V. Bellamy Design Solutions

Subtly? Who's she?

A house of 10 million, a budget of 3 million to fill that house with an assistant-sent list of what was considered all of the finer things: exotic dark wood furniture sets, velvet draperies for the windowed wall, Peruvian wool rugs. Just another client who heard the praises sung of Vincent Bellamy, elite interior designer. Just another client who didn't know about May, a peculiar spectral form I met years ago.

It was freshman year at the college I chose due to its location hours away from home, unduly proud of my political science major, when some of “the guys” were going to go to this haunted mansion on the outskirts of town. I declared it most childish and insisted on chaperoning the excursion.

The whole drive through this company chattered on about the strange occurrences that made others believe the residence was haunted: furnishings being differently arranged upon every visit, scraps of various fabrics lying or hanging in such a way one would consider them swatches, cans of paint had been transported from the cellar to several rooms about the house, their contents neatly applied to the wall in a similar swatch-like fashion. I remained silent in my disbelief, opting to be in the midst of this so-called haunting so that I could highlight the evidence of meddling miscreants as my companions would surely discount any abstract argument.

Upon arriving I was made to scale a wrought iron fence undoubtedly ten feet high and slippery from the morning rain showers nearly spelling out a broken arm or twisted ankle on the decent. Somehow avoiding a terrible fate I lead the way through the grandly ornate iron front door into a foyer that smelled of musty disuse. Ignoring cries behind me to be careful I charged forward and through the house completely unimpressed with the sights before me.

“Clearly the work of dumb kids,” I called out.

“He,” a light feminine voice responded.

“He what?” I replied, knowing it was an attempt at a prank.

“He did this.”

“Who?”

“Stanley. My love.”

It was that moment when I heard a familiar voice, one belonging to a throat part of the only company currently occupying this abode. “Bro, who are you talking to?”

“A recording, I'm sure.”

“I didn't hear anything.”

“Of course you didn't,” I said with a roll of my eyes.

The other man sighed and left the room with shoulders slumped in disappointment.

I had finished my inspection of the room, a library, then turned to depart not long after the one fellow had left himself. In the doorway was a small young woman no older than 25 whose skin and clothes were close in shade to fresh winter snow.

“My love's work,” she pleaded.

By some unknown phenomenon I was instilled with an understanding of all that was unspoken behind her words. “This was Stanley's work,” I replied.

“Love's work. You do love's work,” she pleaded again.

I knew I could not look away from her spectral features though I dared not to attempt to redirect my gaze. “I will.”

In an instant she was vanished without a trace of her form ever appearing in the physical world. Through some mysterious method I managed to learn her name was May, wife of Stanley.

In the following weeks I told no one what I had experienced nor that her presence was still lingering around me and upon my shoulders was her pressure that urged me to become not a political pundit nor state governor but instead an interior designer. Along with this sense of urgency was a strong awareness of courage, bravery, reassurance that all will fall into place so long as I follow this supernatural yellow brick road inside the College of Arts to change my major, remain skipping blindly along to a harsh horizon named graduating and further still to a jetliner stationed in terminal 105 with a final destination of New York City where I was due to take the first step of my career.

My portfolio was vastly superior to any of the other applicants to this position and though the fine young madam of a hiring director repeatedly warned that there was oft a lapse of quality between education and application I was steadfast in my belief that I would be the exception. Despite my confidence a Senior Designer was assigned as my mentor to teach the operations of the firm and provide professional support lest my client overwhelmed me with unreasonable requests, or so they explained the decision.

Upon my first employ I quickly made it clear I preferred to work alone if for no other rationale than to save my pride; speaking to oneself is a queer habit.

“They speak of Modern. I sense warmth,” May whispered into my ear after the initial interview with the client.

“And how do you propose we accomplish that?”

From my first client at the firm in New York to my first private client I had come into contact with through an elite artistic gathering hosted by an international businessman who fancied himself quite the art collector my connection with May grew stronger; I no longer had to speak aloud for her to hear my thoughts as I no longer heard her reply so much as felt it like I would my own voice.

By the ribbon-cutting ceremony of V. Bellamy Design Solutions every aspect of our relationship was devoid of artistic differences or any strife that prevented the rapid ascension into the refined aristocracy I knew I was destined for since birth.

The strife finally reared its ugly head on the sands of the Cayman Islands after a particularly discriminating client drove me near murder yet had to resign myself to an extended stay in the name of a health-beneficial vacation.

“I sense anger,” May had said.

“He was an imbecile!” I had shouted.

“I seek to soothe you.”

“There's no need, I'll move on in due time.”

“I will soothe you.”

I only managed to shout her name before I was awash with a false sense of calming peace never felt before; the sudden shift of control caused a spike in anxiety that was quickly swept away not unlike the waves of the sea alongside my ability to resist or speak in any way. I was at May's mercy.

Upon returning to work everything else returned to normal as well until my anger flared or I was piqued in some way and May would assume control without warning again sullying my own emotions until they faded away.

After the dozenth occurrence I experienced what I did years and millions of dollars ago, an unexplained knowledge of what I must do. Before me was a simple yet impossible choice between my work and all the money, fame, and fortune it had provided or an uninhibited mind free from a ghost deathly terrified of any adversity.

Once May released me once more I marched out of my office without conscious thought and only began to be aware of my active motions as I bounded up stone steps to a Catholic church. I explained my predicament to the bewildered priest who declared May a demon in need of immediate exorcism to banish her from this plane. Immediate it was and surprisingly painless as May was not the demon the priest understood her to be but instead a scared woman whose death chained her to one harrowing moment in a time long since past our own.

I was afforded a few more designing opportunities and though the end result was much the same as before it felt wrong. The reward would lie in the sense of pride and accomplishment that blossomed in May's chest at the sight of a project completed, the sight of a breathless, speechless client and without her love the work was hollow.

Even in my new found freedom, I was still at May's mercy.