She shifted forward in time to the night of her eighteenth birthday. The day had been spent in the emergency room because her half-brother Max had suffered an “episode” that had left him seemingly paralyzed. Born with a defective heart, Max had always been a sickly child. While en route to the closest grocery store forty miles northeast of Darvon, Max had become violently upset about something. Now, Jane couldn’t remember what. But she remembered watching as Max worked himself into a fit, to the point where he was shaking and bawling and saying he couldn’t move. They had immediately gone to the nearest ER.
That night when they returned home, Jane felt relieved that her brother was all right, but also wondered if her parents had forgotten her birthday. Turning eighteen was supposed to be special. She’d heard her friends talk about what their families had done for them upon entering official adulthood, and had been expecting much the same for herself. Yet by 7:30 that night no one had mentioned it at all. Max had been settled into his bed, fussed over by his parents and finally had fallen asleep. It was nearly eight o’clock when her father called her into the dining room.
Upon the table sat two pots of flowers. One was red tulips the other was purple hyacinths. “Happy Birthday,” her father had said as Mavis looked on. Smug. She’d looked smug. “Sorry there wasn’t time to get you anything else.”
“Oh, no, that’s fine,” she’d lied, heart heavy as Jane forced herself to smile. “I love these flowers, they’re beautiful and they’ll last. I’ll plant them outside in the Fall.” Her father had placed a kiss on her forehead and given her a hug. “Thank you for understanding.” Even Mavis had hugged her. And they’d disappeared upstairs, undoubtedly back to Max’s side.
Jane saw herself sitting at the head of the table for hours, just staring at the blue hyacinth and red tulip blooms. Staring at them and understanding for certain, truly for the first time, what she meant to the Marsh family. Absolutely, completely nothing. She held out hope that the next day her family would make up for not celebrating, but the next day passed and the next and the next until it was St. Patrick’s Day and still, nothing more than the two flowers, which she wasn’t even allowed to take to her room.
* * *
“Janie?”
Jane looked up into Trevor’s eyes, suddenly pulled back to the present. She couldn’t help the tears that filled them, and looked away, ashamed. She saw a hand snake out from her left, holding a white handkerchief. “Thanks,” she mumbled, using it to wipe her eyes.
“Bad memories?”
She finished drying her tears and refolded the hankie, then closed her fist around it. “You could say that.”
Jane turned to the right and headed into the living room. It was a double room, actually, spanning the entire front of the house from end to end. It, too, contained only the dark mustard carpet, but to Jane, it was like it had been before they’d packed everything up to move. To her immediate right was the off-white sofa covered with blue and cranberry red and green flowers of varying types. Straight ahead was an old brown, mustard and beige double rocking chair. To the right of that, a sewing table, and then the front door. Next to the front door stood a tall wooden coat rack, then the long, low record player and stereo, an old piece of Mavis’, made all of wood. Jane remembered sitting on the floor in front of it playing record after record, singing along, learning the words, indulging in her love of music whenever Mavis wasn’t around.
The other end of the room was a bit fuzzy, but she did remember the upright piano on the wall opposite the front door, the stairs leading to the second floor just above where the piano had once stood. She’d spent hours at it, being forced to practice endlessly. In the end, though, she had enjoyed being able to make music with her hands as well as her voice. She even remembered performing for her grandparents on one of their visits. There was a spot to the left of the front door where a bit of wall stuck out into the room. It was a corner she remembered well.
Often when her stepmother and father had to be somewhere, she and her half-brothers had been left in the care of Mavis’ mother, Mildred. Mildred had been cold and spiteful like her daughter, but ten times worse. Barely checking in at five feet tall, she was overweight and always smelled awful. And she hated Jane even more than Mavis did. Jane always dreaded being left with her, and usually retreated to her room because the old lady couldn’t make it up all the steps. At least there she was safe from her insanity, but there were times in which Jane did happen to be on the main floor.
She remembered getting into an argument with Mildred one particular afternoon. She couldn’t recall what it had been about, but it had resulted in a rather nasty verbal altercation that ended with Mildred slapping her in the face and making her go stand in the corner. That corner. And so Jane would stand there, sometimes for hours, until her parents returned home. Her legs would ache, but she would not be allowed to sit. There might be cobwebs in the corner, but she wasn’t allowed to scratch her nose. She had to stand there and stare at the paint on the wall.
It was little wonder her imagination had become so vivid.
Jane sighed. Why was it every memory that came up was a bad one? Why couldn’t she dig out any good ones? This walk through the house was about as exciting and fun as having her fingernails pulled off. “You know, I’m beginning to think this was a really bad idea, Trev.”
“Well, from the looks I’m seeing on your face, I’d have to say maybe you’re right. You sure you want to stay here?”
Jane looked up the staircase, wooden banister now faded and dusty from years of disuse. In her mind, she traveled down the blue-carpeted hall to her room. The place where she’d been with…and suddenly, she did want to go. She took the stairs up two-at-a-time, ignoring Trevor as he called out her name. Rounding the corner, she bounded up into the hall. To her immediate right was the attic door. Next to that, youngest half-brother Alan’s room. Next, the master bedroom. At the end of the hall, the bathroom. To its left, her bedroom, and directly to her left, her brother Max’s bedroom.
The unsafe small balcony off Alan’s room. The master skeleton key she’d discovered in her parents’ dresser drawer, that fit every lock in the house. The small black-and-white TV in their room that she’d snuck in to watch her favorite show on when they’d sent her to bed specifically so she couldn’t watch it. The bathroom, its toilet directly in front of the door. She’d come running up the steps one day to find her father sitting there, pants around his ankles. It had been the one and only time she’d ever seen her father’s enormous manhood, and she supposed now that in light of that unnecessary knowledge she was grateful that at least there’d never been any sexual abuse.
Max’s room: always messy, never able to walk through it without stepping on toys, Erector sets or dirty clothes. Yet he’d never been made to clean it. Her room always had to be spotless. The same hardwood floors, they creaked louder now, she noticed as she stepped into what had once been her bedroom. She took in the window over the den roof, the second window that looked upon the church and opposite that, the infamous closet.
She moved across the room and opened the closet door. It had been here he had first appeared. Her breath came fast and hard. She remembered the rows of clothing hanging there on two sets of metal bars one over the other. Remembered trying to look at them in the light and figure out what combination was making her see this nonexistent man. She’d never been able to figure it out. A chill ran down her spine.
She turned and could see her twin bed, Holly Hobbie sheets and two pillows. She saw herself lying there. And she could see him standing next to her. See his hand reach down and caress her leg. See her younger self rise to consciousness and stare at him in disbelief. It was all there, right there in front of her. She moved forward as though in a trance, hand outstretched. Maybe if she reached the scene she could touch him. And then the church caught her eye out the window and the present overwhelmed her. She felt his arm folding around her waist and the heat of his breath on her mouth. His hand touching her cheek
and his lips...soft, hot and sensuous as his tongue pried her mouth open. She felt moisture pool between her legs. Her breath came faster and harder.
And then suddenly she did feel him. Flesh against her flesh. Hand grabbing tightly, almost hurting. She turned to face him and saw his bald head, his gleaming eyes. Then the face morphed. Confused, dream shattered, she stared at the replacement face in disbelief. No. No! She wanted him back! Where had he gone? She didn’t want this man, she wanted Vasan!
“Vasan,” she breathed. Then, more forcefully, “Vasan!”
“Jane?”
“Wha--? Trevor?”
Her voice trailed into the ether as she collapsed into his arms.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
She was aware, first and foremost, of her throat being overly dry. Secondly she smelled masculinity and wondered at its source. She also realized someone was very nearby. She could feel their body heat. Jane opened her eyes and found herself in the same room she’d seen upon opening her eyes that very morning. Turning to the side, she saw Trevor lying on the bed next to her, his eyes closed. Soft snores filled the air as she just laid there watching him sleep.
He really is gorgeous, she thought. In sleep he looked innocent, but then, didn’t everyone? His hair was a bit mussed; his breathing, steady. She looked the other way, surprised when the clock on the nightstand told her it was already four in the afternoon. Her stomach growled loudly in protest of having had nothing since breakfast, and slowly she rose to a sitting position. How had she gotten back to the Billings guest room? The last thing she remembered was her childhood bedroom. Seeing Vasan. Feeling Vasan. And then…what?
She yawned and got out of bed, making her way slowly to the bathroom. Having relieved herself, washed her hands and splashed cold water on her face, she felt better. It was on her return trip through the hall that she heard a voice call out to her from the bedroom right next to the bathroom. She turned and walked in through the open door, to find Martha Billings propped up in bed, the TV blaring some game show or other.
“How are you, dear? You gave my boy quite a scare.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Billings, I-I’m fine, I think. What happened? How did I get here?”
“Trevor carried you in his arms. He said you’d been overwhelmed by some memory and he carried you down the steps at the parsonage, and all the way upstairs here. He sat up with you long as he could; I expect he’s fallen asleep now, though.”
“Yes, he’s asleep.”
Martha nodded. “He never could stay awake when bored. Used to fall asleep in class, drove his teachers crazy.”
Jane smiled. “I’m sorry to have caused you trouble. You’re very kind letting me stay here.”
“No trouble, dear,” Martha replied. “If you want some food, there’s Caesar salad made up and a bowl of tuna salad for you. I think you remember where the dishes are.”
“Yes, I do. Thank you, Mrs. Billings.” Jane turned and walked back into the hall. She peeked into the guest room and found Trevor still snoring softly on the bed. Shaking her head, she moved down the staircase.
He’d carried her? How embarrassing. Then again, it beat spending hours on the musty old floor of an abandoned house. She was surprised no one else had ever moved into the place. It was a huge, nice house. Covered by aluminum siding, she hadn’t been able to tell from the outside it had been empty since she and her family had left.
Rummaging through the fridge, she took out the items Mrs. Billings had suggested and set to work making herself a meal. Iced tea to drink, sweetened just a bit with artificial sweetener and a drop or two of lemon juice for good measure. A tuna salad sandwich on wheat, a nice big bowl of Caesar salad and she was ready to fill the aching hole in her belly.
As she sat there eating, her mind chewed on food of a much different sort. What was happening to her? Why had she come back here? She was certain after her experience in the church basement yesterday that Vasan was very real. The man she’d been seeing had even confirmed that to be his name. And yet that opened up a whole new set of quandaries, conundrums and list of questions longer than her arm. Questions she wasn’t quite prepared to discover the answers to.
She had thought Vasan was an original character made up for her second book. He had now appeared in both the second and the third installments of the series. Suddenly the phone call came back to her from the morning she’d finished Thunder and Lightning.
“How soon will you be finishing your third book?”
“Excuse me, who are you?”
“You might call me a friend. Please answer the question.”
“If you’re a friend, what’s your name?”
“I am afraid I cannot give you my name at this time. Please, when is the book to be completed?”
The fork stopped midway to her mouth. Her jaw dropped. It had been Vasan. But how could that be? Though real enough to the touch, to the senses of sight and hearing, he always arrived without her seeing how he’d come in, and always seemed to just disappear rather than actually walk out a door. So that meant he couldn’t be real. Real people had to visibly move away in order to leave your sight, to walk out doors or jump through windows. How did Vasan do it? She’d touched him. Felt heat from his breath, from his body.
A ghost? No, ghosts didn’t give off heat and you couldn’t touch them. At least, she didn’t think you could. Then again, what did she know? She’d never thought one way or the other about supernatural phenomena. She didn’t discount stories of ghosts, poltergeists and aliens, but she didn’t really pay much attention to them, either. Now, though, she wished she knew a little more about the paranormal world. Could a ghost really interact with you the way Vasan had? Regardless what he was, her mind also wrestled with the why.
But what answers could she hope to find? She now knew he’d come to her throughout her childhood. Her subconscious had provided details for her character. Without realizing it, she had recreated this man from her past. And then he’d come again, first as a voice over the phone, then appearing in her peripheral and finally becoming something physical which she found she not only desired, but was nearly powerless to resist.
She wanted him. The thought startled her, fork dropping from her hand and clattering to the bowl. She wanted to feel him as she had seventeen years before. His touch electrified her. His kiss sent pinpricks of pleasure exploding across her skin, throughout her body. He overwhelmed her. Filled her. Enveloped her in an experience unlike any other. Sure, she’d slept with others ever since she was nineteen. Probably about five in all, by now, yet none had measured up to the experience she’d had at eighteen and now, older and more experienced, she realized why.
No man she’d ever been intimate with could elicit those kinds of responses in her. How was it that she felt like she was covered in static electricity when he was there? How was it that she felt a tangible jolt when their lips met? Had Vasan really been there earlier today in her childhood bedroom? He’d changed…morphed into Trevor, was the last thing she recalled. But had that only been her subconscious and conscious working together to bring forth that which she secretly longed for?
It couldn’t be. For the Vasan of her books was cold. Evil. He practiced black magick, he was cruel to his slaves, and he participated in underground slave trading and black market arms deals. He thought nothing of killing someone for looking at him the wrong way and was hell-bent on doing the Tanners in once and for all to gain control of their vast empire. Morality was questionable at best, downright nonexistent at worst. In his world he was rich and powerful, a master of disguise and a master of underhanded dealings. He’d sooner crush your windpipe than he would do legitimate business with you, then confiscate everything you owned to increase the value of his coffers.
But was the Vasan she’d written really the same Vasan from her childhood? The same one from now? Could it possibly have just been a projection of her own dark side, the man as she’d written about him? Or was she translating the real Vasan to novels, telling the truth about him wi
thout realizing it? How could she know? Ask him? But would she see him again? Questions, questions, more questions swirled around in her mind. She rested her elbows on the table, her head in her hands as she tried to sort through her confusion.
When the hand touched her shoulder, she jumped so violently that she nearly fell out of her chair.
“Jane.”
She looked wildly up and saw, with some measure of relief, that it was Trevor. “Hi,” she greeted weakly, moving to pick up one half of her tuna salad sandwich.
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay, I guess.” She took a bite and chewed slowly and thoughtfully, only half her mind here at the table. “Thanks for getting me out of there. I’m sorry I conked out on you.”
“It’s all right, I just…Jane?”
“Mm?” she mumbled, taking another bite of her sandwich.
“Jane,” Trevor said, taking the chair next to her and leaning forward earnestly, elbows on his knees and fingers knitting together in the void over his spread legs. “What’s going on?”
She blinked once…twice…turned her blue eyes on him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged and leaned back, unwilling to meet her gaze. “I don’t know, you just seem…what’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” she repeated, voice rising defensively. Jane scooted the chair back half an inch and raised the sandwich so it was situated between the two of them. How much did she want him to know? None of it, she answered herself. He’d think she was crazy. He’d never understand. Nobody would.
“Yes, you just…I mean, you passed out, for God’s sake!”
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