Nightshade

I flip the page back and forth a few times before admitting that yes, this is my handwriting in my notebook, but I've somehow forgotten that I wrote these words right across my latest sketch. My penmanship is jagged and hurried. The notes cut off mid-word, ending with a smear of ink.

Yawning, I review the sparse notes that were so vital that they were apparently worth scrawling over one of my best drawings.

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

I rub my bleary eyes and reach for my ever-present coffee thermos. Strange. The bitter brew is tepid, but I distinctly recall reheating it just moments ago. I frown and check my watch. It’s much later than I expected, so I must have fallen asleep on the job. Hmm. Maybe I'm getting too old for working these cases so late at night.

With a few firm slaps to the cheek and a healthy gulp of joe, I get back to it.

***

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 local 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 our tempered glass.

And behind me.

Most of the time, my job babysitting rocks is incredibly boring. They're not much for company, so I sit for hours doing little more than reading mystery paperbacks or sketching in my notepad. I'm getting pretty good at still lifes, if I do say so myself.

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 genuinely fascinating to me. The glittering gems, broken pottery, and carved figurines -- who wouldn't be enthralled? Having the opportunity to explore the museum in the perfect solitude of the wee hours is something I truly treasure.

When I was younger, I would dig in the dirt and tell my friends the shiny rocks were diamonds. I had a few cool geodes and you'd better believe my arrowhead collection was out of this world. As I got older, I prowled pawn shops and collected as many interesting pieces as I could find. And I got good at it, too. On more than one occasion, my finds were rare enough to earn a spot inside one of the glassed cases I now protect.

But who cares? Nobody visits this museum. Not even in the daytime.

Guess nobody likes rocks as much as I do.

***

It's almost morning now. 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 annoy me like an itch I can't scratch. 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.

Ah. It's gone.

Last thing I’m sure about, I was walking the aisles of artifacts. I guess I took a nap on the floor, seeing as I'm currently lying down with my hands tucked angelically beneath my chin. Sometimes I’m glad the curator is too cheap to install a security camera.

I hoist myself up off the floor with a groan and return to my chair.

That's odd. My notebook is tossed carelessly on the seat and the pen has rolled away. I'm usually much more conscious about this sort of thing. Looks like I’ve jotted down more unremembered notes, again in my sloppiest, most hurried handwriting. Thankfully I've used a blank page this time.

She’s back. Check cases. Nightshade

I’ve underlined the word “check” over and over until my pen trails off the page. Check the cases? 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.

This is silly. Why am I writing mysterious notes to myself? More importantly, why is my heart beating so fast? I search the glass cases until I see something that makes my troublesome ticker skip a beat.

My security keys have been inserted into one of the cases. And the door is ajar. I see the 300-year-old opal ring askew in the case and I break out in a cold sweat.

It's then that I know - without a doubt - that this ring has been replaced with a fake.

***

Someone's been here, I know it. I've been trying to tell myself this but somehow didn't believe 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 all traces of sleepiness far behind, I flip through the pages of my pad to find the last mysterious entry. The notes do have some similarities, now that I think about it. There's a person - a woman with a cape. Between the written notes, I've drawn a sketch of a nightshade blossom.

Wait. A nightshade? A half memory bubbles up in my mind, then bursts before forming. Gone.

Since I'm the best our museum has for a security system, I’ve decided I’m going to set up some cameras myself. I can’t allow a theft on my watch. It's either that or maybe I have some kind of adult-onset sleep disorder and I'm subconsciously snooping around the cases.

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 fell asleep again! Did I take notes? Did the camera catch anything?

Okay, so I do remember setting up the camera and I have a vague memory of watching surreptitiously from my seat. I think I remember spying a figure in the shadows, but as soon as I put that image 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 look inconspicuous, but very obviously only pretending to read. I'm holding a paperback, but I don’t turn the page for several minutes at a time and my eyes rarely meet the words on the page. Slick.

I keep fast-forwarding the playback until a hooded figure appears from the service hallway. It's a woman. She walks with slow confidence atop stiletto heels, and I instantly recognize the expensive brand. I watch myself jump up and topple the chair, hand zooming 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 and I frown.

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

My face is a mask as I wait.

"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 totally inappropriate for the weather. It looks weighted down by heavy objects in its numerous pockets. She goes on. "We found so many great things when we were kids. One thing was especially great. For me."

She pulls a long gold necklace out of a pocket somewhere as she continues. "I found it during one of our expeditions. It's okay, I know you don't remember," she adds kindly.

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." Her voice is tender. Sad, almost.

I watch myself continue to listen, wordlessly digesting the information while she runs a finger along the jewelry case. She appears to be in no great hurry.

In the video, I see that I have both hands behind my back. Ah, clever, self! I'm writing behind my back so she can't see. Have I been doing that the whole time? That'd explain the handwriting.

"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 with my sternest voice. "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. “You won't even remember me long enough to make that call."

Glittering necklace still in hand, she lifts her hood, revealing a delicate gold circlet on her smooth forehead. The central flourish on the tiara is a decadent purple nightshade flower. She does something - I can't quite see what - and the jewel awakens. The flower's central yellow gem takes on an unearthly greenish glow and its elongated violet petals open.

The next thing I know, I'm staring into an eclipse. The green light of the jewel swells in brightness until it absorbs the entire screen on my phone, then grows to encompass everything. I feel my surroundings fall away. There is nothing in this world but the green light of the jeweled flower.

I can feel my eyes growing heavy as I watch through the video. The vines of sleep entangle me and my body sinks into the seat.

No! I must stay awake! I think fast and cover my eyes, but listen closely to the sounds coming from the recording.

A shuffling, a heavy slumping sound, the jingle of my keys, a clatter, heeled footsteps slowly walking away. Silence.

After thirty seconds or so, I dare to peek between my fingers and watch the video. After several minutes of footage of me napping peacefully, The Nightshade reappears with a long necklace in hand, nearly identical to the one she carried in, but I know it's not the same. I know this one is priceless. She pockets it and turns to my sleeping form.

She casually tosses the hood of her cloak back over her head, but pauses. Has her better judgment gotten the best of her? Does she have regrets?

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