The Color of Fear

by Billy Phillips

  If he hated her now for bailing on him, so be it.

  Caitlin paused. Then she typed on her phone. She exhaled and then she hit Send.

  On my way! B there soon.

  Without allowing a second for grim thoughts to sabotage her bold decision, she beelined to her closet, looking for a change of clothes. Am I not adventurous?

  Caitlin preferred genderless fashion so she slid on a pair of her most comfortable jeans, a cozy, oversize, college-boy-style sweater, and lace-up combat boots. As she wrapped a scarf around her neck, she heard a rattling sound. Something had just spilled on the closet floor.

  “More garbanzo beans?” Caitlin muttered nervously as she leaned down to pick up a few. She slipped them into the pocket of her jeans so she could show them to Jack.

  “Leaving now!” she called out to her dad as she headed for flat’s front door.

  Harold Fletcher met her by the door. “Wait, I’ll walk you over to the school.”

  Caitlin rolled her eyes. “Please, Dad. I’ll look like a dork arriving with my father. Besides, I’m meeting some friends downstairs.”

  He chewed his lip. “What time will you be home?”

  “Around ten-thirty.”

  “I’d rather you be home by ten. And what about your costume?”

  Think fast.

  “It’s … at school. I’ll put it on in the girls’ locker room.”

  He sighed. “Okay. But call me when you get there. And call me before you leave to come home. And please be careful.”

  “I’m always careful,” Caitlin said as she waved goodbye. With a writhing knot in her stomach, she plodded down the hall toward the elevator, turned the corner … and came face to face with Natalie.

  How did that little faker get past Dad?

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Natalie demanded. She was still dressed in her chili pepper costume with the yellow raincoat stretched over it. Her camera hung in its case around her neck.

  “To the dance—and it’s none of your business!”

  “Bollocks. You’re off to the graveyard. I’m coming.”

  Caitlin glared. “Not gonna happen! Don’t even think about it. And if you don’t go back into the apartment right now, I’m calling Dad. Then we can both stay at home, and you’ll wreck it for both of us.”

  Natalie clenched her jaw as the elevator door opened. Inside stood a male Queen Elizabeth and a very pretty vampire with fake fangs. Caitlin joined them and pressed L for lobby.

  “Fine.” Natalie crossed her arms in a huff.

  “And next time don’t try to freak me out by planting those dumb garbanzo beans in my closet.”

  Queen Elizabeth’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

  The elevator door began to close. Natalie looked dumbfounded.

  Genuinely dumbfounded.

  If it wasn’t her … ?

  One, two, three, four.

  Caitlin counted the corners of the elevator’s ceiling before exiting it and ambling out the front door of her apartment complex.

  A curious feeling overcame her as she stepped out into the night and began the walk to Waterloo station.

  She felt as though she was following in her own footsteps, like she was stepping into footprints in the sand. And for the briefest of moments, she didn’t feel afraid.

  The breath of night was cold and damp against Caitlin’s cheeks. She tucked her hands under her armpits and strode briskly along the gleaming, wet streets of Central London.

  The atmosphere was charged with Halloween magic. Brooding shadows waited around every corner. Clouds began to shroud a treacherous sky.

  On the next block, five drunk and rowdy guys masquerading as bikers and werewolves reveled in the street, brandishing beer bottles and lit cigarettes. They scoped her out as she strode by on the sidewalk, whistling and shouting tasteless remarks.

  Trying not to appear bothered, Caitlin casually picked up her pace. Soon she was scampering as fast as she could toward Waterloo station.

  Before long she reached a street that was humming with pedestrians and busy shops.

  The semicircular Victory Arch entrance to Waterloo station soon came into view.

  She darted towards the white-gray stone structure.

  When she arrived at the station, Caitlin trotted up the stairs and entered the main concourse. She found Waterloo station’s famous four-face clock hanging from the glass atrium roof. It read 6:31 p.m. She scurried to the departures board. Her train was due to leave at 6:40 p.m. She bought a ticket and boarded a half-full train bound for Guildford.

  After the train departed the station, Caitlin pulled out her phone and did a Google search for Mount Cemetery. She found a map. Located Dodgson’s grave. Marked it. Then she mapped out a route from the Guildford train station to Mount Cemetery. It would be about a fourteen-minute walk. Not too bad.

  Caitlin exhaled a big breath, sank into the warm seat and peered out the window. She focused her thoughts on Jack, on the delight she felt when he had asked to her to the masquerade ball. She’d never expected it. And then on Jack asking her—not Piper—to participate in this daring cemetery escapade. She even let herself imagine being more than friends with Jack, imagine it being more than her one-way crush. Suppose if, just maybe, he really did like her?

  Charcoal-colored storm clouds sparked with internal flashes of lightning outside her window, interrupting her thoughts.

  Caitlin bit her bottom lip.

  Her body sensed the vibration of the train riding the rails full tilt. They were long gone from the station. Traveling farther and farther from home. She was alone. Heading to that graveyard in … Guildford.

  Caitlin was suddenly thirteen again. It was one year ago.

  Her mouth dried up. Neck muscles tensed drum tight. She picked at a fingernail. Sometimes she would pick a nail till it bled because the shock of seeing her finger bleed took her mind off the breathless panic attack—the lesser of two evils.

  There were no paper bags on board this train. There was no getting off this train. And, as utterly foolish as she knew the thought was, she couldn’t help thinking that there was no magic wand to wave away the tide of anxiety rising in her chest.

  She became light-headed. Her breaths became shorter and faster and more irregular.

  She was seized by a sudden urge to flee this wretched train, to get back home at that very instant. To the safety and warmth of her bed.

  The train was cruelly indifferent to her horror: it hurtled onward like a bullet.

  She sat on her hands.

  Caitlin Fletcher was in the middle of a full-on panic attack. And there was no one to help her and nowhere to go.

  Caitlin was certain she was going to pass out any second. Then she remembered a technique she read about in a book on anxiety. Do the opposite of what your stress-fueled impulses are demanding.

  Caitlin did it. She held her breath. She did it in roaring defiance of a panic-stricken mind that screamed, Breathe, girl, breathe!

  If she listened to her irrational thoughts, they would control her. If she defied the urge to guzzle air by the gallon, her nervous system would eventually force her to sip oxygen. It would force her respiratory system to function in a calm, regulated manner. At least, that’s what was supposed to happen.

  After about twenty seconds of holding her breath, Caitlin’s mouth burst open with a slow, soothing exhalation. As she blew out the deep breath, she immediately felt a sense of calm. She held her breath again. She waited until her body compelled her to exhale. The calmness and depth of her breathing deepened deliciously. She was still shaky, but the insanity was passing. She had survived.

  After a few stops in the forty-two-minute ride, the train slowed and braked to a halt at the Guildford station.

  Although there were still quite a few passengers on board, only the oddest-looking of the bunch disembarked with Caitlin. One man in particular was rail thin, with an elongated neck, a protruding Adam’s apple, and oversize eyes. He reminded Caitlin of an
ostrich.

  She quickly made her way to a lonely sidewalk. Hulking tree branch shadows, cast by streetlamps, nodded at her as if they knew why she was there. She checked the map on her phone. Mount Cemetery was located atop a hill that overlooked the Guildford town center.

  Though it was damp outside, it wasn’t very cold. She checked her phone for the time: 7:22. She was late, but at least Jack would be there by now and she wouldn’t have to wait alone.

  Fallen autumn leaves littered the sidewalk, making it slippery.

  After she had gone just a few blocks along Wodeland Avenue, the street began to slope downhill. Thick trees lined both sides of the road. Caitlin then came to a crossroad.

  The street crossing Wodeland was called The Mount.

  She had forgotten whether she was supposed to make a right or left turn. She lifted up her phone to consult the map. From out of nowhere, a blue British Shorthair cat darted out from the shrubs. The cat shrieked as it ran right in front of her ankles, startling Caitlin and causing her to drop her phone.

  At least it wasn’t a black cat.

  Caitlin retrieved her cell from the sidewalk. Her shoulders slumped. The map was gone. And she no longer had a signal to download another one.

  The cat meowed and scurried off to Caitlin’s right, disappearing into the dark on The Mount. Caitlin continued on in the same direction.

  The Mount was a long and extremely narrow road that ascended to the top of the city of Guildford. Clumps of yellow-and-brown leaves littered the pavement. Caitlin wished there were more streetlamps.

  Lining the road to Caitlin’s right were detached and semidetached Victorian brick houses clumped together tightly on a rise.

  Jack-o’-lanterns lit the sloped landscape.

  The pumpkins were perched on garage rooftops, brick gateposts, and on the bottom steps that led up to the houses.

  A light drizzle began to fall.

  She was anxious to find Jack.

  She was soon short of breath—not from anxiety this time, but from the steep trek up The Mount.

  The last flickers of candlelight seemed to be dying in the pumpkins as she reached the halfway point up the hill. After a few more minutes of climbing, Caitlin arrived at her destination.

  On her left stood its gates. Somehow, she thought, they looked like they were expecting her.

  Mount Cemetery.

  The burial place of Charles Dodgson—aka Lewis Carroll.

  But there was no Jack waiting for her.

  A black, curving, wrought-iron gate guarded the cobblestone entryway to Mount Cemetery. Drizzle reflected off its gleaming black bars. The bolted gate was affixed to two red brick posts.

  Jack must’ve arrived early. He must be waiting for me at Dodgson’s gravesite.

  A sign on the gate read hours of operation: 8:00 a.m.—7:00 p.m. And while the cemetery itself was quite ancient, the lock on the gate was not. After she gave it a few hearty pulls, it was obvious to Caitlin that the gate wasn’t going to open until some gravedigger came to unlock it in the morning.

  How had Jack gotten in?

  Caitlin chewed the ends of her hair as she glanced around. The evening was hushed except for the soft sounds of raindrops spattering pavement and the faint hoot of an owl.

  She checked the time on her phone: 7:35 p.m.

  Jack might have thought she wasn’t going to show up!

  A sharp meow interrupted the quiet. The shorthaired blue cat appeared again. The sopping wet feline hopped atop the cobblestone wall and slid between the brick post and hedges, past the gate, and then jumped into the cemetery.

  Ever so clever idea, Caity-cat!

  Caitlin hoisted herself up the wall and stepped through the same narrow opening.

  She sat on her butt, then hopped down.

  She was in!

  Wide lawns that flanked both sides of a narrow road were dotted with gravestones and a scattering of trees.

  Caitlin checked her phone again.

  Five bars!

  She downloaded another map and searched for the location of Charles Dodgson’s burial site.

  As she walked the roadway toward Dodgson’s grave, she could swear she heard something out of the ordinary. Maybe not.

  Wait!

  She did hear something. Behind her. Footfalls.

  Did those sketchy thugs follow me? Was it Jack? It had to be Jack!

  Caitlin froze in her tracks. The crisp night air filled her lungs. She called out in a loud whisper, “Jack, is that you?”

  The response was a disturbing silence. Something was wrong here.

  Caitlin kept moving in the direction of the gravestones. A whining wind brushed the tree branches.

  Footsteps were still on her tail.

  Rain dripped into her eyes.

  Hold your breath, Caitlin. Wait for your body to force the air out of your lungs.

  Her sweater stuck to her back, itching her skin.

  She heard Natalie’s taunting voice in her mind: “Caity-cat, fraidy-cat!”

  Indignation gave her the strength to keep stepping forward into the looming darkness.

  Caitlin finally located the gravesite up ahead. The plot lay adjacent to a medieval brick chapel and directly beside a thick pine tree.

  Still no sign of Jack.

  At the foot of the grave was a small plaque identifying the renowned individual resting there: LEWIS CARROLL GRAVE.

  Caitlin approached the cross-shaped headstone timidly. She flipped her phone around so that her screen was now aimed away from her. It projected a soft glimmer. She cast the glow onto the base of the headstone. Warily, she kneeled in front of it and read:

  Rev. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson,

  (Lewis Carroll.)

  Fell Asleep Jan. 14. 1898.

  Aged 65 years.

  This is so creepy! But it is also sort of cool. I’m standing at the actual burial site of the literary genius who penned Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  Caitlin’s arms shivered.

  She checked the time. 7:40 p.m.

  Caitlin sent a text to Jack: I’m at the grave. Where r u?

  No response.

  Everything had become eerily silent. No footsteps. No wind. No hissing branches. Not a single sound. Caitlin clenched her fist around her phone.

  Better call Jack.

  As she lifted her finger to dial, she froze.

  A long, irregular shadow began creeping over her … slowly …

  She heard breathing. More footsteps. Then they stopped. Someone was now standing directly behind her casting that shadow.

  For some reason the garbanzo beans in her pocket came to mind. And the fingerprints on her window.

  Her windpipe constricted.

  She shot up and turned around, fully prepared to scream like a banshee and run like a deer if it wasn’t Jack standing there.

  Her eyes widened in total disbelief.

  Then her jaw dropped.

  She couldn’t scream.

  And her knees were locked.

  It wasn’t Jack.

  Jack sprinted into the Kingshire All Hallows Eve Masquerade Ball and began to look around, desperately searching for Caitlin.

  He was donning his Arthurian knight attire—fitted gray boots, narrow pants, silver-trimmed tunic, sword, and a chain-mail cowl. And though he looked quite majestic, adventurous, and definitely medieval, his face was a mask of concern.

  He had been stunned when he buzzed at Caitlin’s apartment and her father said she had already left for the ball.

  He wondered if she was bailing on him, or if she mistakenly thought they were supposed to meet at Kingshire?

  Jack scanned the crowd. All the faces were covered in masks or heavy makeup; it was nearly impossible to identify who she—or anyone, for that matter—was. And he had no idea what costume Caitlin was supposed to be wearing.

  A hand tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Greetings, chivalrous knight.”

  Jack turned. A very sexy female vampire s
tood there, blood dripping from her fangs. She was holding Jack’s mobile in her hand. Piper.

  “You left this at Penhaligon’s,” she said, batting her fake eyelashes. The tone of her voice radiated heat. “Now I’d like to collect my reward.”

  Jack took the phone, nodding his thanks. “Have you seen Caitlin?”

  Piper’s eyes widened innocently. “I thought she was coming with you?”

  Jack didn’t have time for Piper’s BS. He left her standing there as he waded into the sea of masked partygoers. He checked his mobile to see if Caitlin had called.

  Nothing.

  Then a new text message arrived.

  From Caitlin: I’m here at grave. Where r u?

  Jack’s heart skipped a beat.

  He glanced back at Piper. Her pale vampire face went a shade whiter as their eyes met. She promptly turned away and melted into the mob of masqueraders.

  Jack tore out of Kingshire, hell-bent and determined. He dashed toward Waterloo Station.

  He couldn’t believe what a cruel prank that was to play on Caitlin.

  When Caitlin gets to that tombstone … all by herself … Bloody hell, she’ll positively freak out.

  His legs pumped harder. He called Caitlin on his mobile as he raced through Central London. Voice mail.

  Jack quickened his pace.

  He was utterly grateful when he reached Waterloo station and saw that he was just in time to board a train bound for Guildford.

  He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

  The long, dark shadow that had crept over Caitlin was a whole lot larger than the small, bright, yellow-and-red figure who had cast it.

  “Perhaps there’s some adventure in you after all,” giggled the shadow.

  Natalie!

  She was still in her red chili pepper costume and yellow raincoat. Her wet red hair flowed like a frizzy lion’s mane.

  “What are you doing here?” Caitlin screamed. “Dad would freak if he knew you came all this way by yourself.”

  “You forgot to bring your birthday present,” she said.

  Her tablet!

  “Don’t worry; I have it,” Natalie said as she yanked it out from inside her coat. It was wrapped in pale-blue, plastic takeout bags. Caitlin was glad to have it, but she was upset that Natalie had tagged along and traveled to Guildford all alone at night. Nonetheless …