Jillian Chantal

This week the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt Icy. I am still in my story set in the old plantation house in Louisiana,

Check out the other tales here.

As I went backward, Jacques lunged toward me and reached for my arm. He got a piece of my hoodie sleeve but that was all he could grasp.

I continued to flail desperately to try to keep my balance and sent up a quick prayer that I would at least not land on my head.

But, weirdly, I didn’t land at all. As if by magic, something shoved me forward, the momentum pushing me to the top step and safely onto the landing.

As I stood bent over with my hands on my thighs, catching my breath, Jacques gaped at me. “What the hell kind of gymnastics moves were those? Just when I thought you were a goner and I was going to have to pick your brains up off the floor, you did some kind of undulation with your back and flung yourself up here. I had no idea you could move like that.”

“You’re just as surprised as I am, dude. That was wild. It was as if someone shoved me from behind.” Now that I had a chance to think about it, I realized the shove was like two hands pushing me. Hard. Icy, cold hands.

“Hey, do me a favor. Check out my back.” I turned to face away from Jacques. “See anything weird?”

“Let me shine my light on you.”

In a moment, I heard him go, “Huh.”

“What huh?” I tried to turn back but he put his hand on my shoulder to stop me.

“Hold on. Can you feel that?” He pressed his hands against me in two places.

“Yeah. It’s kind of cold and feels wet. Was there paint on the wall I brushed against?”

“I don’t think so. It looks like two handprints. Wet handprints.”

“Take a picture. I want to see.”

“Hold still.” He took the shot and when I turned to him, he held his phone up to me.

He was absolutely right.

As I stared screen at the large, wet patches on my back, I relived the moment of the shove. Now that I’d seen the evidence, it did seem as if someone touched me with their cold, wet hands. While it was nice not to have my brains splattered on the staircase, I was a bit freaked out. “What the hell, Jacques? What the actual hell?”