by Angie Martin
That thing had been nothing but trouble since her husband George brought it in out of the cold one night, just a few weeks before he passed away. George had been soft in the heart, and all he received in return was misery. He’d been gone now six months now, but that mangy thing he paid so much attention to wouldn’t be bothered to just go away on its own. She’d left it outside, only to find it had weaseled its way back in. She’d tried to give it away, but no one would take it.
It was no wonder that thing caused her so much grief. George had been a pain in her backside for the duration of their marriage as well. Always so needy and whiny, never able to think for himself. Couldn’t stand up to anyone pushing him down, the spineless loser. If she hadn’t married him out of misguided teenage rebellion to get back at her parents, she would have soon realized he wasn’t the one for her. Thankfully, they had no children to carry on his undesirable traits.
Well, she’d managed to get rid of George, and that ridiculous critter had finally met the same fate. The rest of her years could be spent in peace.
Pearl closed her eyes and laid her head back against the top of her new recliner, part of the living room set she invested in last week. The never-ending renovations started four months ago, when she received the first of George’s life insurance payouts. Since then, she splurged in all new furniture for every room in the house, her bathroom had been revamped, and the kitchen improvements were slated to commence next week. Before she was done, George’s existence would be wiped away from the home, from her life. All those miserable years of her life gone, forever.
The sense of someone in the room with her caused Pearl to open her eyes, but the living room was just as empty as when she dozed off. An infomercial for some newfangled exercise machine had taken over the television screen, and she glanced at the clock to see she had unintentionally slept half the night away.
Pearl wiped the sleep from the corner of her eyes and cleared the grogginess from her throat. It was no good falling asleep in her chair, as comfortable as it may be. True beauty sleep only came in the form of her ten-thousand-dollar mattress. She smiled at the idea that George would have abhorred the bed, giving one of his long-winded speeches about a penny saved and all that nonsense. He never knew the joys of self-indulgence. But, she surmised that was why his health failed him at only 73 years of age.
After making her way back to her bedroom, she slipped into a simple, silky nightgown. In her bathroom, she washed her face in the marble sink, then applied her expensive night cream. She pulled her hair out of its tight bun and brushed the long strands of blonde, which reached past her shoulder blades. She refused to acknowledge her age and the gray taking over her previously luscious locks, so a regular trip to Mary at the beauty salon was a must. Every two weeks to apply new color and trim off the ends as needed.
She climbed into bed and slid under the covers. Her body twisted and shifted around until she found the perfect sleeping position on her right side. Her eyelids gave into fatigue, and she drifted off toward a dream.
A soft creak in the floor beside her bed roused her before she fully fell asleep. Again, the familiar feeling of not being alone gripped her, and the hair on her arms prickled in the suddenly chilled room. Her limbs froze at the movement on the mattress, as if someone climbed into the empty side of the bed. She clenched the blanket in her fists, bringing it up to her chin. A sigh from behind her chilled its way through her frail bones.
I’m dreaming, she thought. The only plausible explanation for what she experienced. No one was in her home; therefore, no one could have climbed into her bed. The word “senility” flitted in her brain. The curse ran in her family, with her mother and grandmother both suffering later in life. But, her mind was sharp, forceful. Not at all susceptible to something designed for the weak.
No, dreaming was the only answer. Her silly fear manifested in a realistic way, but she had now woken up. The remnants of the nightmare would soon fade into nothingness, to be forever forgotten.
She rolled over to her left side, to prove to herself it had only been a dream. George’s emaciated face, wrinkled and ashen, stared back at her. Her eyes widened, and she choked on a gasp.
“This mattress is so uncomfortable,” he said. “Our old one was much better.”
A strained whine escaped her throat. She blinked several times, but he didn’t disappear.
“$10,000, Pearl? Why would you spend so much?”
She stammered and stuttered, but nothing came out.
His eyes filled with black, and a deep, raspy voice exited him, but his mouth did not move. “Answer me!”
“I… I just… I wanted to enjoy myself for once!”
“No,” he said, his lips once again animated. “You’re greedy. You’ve always been greedy. Your heart is filled with evil and hate. You danced when I died, and you couldn’t wait to get rid of my cat.”
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry George!”
A shrieking meow stopped her cold. A paw manifested on George’s arm, and the cat – that damned cat – climbed over his body. It peered down at her, its eyes as black as George’s.
“George, I’m sorry!” Pearl blathered, fearful tears dripping from her eyes. “I’m so sorry!”
He shot his head forward, the decay on his breath curdling her stomach. “Tell that to Fluffy!”
The cat hissed, black blood oozing from its mouth. It leapt on her face, cutting her scream short.
The First Step
(with Marisa Oldham)
Chapter One
His eyes are the only thing I look forward to seeing every week.
Peering into Wyatt Lane’s bright, green eyes from behind my half-open front door, my insides twist with excitement. Well, the eyes and his gorgeous smile. My gaze falls on his defined biceps and muscular forearms holding tight to bags of groceries.
“Hi,” I coo with a rush of breath. Nerves tense my stomach into knots as I peek behind his tall frame and inspect my front yard. “Come in.” I wave as I slip behind the door.
As soon as Wyatt steps foot in the house, I close the door and lock all three deadbolts. Pressing numbers on a keypad, I set the security alarm.
“How are you today, Adele?” Wyatt asks.
“A little tired, but I’m okay,” I say, leading him to the kitchen.
“We’re all out of those coconut cookies you like.” Wyatt places the bags on a small, wooden table located in the corner of my tiny kitchen.
Tucking my straight, mousy, brown hair behind my left ear, my cheeks warm when he turns, wearing a sly grin. “Oh, umm, that’s fine. I still have half a box left from last week.” Reaching inside a cloth bag, I pull out a half gallon of milk and take it to the refrigerator. “How’s your day? Are you busy at work?”
“It’s going great. You’re my last delivery.”
“So…” A shy smile touches my lips. “You can stay a while?”
Moving close to me, Wyatt’s tongue whisks across his lower lip, causing my breath to catch in my throat.
“I’d love to. I just so happened to rent a couple movies from Redbox before I left. I could grab one for us to check out.” Chestnut bangs fall over one of his sparkling, emerald eyes, and he seems inclined to leave them there.
The thud in my heart from my extreme attraction for him reminds me of the carefree moments of a long gone normal life, which is only a flash of memories now. A time when my biggest worry was if my skirt matched my top or if my classmates would notice the pimple on my usually clear, porcelain skin. An existence that wasn’t filled with terror, constantly medicating myself, and where my most perplexing problems consisted of typical teenage drama.
“So, should I grab the movies?” Wyatt asks, peering up with coaxing eyes. “I stayed away from anything resembling a horror movie this time, just like you asked. One of them might even have some romance in it,” he adds with a wink.
Shyness heats my cheeks as I nod.
Needing the security of knowing the door is locked once Wyat
t steps back outside, I follow him to the front door. As soon as he slips through the door, I slam it shut and deadbolt the locks. I press my back against the door and wait for the knock that signals his return. I usher him in with a sense of panic racing through me as the sun eclipses the foyer.
“It’s okay, you know,” he says without a hint of judgment, that pity tone others sometimes bathe me in, making me feel every bit of the crazy I am. “I’m here. I’ll protect you.”
I smile. “Thanks. Have a seat. Do you want anything to snack on during the movie?”
“I think I brought you some popcorn last week, right?”
“Ahh, yeah, you did. It’s good, too. Charlie and I had some when she stopped by to watch a movie.”
“How’s your sister?”
“You know Charlie. She’s living it up and having a blast in college.”
“That’s great to hear.”
After microwaving our snack, I return to the living room to find Wyatt relaxed into the large pillows on my cream-colored sofa. Over the past four years, he’s been one of my sole connections to the terrifying world outside of the house I’ve barricaded myself in.
Sitting, I hand him a bowl overflowing with buttery, salted popcorn.
“You know, movie theater popcorn is so much better than this microwave crap. If you’d only say yes to going on a date with me, then we could have that instead of this.”
My hands shake as my mind evokes fantasies of leaving the safety of my home and venturing out into the world with Wyatt. “You know I can’t leave.” My voice fades when shame over my condition crawls into my mind.
“I understand your fear, but I promise you I’d take care of you. I know what happened to you was horrible, and I get why you’d be afraid of re-entering the real world, but you seriously can’t live the rest of your life in this old house. Let me take you out. Let me show you a good time. I want nothing more than to date you.”
“I’m just not ready. Besides… this is kinda like a date, right?”
“It is, but I would like to take you out for a meal… you know, a real date.”
“I like our fake dates.” I smile and hope he lets the subject go.
He locks me with his eyes, and my heart skips a beat. “I’m not saying that I don’t. I enjoy every moment I get to be near you, but I want to help you.”
Desiring to avoid the path the conversation takes, I grab the remote and flip the TV on. “What movie did you put in?” I ask hesitantly. Though he said it had nothing to do with horror, I still worry something might trigger me.
“It’s an action adventure.”
I blow out my sigh as silent as I can, so as not to let him know I doubted him. Resting against the back of the couch, I relax and let the stressful idea of leaving my house fall away.
After the movie, Wyatt grabs the popcorn bowl and heads for the kitchen. Already missing the comfort that being near him brings, I rise from the couch and follow him. “Do you have to go?”
He leans against the edge of the counter and smiles. “I wish I didn’t have to, but yeah, I have to study for an exam. I probably shouldn’t have stayed for a movie, but I like spending time with you.”
Tugging my bottom lip between my teeth, I grin. “I like it, too.”
Pushing off the counter, Wyatt closes in. My stomach somersaults with each step he takes. He hooks his index finger under my chin, drawing my eyes up to meet his. “Come out on a date with me Friday, Adele. We’ll go somewhere public. Somewhere safe. No dark movie theater.”
Avoiding his gaze, I focus on the laminate tiles beneath our feet. “I can’t.”
“Okay… I’ll stop hounding you tonight, but I can’t promise I won’t ask again tomorrow. I’d better get going.”
“Do you really have to leave?”
Cupping my face in his palm, he brushes his thumb across my cheek. “I do, doll. My Abnormal Psychology text is calling.” He lets me go and points a finger at me. “Chapters 10-14.”
Walking Wyatt to the front door, I smile despite the fear tangling in my gut over the thought of being alone again. Whenever he spends time with me, I almost forget the terror that consumes my daily existence. I lift my finger and press numbers into the pad, turning off the security system. With a trembling hand, I unlock each of my three deadbolts. Turning, I shoot a small grin his direction.
“I’ll call you tomorrow?” he asks.
“That would be great,” I say, as butterflies race in my tummy.
Wyatt grips both of my shoulders, bringing my forehead to his lips. Pressing them lightly against my skin, he pecks me before releasing me and heading out the door. I don’t linger in the doorframe to watch him strut down the concrete walkway, but instead, I slam the door shut before rushing to lock it and setting the alarm.
I kick off my slippers in the foyer. Bending over to straighten them up, I catch sight of the cherry red polish on my toenails. That afternoon, I had the idea to paint my toes for the first time in several years, with the idea of going barefoot when Wyatt came over. I wanted to try to appeal to him as a woman, despite my self-esteem having gone through a crisscross shredder before being thrown into a wood chipper years ago. As soon as my doorbell rang, however, I shoved my feet into the slippers, scared that he would reject me. Now, I wish I had left my toes bare for him.
Sighing, I move back into the living room to shut off the television. The 1841 home, which once belonged to my great grandmother and was eventually passed down to me, echoes in an eerie silence without his warm voice and the sounds of the movie. Outside, Wyatt’s Mustang roars as the engine starts, and loneliness floods my core, along with the anxiety of being alone.
Needing to calm my nerves, I go about my nightly routine of checking the locks on all the windows. I pause at the last one, taking my time to stare out at the streetlights. There is a world outside, one I can see through the curtains, one I can smell through an open window. But, I can never do more than that. I can’t take that first step to living my life, the one I left behind four years earlier.
I drag myself away from my view of freedom to retreat further into my jail cell, back to my bedroom. Before I step into the hallway, I run my eyes over the deadbolts on the front door, one last time, and then head into the kitchen to double-check the locks on the only other door to the outside world that terrifies me. Flicking on the light in the kitchen, my eyes dart to the paint-chipped, time-worn door.
A loud clatter coming from the backyard freezes my muscles. My pulse quickens and matches the rhythm of my pounding heart. The kitchen expands in my peripheral vision and a vignette effect shades the room. Another crash intensifies my anxiety and spirals my fear out of control. As sure as blood flows through my veins, fear gushes through them as well. My knees hit the ceramic floor tiles, and I roll into the fetal position as my head pounds with the possibilities of who or what could be only 32 inches away on the other side of the backdoor.
Unable to move, but willing myself to, tears prick the corners of my eyes. Get up! Get up now! my minds screams. I listen as silence once again consumes the air I gasp. I gather the courage to sit up, but as soon as I am upright, the attack seizes me again. Clapping my hands over my ears, I try to block out the maniacal, high-pitched laugh that bounces off each of the four walls closing in around me. Visions of sharp, pointed, yellowed teeth biting at air invade my mind, as I rock back and forth, cradling myself in my arms.
I can’t hide and do nothing while someone breaks in my home. Crawling on all fours, I make my way to the kitchen table and reach on top, searching for my cell phone. Patting the wooden surface, my fingers make out the familiar shape. Grabbing it, I tuck my body under the table and hit the top button on my favorites contact list.
“Heya.”
“Charlie, I need you to come home! Now!” The sigh on the other end of the line fills my heart with dread. “Please, Charlie. Please come now.”
“Adele, I’m studying.”
“There’s… someone… outside.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“No! I heard someone. You have to come now.”
“We talked about this. I can’t just drop everything and come running every time you freak out, Dell. You’ve got to try and get past this. Did you take your meds?”
“Charlie, please. I’m begging you.”
“Call Aubrie. It’s her job to rush to your aide when you have breakdowns.”
“Charlie!” I appeal to my younger sister. “There’s someone outside. It’ll take you ten minutes to get here.”
“Call your therapist. Or, call the police and get slapped with misuse of the 911 system again. I don’t care what you do, but I gotta go.”
“Don’t do this to me!”
The sound of my own frantic breaths is all I can hear for a long moment. My panic deepens. Whoever is outside could come in at any time, and my sister doesn’t seem to care if I live or die.
“How about this?” she finally asks. “I’ll call Aubrie for you. If she doesn’t show up in 15 minutes, then call me back and maybe I’ll come over.”
“Please, please, please, don’t do this.”
“It’s called tough love. I love you, but I’m hanging up now.”
In a hushed, frantic whisper, I give one last plea. “Please…”
Three beeps signal that my sister hung up, and a shockwave of fright shudders through my body. Staring at the home screen on my phone, disbelief races through my mind. How could she do this to me? For a moment, I contemplate calling Charlie back and begging again, but I switch gears and instead focus on honing in on every noise around me.
Tears cloud my eyes when I peer from under the table and my eyes land on the doorknob. I swear it turns from side-to-side, and I whimper while trying to catch my breath. When a soft ringtone plays on my phone, I jump, hitting my head on the bottom of the table. I press the green “accept” button, but am too terrified to speak.
“Adele?” Aubrie’s usually pleasant voice has notes of tiredness laced in the worrisome tone. “It’s Aubrie. Charlie called and said you’re experiencing an episode?”