Nightshade

The handwriting is mine, the notepad is mine, but I have no recollection of writing this. My penmanship is jagged and hurried. The notes cut off mid word, ending with a smear of ink. Yawning, I review the sparse notes I’ve apparently scrawled in a hurry.

Tall woman. Blue cape, covers face. Sleep ch--

I rub my bleary eyes and search for my ever-present thermos. The bitter brew is tepid, but I distinctly recall heating it up - again - just moments ago. I check my watch and it’s much later than I expected. I must have fallen asleep on the job. I need to stop working these cases so late at night. With a few firm slaps to the cheek and a gulp of joe, I get back to work.

***

The constant fight against sleep is the real work of a night security guard. The museum is small and generally unknown, even by locals, but we boast a choice collection of antique jewelry and artifacts. No Hope Diamonds or royal crowns grace our shelves, of course, but plenty of rusty gold and gem-studded bracelets are kept safe behind glass. And behind me. Most of the time, my job babysitting rocks at an unknown museum is incredibly boring and lonesome. I sit for hours doing little more than reading mystery paperbacks or sketching in my notepad. 

Not that I don't like this job. I’ve always loved the artifacts. The history of who wore these jewels and how they came into our collection is fascinating to me. The glittering gems, broken pottery, and carved figures absolutely captivate me. When I was younger, I would dig in the dirt, claiming shiny rocks to be diamonds. My arrowhead collection was out of this world. I prowled pawn shops and collected as many interesting pieces as I could find. On more than one occasion, my finds were good enough to earn a spot in one of the glassed cases I now protect. My only regret is never having been able to share this love with a like-minded friend.

***

My mind has wandered so far into the past that I must have lost track of time again. My eyes burn with sleep and fuzzy dreamlike memories itch my mind. I remember dreaming of a woman in a cape, and I seem to remember her doing… something. She opened her mouth to speak to me, but I can’t remember what she said. The more I think about it the less I remember. Now I’m not even sure I dreamt anything at all. Last thing I’m sure about, I was walking the aisles of artifacts. I seem to have been taking a nap on the floor, seeing as I'm lying down with my hands tucked beneath my chin. Sometimes I’m glad the curator is too cheap to install a security camera.

When I return to my chair, I see that my notepad has been tossed carelessly on the seat and I’ve jotted down more unremembered notes in my sloppiest, most hurried handwriting. 

She’s back. Check cases. Nightshade 

I’ve underlined the word “check” over and over until my pen trails off the page. I look up from my notepad and scan the room. I am alone, as always, and everything looks as it should, but I decide to humor myself. With increasing mistrust, I search the glass cases until my heart stops for a beat. My keys are inserted into one of the cases and the door is ajar. A 300-year-old opal ring is askew in the case. Thanks to my knowledge and intimate familiarity with the contents of these cases, I know without a doubt that this ring has been replaced with a fake.

***

Someone's been here, I know it. I thought I was keeping some sort of dream journal, but maybe I was taking notes. That ring is wrong. I am absolutely positive.

With my heart pounding and all traces of sleepiness far behind, I flip through the pages of my pad. The notes have some similarities. There's a person - a woman with a cape. Between the written notes, I've drawn a sketch of a nightshade blossom. A half memory bubbles up in my mind, then bursts before forming. 

Since our museum doesn’t have the budget for a proper security system, I’ve decided I’m going to set one up myself. I can’t allow a theft on my watch. Or maybe I have some kind of adult-onset sleep disorder. Either way, I'll find out. I prop up my phone, press record, and wait. 

My job is to take care of these items and I’ll do just that. I’ll catch this woman, this Nightshade, and I’ll finally see what’s been going on.

***

The now-familiar fuzzy bewilderment of waking up has me excited. I remember setting up the camera. I have a vague memory of watching surreptitiously from my seat, then spying a figure in the shadows, but as soon as I put it into coherent thought, it fades away. I push the heels of my hands into my eyes to try to refresh my memory. It's long gone. With an irritated groan, I press play on the recording. 

For a long while, nothing happens. I fast forward through a video of me attempting to be inconspicuous, but very obviously only pretending to read. I don’t turn the page for several minutes at a time and my eyes rarely meet the words on the page. Slick.

I slow down the playback when a cloaked and hooded feminine figure appears from the service hallway. She walks with slow confidence atop stiletto heels, the expensive brand instantly identifiable. I watch myself jump up and topple the chair, hand to my waistband as though I have a weapon.

“Who are you?” I hear myself demand.

The woman laughs with genuine amusement. “Do you know you’ve asked me this question every night, 'detective?'"

“How did you get in here what do you want who are you?” The questions trip off my tongue and over each other. My professionalism is noticeably absent.

Her tone is light. "You do know who I am. I certainly remember you."

My face is a mask.

"Amateur archaeologists, we were." Her voice is muffled as she crouches to reach deep into her cloak. It’s a heavy velvet thing that’s inappropriate for the weather. It looks weighted down by heavy objects in numerous pockets. "We found so many great things when we were little. One was especially great. For me."

She pulls out a lengthy gold necklace as she continues. "I found it during one of our expeditions. It's okay, I know you don't remember," she adds with kindness. I frustratedly watch myself do nothing but look confused and impotent. "Maybe it's a sleep charm, maybe it's more, but every time I've used it, anyone who sees me falls asleep and - poof, I’m gone. Vanished like a dream. It’s come in handy more than once."

I continue to listen, wordlessly digesting the information. She appears to be in no great hurry.

"And so that brings me here. To find more charms, you see. Maybe I'll find one even better." She examines the necklace dangling from her fingertips.

Remembering my voice and my duty, I attempt to usher her out of the museum. "I'm sorry, I still don't know who you are, but you can't be here. The museum will reopen at nine in the morning, ma'am, and if you leave now, I'll just issue you a warning for trespassing." This is a bluff. I have no authority and would call the police via the emergency phone regardless.

"No you won't," she smiles. “And you won't remember me long enough to make that call."

Glittering necklace still in hand, she lifts her hood. Upon her smooth forehead, she wears a delicate gold circlet, the central flourish a nightshade flower. Its central yellow gem takes on an unearthly glow and its elongated violet petals open.

The jewels illuminate from beneath the hood. They appear to swell in brightness until they absorb the entire screen. There is nothing in this world but the flower. My eyes grow heavy as I watch through the video. The vines of sleep entangle me as my body grows heavy. I must stay awake. I cover my eyes, listening closely to the sounds coming from the recording. 

A shuffling, a heavy slumping sound, heeled footsteps slowly walking away, then silence. I dare to watch the video. After several minutes of footage of me nappping peacefully, The Nightshade reappears with a long necklace in hand, nearly identical to the one she carried in. She casually tosses the hood of her cloak back over her head.

"See you tomorrow, old friend." Her voice is barely audible above the click of her heels as she slips out the door.