. Running. Running as fast as possible. Toward what? She dared not guess.