by Billie Dale
“What the fuck is going on, Preslee?” he barks.
“Damn it, Hendrix. Do what I said and when you return, I’ll explain it all. Promise you’ll be on the lookout for this man and you won’t approach him.”
“Fine,” he huffs and the screen goes dark.
My phone trills again after I forward the image to the detective. “Who is he?” he asks.
“You tell me,” I answer.
“Excuse me? You don’t know?” He sounds suspicious. As if I’d cover for a guy who’s made my life miserable for far too long.
“Nope. Never seen him.”
“Impossible. Think, Miss Carmichael. Bad blind date, run-in at a party, on the set of a movie? He can’t be some rando creeper. He’s too invested for it to be a stranger. In my experience, spur of the moment stalkers don’t wait. No, this is someone close and has harbored his feelings far too long. His recent contact says he’s done waiting. I’ll take this to your building, see if anyone remembers him, and to the lot where your brother is working, while my office runs it through our database. I’ll be in touch.”
Dumbfounded, I sit staring at the drawing. Clutching my phone, I run the past decade through my head. If I had Sammy’s photographic mind, I’d flip through it like a police lineup, but I’m lucky if I remember what I did an hour ago.
“Miss Preslee?” A heavy accented voice calls, causing my heart to jump to my throat. My phone drops to the mattress as my eyes blink up to meet the warmest, sweetest brown orbs.
“Rosa?” I whisper bounding off the bed, running to her waiting arms. A little shorter than me, Nona’s house manager engulfs me in a bone-crushing embrace. The smell of flour and sugar takes me back to the days I helped her cook and the nights she comforted me.
When we first moved to Kentucky, Nona sent Rosa to help us settle. She’s been with Gayle for decades and she’s the only employee my grandmother hasn’t sent running. For the first year we lived here, I swore the place was haunted. Creaking floors, spooky old portraits, and too many unexplained noises fueled my fascination with the paranormal.
When you’re a terrified ten-year-old in a home as old as the Civil War and scared; who ya gonna call when you want to catch ghosts? Egon, Peter, Ray, and Winston.
Don’t judge me. It was them or the Power Rangers. I needed more protection than teens in masks with cheesy robots. Hendrix and I made some kick-ass proton packs and specter traps. A few years later I fell in love with Buffy, and in high school the Winchester brothers stole my heart. All superb monster fighters, who’d exorcise the demons in the manor.
Rosa Hernandez is a take no shit woman who immigrated here from Mexico at twenty. Her accent is still heavy and her cooking kept my thighs touching. We received weekly boxes from Rosa full of our favorite meals. A welcome change from Vivianne’s vegan dishes.
“You eat,” Rosa orders, handing me a plate teeming with tamales, rice, and beans. My stomach groans in appreciation. She offers me a warm smile before turning to leave.
Five
Preslee
This house still creeps me the fuck out. There, I admit it.
Branches scratched at the windows mimicking the claws of beast trying to slice through the glass, wind howled with the high pitch of a moaning ghost, and the simulated thump of footsteps on the hardwood floors from…well, who the hell knows? Never could figure out why this big-ass place, which should’ve finished settling years ago, still shifts and groans. Add all this to the stress of my mystery stalker and I didn’t sleep a wink.
There were many nights Hendrix, Vivianne, and I rode out the sounds of the plantation huddled in a lump on the old, crushed red velvet couch. No matter how many paranormal shows I immerse myself in to prove there are no ghosts; here it is, still terrifying.
Sluggish and sleep deprived, I drag myself to the kitchen chasing the aroma of coffee and bacon. Rosa’s strong freshly ground brew acts as metaphoric toothpicks to prop open my eyelids. After a quick shower, I dress in my thickest leggings and an oversized hoodie with the image of the last movie I worked on. It’s still freezing cold outside, so I dig a puffy coat out of the hall closet and find some old boots I wore in high school. Nona and Rosa already left for the morning gossip session at the local beauty parlor.
The shopping district in Seven Mile Forge is seven miles on one road, thus where the name came from. All the historic buildings sit butted next to each other. Years spent in a large urban area, I’d forgotten how small my hometown is. Thank goodness Rosa brews a stellar cup of dark roast because Starbucks withdrawal is real.
Yeti travel mug glued to my palm, the dinging of the bell over the door of New Again welcomes me. The smell of the past warms my insides. An odd combination of dust, must, and floral perfume reels me back to the first time I entered Dotty’s store.
∞∞∞
A new town, school, and home spiraled me in a depressed upheaval, but my brother was suffering more so I hid behind a smile. We’d been in Seven Mile for four weeks and Hendrix was doing better, but still as anxious as a long-tailed cat in a room of rocking chairs.
Yep, I used that analogy. In the South for a month and already embracing my hillbilly roots.
After several international phone conferences, our parents and Viv decided Hendrix wouldn’t start the fifth grade with me. He was legions ahead of me in the smarts department, but we always studied together. Public school would devour my brother, so Nona Gayle agreed to front the bill for private homeschooling.
I’d seen some kids around town and unless I twisted myself inside out, I’d never fit in so it was time to embrace my weird. Among the strange double-duty businesses along the main drag, Dot’s New Again drew me in with the promise of vintage retail therapy.
Retro tees, shredded jeans and shorts, and bangle bracelets helped create my style. The eighties were my jam. Screw the crinolines and lacy dresses. I embraced the age of big hair and blue eye shadow.
The first day of school I felt lost without my twin at my side, but I kept my spine straight and my attitude sassy. These Barbie doll clones wouldn’t make me sweat. I glommed onto Samantha Gentry faster than Buffy stakes a vampire. She and Mazric became my tribe. Sam’s personality reminded me of my brother, easing my guilt for leaving him behind. We soon turned into the four musketeers.
At the end of sixth grade Joey switched sides, and in high school after Sammy Lee joined Hendrix in private tutoring heaven, Dallas Evans became my in-school gal pal.
∞∞∞
Lost in nostalgia, approaching shuffling feet pull me back to the present. Dotty appears from the back room. Her permed hair poofs around her head and big fly-eye glasses perch on her nose. Dressed in a floor-length, brown polyester skirt paired with a white, pleated button-down—with pearl fasteners cinching the high collar—and a yellow threadbare cardigan hanging on her shoulders, she waddles forward. Gray streaks highlighting her tight coif are the only sign she’s aged since I was last here.
“Figured you would've stormed in here the second you realized Gayle disposed of your things.” She swamps me in a bearish hug. “Welcome home, Kid.”
Her gardenia scent, which always reminded me of a funeral home, fills my nose and I almost lose my composure. Dot’s was my escape. I spent hours within these walls, digging through castoff items no one wanted. Found some great treasures among others’ trash. My favorites were concert T-shirts, slogan sweatshirts, and the more holes in a pair of jeans the more I wanted them. I once found fifty bucks hidden in a bodice ripper romance novel. Dotty and I split the dough and it started my secret obsession with sexy reading. Discovering a new book boyfriend each week helped keep me somewhat sane these last few years. Dating whilst a stalker haunts your every move is careless. After the first handful of years, staying inside became my norm.
“Let me look at you.” She backs away twirling her finger, urging me to spin. Since I spend my days layering makeup on celebrities, most time my face is free of product. Late nights and early casting calls twist my sleep patt
ern. Unable to find a treatment, I created a cream to remove the dark rings and bags under my eyes. Another bonus to returning home is I hope Sammy Lee will help with the formulation and in approving it for distribution.
She surveys me from head to toe, eyes narrowing to slits at my now auburn locks and brown contacts. Detective Highland suggested changing my appearance. He advised I do it during my travel. I departed LA blonde and blue-eyed but arrived in SMF different. Most times my eyes stay blue because I wear my glasses, but with lenses I’m positively plain.
On the first leg of my trip home, Detective Highland schooled me on how to use a Where’s Waldo tactic. I found a hotel willing to help me start in one room but leave from another. An old place with tunnels behind the walls, accessible from random rooms. At the state line, the detective passed me a burner phone set up with my numbers but no tracking, two boxes of hair dye, and he brought the colored contacts. I use my makeup kit to add a prosthetic nose and contoured my face into an unfamiliar shape. If my mystery stalker saw me enter for my overnight stay, he never watched me leave. We even switched my rental car. It was all very Cloak and Dagger.
As I traveled the miles, inching closer to home, exhaustion dried my contacts and the layers on my face itched. So I traded out the lenses for my glasses and shed the prosthetic additions.
I can make myself unrecognizable to even my family if I hide the multicolor-tipped, long pale locks I pride myself on keeping vibrant, my deep sea-blue eyes, and incorporate my cosmetology knowledge. I opted for only the drab contacts today, but Dotty is spot-on in her assessment. Donning a black hoodie and gray pants, I blend with the dreary scenery.
“Child, you sat high on that throne of unique, daring anyone to challenge your style. Did the posh Californ-i-a life ruin you?” Her thick Kentucky accent catches on the state name and the reality of truly being home flips my insides.
“I missed you, Dot.” I pull her in for another squeeze, ignoring her question. She holds me, patting a loving hand between my shoulders. Tears clog my throat but I choke them down because if I start, I’ll fall apart.
She releases me, tsking once more at my hair as we walk toward the back room. The rainbow zebra pattern of my bed set catches my eye first, followed by the stacked pile of posters.
“You’re lucky I love ya, Preslee-Girl, and that tiny spitfire woman with your nona insisted I hang on to these for a few days. A man came in yesterday offering a ton of money for this crap.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. These items mean the world to me. I adore my Ghostbusters, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Supernatural posters but they’re worth nothing more than my sentimental value. My eclectic array of compact discs, collection of VHS tapes and DVD’s, stuffed animals, books, and journals are treasures to me. Why would someone offer any more than garage sale prices for my things?
Unless.
“Dotty.” I pull the sketch from my purse; glad I stuck in there. “Was this the man?” The thick canvas paper trembles in my shaking hand.
“Nah. He was younger, which is why his interest in these old things stood out. And the amount of money he offered was tough to turn down.” She taps a finger on her bottom lip. “Ya know what? Chief Holmes demanded I install these newfangled cameras when I started offering people the opportunity to pawn their belongings. I bet I caught him on video.”
Chief Holmes? Josiah Holmes is the police chief? My Joey? What the what? This is some Twilight Zone shit. Joey had the backbone of a yellow-bellied cad. A pushover cop…sure…but running the department is too much for my brain to compute.
Lost in my musing, I snap out of it realizing Dotty pulled me to another room with a lone computer and router. She curses, slamming the mouse on the desk, complaining about never understanding how to work this confounded google box.
I lay a hand over hers. “Here, Dotty. Let me.” The setup is simple. Once a day the system downloads twenty-four hours’ worth of footage to individual folders labeling each with the date. The screen is full but only one interests me. I click the file for the previous day. “Do you remember what time he was here?” I ask.
“Hmmm.” She taps her foot, ticking off the day’s events on her fingers. “Old man Brisbee brought in some coins. Stupid oaf wanted drinking money, but silver from 1980 ain’t worth anything. Asia DeMarco dropped off some of her clothes to sell on consignment, and Mazilynn Vortex told me all about how my displays were wrong. That girl is too much like her mama.”
She chuckles to herself and on any other day I’d love to listen to her ramble, but my patience is at its end. I bite my lip, waiting because Dot is too nice to suffer my wrath.
“Your nona’s friend stopped in to make sure I kept your things. Nice woman brought me the yummiest pan of enchiladas.”
My heart warms over Rosa’s thoughtfulness but my leg bounces with anxious energy, hoping she’s rambling close to the information I seek.
“He came in as she was leaving. Around two, I guess. Had a mouthful when he made his offer. Damn near choked to death.”
I fast forward and though she continues to babble, my mind zeros in on the video footage. I see the man and Dotty is right, he’s nowhere close to the guy in my drawing. He’s got a full head of black hair, flopped on his forehead, touching the edge of a pair of aviator glasses, which hide his eyes. A square clean-shaven jaw ticks the more Dotty refuses him. There’s no sound, but his body language speaks volumes. His eyes ping-pong from my stack in the back room to the front door, and I can see his nervous energy with every foot shift.
Dotty doesn’t own a printer, so I take a screenshot of his face to send to Detective Highland. Perhaps he is merely an avid retro enthusiast. If I saw a load of these items, I would pester Dotty until she sold me what I wanted.
“It was hard to say no to the ten grand he offered.”
My body freezes solid with only my saucer-wide eyes moving to stare up at her, unblinking. “What?” I croak.
“Ten thousand smackers. I wasn’t joking when I said you’re lucky I love you.”
Fear ices my veins as my shaking finger clicks the open window closed. Any hope for this occurrence to be random dies. This man wanted my useless memorabilia and was willing to spend an exuberant amount of money to acquire it.
Two unfamiliar men. Neither recognizable. What’s the link?
Me.
I thank her and rush to load my belongings in the car, needing the comfort and safety of the plantation to pick apart my scattered thoughts.
Six
Joey
I watch her enter New Again. Her auburn hair shines under the low sitting winter sun. Can’t say I’m fond of the color, but the sight of her has me scalding my tongue on a too hot chug of coffee.
I’m avoiding the station by caffeinating at Jonesy’s Junction, located across the street from the secondhand store. A good night’s rest opened my eyes. Old Buford would hate the way I’m sinking his ship. Though seeing Preslee Carmichael isn’t helping me implement my attitude adjustment. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t enjoy the curve of her ass in those tight stretchy pants. The softness of her skin, her panting breaths as my unskilled fingers attempted to pleasure her, and the memory of the mint scent of her hair makes my cock twitch.
“What’s snaking ya out there, Chief?”
Coffee spews from my lips as Creeden Jones slips in the booth across from me, his eyes staring out the window. Creeden and his folks moved to Seven Mile when I was in the seventh grade. They opened Jonesy’s their first year here and he’s a constant friendly face. A few grades ahead of me, he always preferred to hang off the periphery of our gang, but he’s a nice enough guy.
“Just letting my mind wander,” I lie, returning my stare to my cup.
“So you’re not staring at Dot’s waiting for Preslee to reappear?” He smirks.
I scoff at his cocked eyebrow, keeping my expression impassive. “Who?”
“Man.” He shakes his head. “Heard you already had a run-n with her, so don
’t play dumb.”
Can’t fart in this town without everyone knowing the duration, strength, and stink before it finishes leaving your ass. It’s a nasty analogy I wish weren’t true, but know-it-all busybodies are all part of the tiny town charm.
When Preslee and Mazric moved, I hung out with Sammy the first few weeks, until she fled into hiding because she was pregnant with Mazric’s daughter and didn’t want anyone to know.
After too many inebriated staggers into Jonesy’s for sobering coffee, Creeden became a good friend.
The gossips gobbled up the mystery of Samantha Gentry’s baby daddy. When the news broke on it being Hendrix Carmichael, they were all shocked. Association with Sam turned taboo until Mazzy Jae wrapped the town around her little finger.
The whole Sam and Hendrix debacle was utter bullshit because even though he crushed on her, he held too much respect for Mazric. Then when Mazzy was born without an ounce of Carmichael and whole lot of Vortex, I couldn’t believe the town continued to buy her story.
“Remember,” Creeden cocks a brow, “I was the one who listened to you salt your beer with tears every time we hung out.”
I flip him off.
He shakes his head, giving me downturned, you’re full of shit eyes and whatever thinned lips. His palm slaps the table before he jumps from his seat. “Don’t let her pull you back to your dismal place.”
Movement across the street catches in my periphery. Preslee stumbles out of New Again lugging a vast box. People walk past, but no one offers to help. I see the patch of ice at the same time her foot meets it. The cardboard tumbles to the ground, her arms windmill, and pure terror twists her face, but she steadies herself and reclaims her package.
“Fuck,” I grumble throwing a few bills on the table before jogging out the door, ignoring Creeden’s shaking head and knowing chuckle.