Crooked Crossroads (Child Lost Series Book 1)

by Trinity Crow

  Crooked Crossroads by Trinity Crow

  Copyright 2018 by Trinity Crow.

  All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form, or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other elctronical or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Published in the United States by Black Feather Press.

  Dedication

  To the daywalkers, to the keepers of the wee hours, and to all those who feel alienated, lonely or unwanted and seek other worlds than the current reality they find themselves in, may this story be a rabbit hole you tumble down.

  To Brian, my beloved husband, my ninja wasp warrior, my sexy antihero who gave wings to my words and light to my life, thank you. You may run from herons, but never from demons, yours or mine…or if you do, at least come back for me! Ja, ja. I love you, Sparky.

  Chapter 1

  “It's only this room that's haunted.” the old lady said, opening the door.

  My eyes went past her to the long, empty space before my brain caught up with her words. I glanced over, in what I hoped was a casual way, trying to read her face. She met my eyes and smiled cheerfully, smoothing her gray hair back in the neat little bun, playing that little old granny role to the hilt.

  Maybe she wasn't nuts. Maybe I just hadn't heard correctly. For a brief second, the soul-sucking whirlpool in my head paused in its attempt to drown all hope. Because this place was perfect, and I was perfectly screwed if this didn't work out. So I raised my eyebrows, in a "come again?" kind of way, hoping like hell something different was going to come out of her mouth.

  “Haun-ted.” The old woman pronounced the word slowly and carefully, in a way she seemed to think was helpful.

  Nuts, my brain informed me. She's nuts and you're screwed.

  I stalled, pretending the room held my interest, but all my instincts were screaming back away slowly. I held my ground but felt the whirlpool spin a little faster. I had thought just this once in my messed up life something might go my way. Seriously? I thought, disgusted with myself. You should have known it was too good to be true.

  The room in front of me stretched as empty as my options. Although the space seemed harmless, I wasn't so sure about the landlady. How crazy was too crazy? I could deal with a lot of crazy compared to the alternatives. The silence grew between us, waiting to be filled. Only, I had no idea what to do next and I was almost out of time.

  From the minute, I had pulled the handwritten "apartment for rent" ad off the board at work, I had been way too hopeful. Hopeful is not a normal state of mind for me which should have triggered my internal warning systems. I could only guess the block was due to the desperation coursing through me. My eighteenth birthday was in four days and the only present I was expecting was a kick to the curb. Coming of age doesn't always mean graduation gifts and starting college. For most foster kids, it meant game over. At eighteen, the state stops paying. And when the checks quit, you bounce.

  I had no illusions that the Krapinski's, my foster parents, wouldn't wash their hands of me when the State of Louisiana did. And the thought of being homeless made it difficult for me to maintain my normal, emotionally-distant, comfort zone. What the hell was I going to do? Another foster kid I knew had slept at a bus station his whole last year of high school. But that had been in Baton Rouge. We didn't even have a bus station here in LaPierre.

  Since I wasn't the type to rely on hope or fairy godmothers, I had started making a plan from the minute Gabriel Garza departed my fourth foster home for the Greyhound depot. When I moved to LaPierre in tenth grade, I had scored a job at the local bakery and started saving every paycheck. Part-time minimum wage isn't much of a paycheck, but it did add up. Now there was enough in my account to pay for an apartment, a really cheap apartment, but even a shed or a shack would do.

  Only, my plan had hit a few bumps. Like my age. It turns out no one takes a seventeen-year-old seriously. Then there was my lack of co-signers, i.e. parents, and my lack of references which meant a lot of fake smiles and no return calls. The real problem was LaPierre. It was so small that everybody knew everybody and I was known as the freaky-eyed girl with the stupid name, the one who had once punched Stefanie Aucoin. As head cheerleader and homecoming queen, she was the closest thing we had to a town princess. Besides, her family owned the only grocery store in town and her dad was president of the local bank. I was a nobody…until that punch made me somebody. It was all the gossip for months. But she had asked for it…just in case anyone was confused on that point. I mean, you can call me a freak, talk shit about my clothes and the fact that I ride a rusted Schwinn, but it's rude to do it to my face. In the South, we have manners. This means you talk about people behind their backs.

  So when I saw the index card offering the apartment for rent and my boss said he knew the lady, I became, understandably, emotionally challenged with hope. In fact, I did something against my set in stone life policies, policies like “never get involved” and “smiling leads to unnecessary conversation.” The one I broke was “positive thinking is a disappointment waiting to happen.” I actually tried to give myself a pep talk on the way to see the place. But since I am allergic to cheerleaders, I found a con for every pro.

  The price was perfect.

  …so there had to be something seriously wrong with it.

  I could handle seriously wrong.

  …well, I was going to have to unless I wanted to live in the bus station with Gabriel Garza.

  It was private and set back from the road.

  …where no one would hear my screams as I was murdered by a serial killer.

  The deposit was really low.

  …probably meant there was an outhouse or extreme roaches.

  All this was in my head as I wheeled down the long driveway. The trees arched overhead, like all those movies you see set in the South. You know, the shot right before the inbred cannibals show up? The oaks were draped with the mandatory Spanish moss, the upper part of the branches covered in baby ferns and gray crusty stuff. Whether it was stress at impending homelessness or the low budget, horror atmosphere of the place, I was hit with the creeps and slowed down watching the sides of the road uneasily. To either side, the fields were overgrown and perfect for lurking carnivores. I flinched when a squirrel shrieked at me from one of the oaks, which pissed me off. I'm not a flincher. I don't scream at bugs or snakes. I have dealt with seriously scary shit while in foster care, so rabid wildlife making me twitch was annoying. I aimed my trigger finger at the squirrel, and when I added my patented evil eye, the rodent had sense enough to back off.

  At the end of the drive, a big house came into view, a broad, square thing with porches running the length of the top and bottom floors. I liked the clean look of the white paint with black trim. It wasn't till I got close that I noticed it was faded and flaking, and the porch was anything but clean, the front door completely blocked by a pile of furniture and crap. It made a joke of the ratty welcome mat sitting at the bottom of the broad steps. I mental shrugged, lots of people down here didn't use their front door. There was no denying the place had ambiance, kind of a seedy, blessedly low rent, home sweet home feel.

  The drive curved around the side of the house ending at the back porch, which did not match the front of the house at all. I eyed the ungodly amount of gingerbread trim running the length of the veranda, then looked around cautiously, expecting a Mad Hatter version of Scarlett O'Hara to leap out and yell "Fiddle Dee Dee!" Instead, someone's sweet old
granny waved at me from a wicker rocking chair she was working back and forth with gusto.

  Sweet old grannies are the worst. They think they have the right to touch you because they have lived so long and are still not dead. Plus, their generation didn't have an MYOB policy. It was all…villages raising children and borrowing cups of sugar.

  I slowed, then stopped, awkwardly hopping off my bike.

  I hope it's not like a room for rent deal was my first thought. Maybe this is just the wrong address, came hopefully - stupidly - next. I eyed the old biddy on the porch. She was all smiley and wrinkly, and when she caught sight of me, she clasped her hands together in glee.

  Aw, crap.

  “Well, hello there!” she called out and waved a blue-veined hand at me. Her Old South voice gave up images of sun tea, wisteria running up a porch rail, fireflies in a jar. “Welcome, chile.”

  One thing about the South, people were always calling me by my name without even knowing it. So I wasn't sure if this was the woman I had talked to on the phone or she was just being all down-home friendly to the stray who had wandered in her yard.

  “Hey,” I said, waving back, feeling like an idiot. “I'm looking for the apartment for rent? I called earlier? Uh, Mrs. Evers?” I fumbled to get the directions out my shorts' pocket.

  She stood up and made her way down the wide porch steps. Her smile got even bigger as she approached. Her teeth were shiny weird, maybe they were dentures, or maybe she flossed with the tendons of small children.

  “Yes, yes, I'm Adelina Evers, and you must be Child.” She moved eagerly towards me.

  Casually but quickly, I put the bike between us, in case she was a hugger.

  “Yes, ma'am.” I motioned towards the big house overhung with oaks and a massive magnolia. “It's not a room for rent, is it?” I put not going to work out in my tone so there would be no time wasted if she was looking for a roomie or some kind of nurse's aide.

  “Oh, no! It's just through there.” she laughed, pointing to the tall hedge of oleander on my right.

  Mental sigh. The seriously wrong had just reared it's ugly head, only it was pink-cheeked and dressed in a flowery skirt. Living next to the landlady was going to suck. Big time.

  I looked over and saw a path through the red flowered bushes, the grass was knee-high, at least.

  One of two things. It's been empty awhile or she never goes over there.

  “How long's it been empty?" I asked, bluntly. Too bluntly? I tried a smile. It felt weird, so I stopped.

  “Oh, 'bout a week now since Andy moved out. He's going back to school! Delgado!”

  Her tone was proud, an invitation to hear all about this Andy guy's accomplishments, so I ignored the subject completely. My "I never get involved because I don't give a damn about you" policy is pretty strict. But this was rough. I was teetering on a tightrope here, between friendly, perfect tenant material and my 'back off, grandma' personal style of charm.

  And a week? A week was good. No way the grass had grown that fast even in our south Louisiana heat.

  “I saw the notice on the community board at the bakery I work at.” I aimed for a cheerful tone but ended up sounding over caffeinated.

  “Oh, the DiMaggio's! They are the nicest people.” She beamed at me as if I were the one responsible for raising them.

  “Yes, ma'am.” I tried the smile again but only managed to get my top lip stuck on my teeth. Mrs. Evers looked kind of startled, so I closed my mouth and steered us back to business. “I'd love to see the place.”

  “I have the keys right here.” she chirped, pulling them from her apron pocket.

  I pushed the kickstand down on my bike and followed her through the hedge. Except for the driveway, which was baking hot, the place was covered with trees and brush. I moved gratefully to the shade of the oleanders, feeling the temperature drop ten degrees.

  “It's the old carriage house,” she said, over her shoulder. “My late cousin, Mr. Nathaniel Hebert? Of Lafayette?" She paused for my nod of recognition, which I gave, in spite of my cluelessness to his claim to fame.

  "He put in the second floor and added the stairs. There's two bedrooms upstairs.” She said this like it was a big selling point, but I had never had one bedroom to myself. What would I do with two?

  We crossed the yard, skirting the fork of the drive that ended on this side of the bushes and hugging the shade of the giant oak cradling the house. It was a long rectangular building covered in some kind of plaster that made it look like stone. There were a lot of ground floor windows that would be a burglar's dream come true. The uncut brush had crowded up close to it and all that green swallowed up the buildings' details, making it look a little lost and sad. Leafy vines and branches reached out to us as we walked past to the entrance. I kept an eye out for thorns or poison ivy. Mrs. Evers led me to the narrow side of the house to a circular wrought iron stair. The black stairs against the slate gray of the building were kind of cool looking, but impractical as hell.

  I hope she doesn't break a hip, mentally wincing as I watched Mrs. Evers climb carefully up, her wrinkled hand death gripping the rail.

  She unlocked the door, an old fashion wood door with four diamond panes in the center all in blues and greens. It was pretty, but I kept the thought to myself. Small talk being against my policy. The door opened straight into the kitchen, which I liked immediately. I knew better than to have expectations, but I could see myself in this kitchen. There were lots of wood cabinets, ones with glass doors and china knobs for handles, lots of counters and…I squinted, inner eyebrows raised…a really odd tile backsplash painted with something resembling crippled crawfish.

  Above the sink window, there was a row of colored glass panes like the ones on the door. They threw a pattern of colored light across the far wall, reflecting over the rounded top of the ancient fridge. I was glad to see a gas stove, which was what we used at the bakery.

  The kitchen led to a living room that was dim because of huge drapes on the windows. I could just make out built-in bookcases and weird ornate molding of what could be leaping fish ringing the room. The notorious Cousin Nathaniel seemed to have a seafood theme in mind. The bookshelves, those were a good surprise. The only things I owned, besides my clothes, were the books I had been collecting since I was old enough to read.

  “Here's the first bedroom.” Mrs. Evers threw open the nearest hall door, revealing an empty box of a room.

  I nodded and she nodded back, adding a smile as she took it for approval. I definitely approved of my own bedroom for the first time ever, no matter what it looked like. She showed me the second bedroom, which was identical except for more windows and a view of a weedy field.

  “Andy used this for his studio. He painted that abstract art?” she looked at me, expectantly. “Do you draw?”

  “No, ma'am,” I said.

  “Do you paint?” Her head nodded yes in anticipation.

  “Is this the bathroom?” I asked, summoning a polite tone while thinking Let's move it along, Grandma.

  She smiled and opened the next door. The sink was shaped like a big seashell, courtesy of old cousin Nate and it was kind of funny. The antique clawfoot tub was probably worth two of my paychecks, but the whole room was dated and shabby. As if I cared about the paint job. I mean, this was way up the list from the hovel hut I had become resigned to.

  There was a hall closet to be admired. And while I praised space for storing things I didn't own, I tried to figure out how to seal the deal. I had never rented a place. I had no references, was still seventeen, had punched Stefanie Aucoin and hadn't known who Cousin Hebert was.

  “Do you like it?” she asked, as we exited the house.

  “Very much,” I answered, nervously watching her wobble down the stairs.

  “Well," Mrs. Evers said, cheerfully, "it's yours if you want it. You couldn't have a better reference than the DiMaggio's.”

  I was stunned and managed to stutter out a thank you.

  “Well,” she sai
d, “there's just the downstairs. You'll need to see that before you decide.”

  I looked at her, not sure what she meant. She pulled out the keys and slid one into the lock on the outside door that I had assumed was storage space. And that's when things took an abrupt detour to the land of white coats and Class III restricted substances.

  “It's only this room that's haunted.” Mrs. Evers said, opening the door.

  And there it was. Too good to be true. Seriously wrong. Red flags. Screaming brakes. Retreat, retreat!

  Still, I wavered, Gabriel Garza and the Trailways station flashing through my mind.

  “Haunted.” Mrs. Evers was being a little too helpful. “I always mention it before renting. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for nervous attacks and such.” Her faded blue eyes looked up at me, considering my reaction.

  I did my level best not to show one. Internally, I was on mental, eye-bugging, red alert. I knew from multiple foster home situations, when someone is about to go mad-dog country, the slightest twitch in the wrong direction would set them off.

  “I've never had any trouble, not in renting it out or when it’s occupied. Some want it more because it's haunted and others don't credit the notion. But I think it’s only right to let people know.” she finished, primly.

  Freakily enough, she was trying to reassure me that this was a safe haunting, a "cleared for human habitation" type of deal.

  I considered this little old lady in her flowered dress and apron, her silver-gray hair tucked up in a no-nonsense bun. She hadn’t seemed nuts. Perky? Yes, but there were naturally happy people in the world, though I admit, I didn't get why. And Pollyanna or not, everyone was entitled to their own beliefs……..no matter how ridiculous.

  It was ridiculous. I argued with myself. It was okay to have a healthy respect for the unknown, like black holes and trigonometry, but spirits? Connections to the other side? Come on! I had real problems in my life, that woo-woo crap was for people with too much time on their hands.

  I snuck another look. The room stood empty and harmless. The floor was a long wide space of shiny tongue and groove oak. For a minute, I thought of my foster sibs, the brats, and how they would go wild roller skating in here. I shook the thought away. It's not like I would ever bring them to visit. There were huge windows, the kind you could step through that had been built back when they taxed every door in the house, flooding the space with sunshine.