Enthrallment: (Enthrallment Series Book 1)

by Meg Evans

  I can’t stop pondering over the surreal scene I witnessed. I had a hunch that something peculiar was going on right under my nose from the moment when my chest started bothering me for the first time, weeks ago. It usually acts up when Dorian’s around.

  I shiver at the memory of his face when he found me on the second floor. He looked so dreadful, strange and inhuman. After all, our eyes are said to be the windows of our souls, but I couldn’t see anything in his then. Those black eyes were completely empty. Maybe I’m crazy to still interact with him out of my own free will after he told me that he had the intention of hurting me. I should run away from him, but he has me in the palm of his hand by having made me addicted to him. It’s happening. I got hooked like a fish, and now it’s up to Dorian when I’ll be pulled out of the water, and whether I’ll be set free again or left to suffocate.

  * * *

  I dash through the woods again. Surprisingly, I recognize these curved paths, wind-damaged trees leaning drunkenly against each other, and even the earthy smell of decomposing leaves. I’ve been here before. I swallow the sharp cold air while winding through the thicket. Something is different this time. I jerk to a halt. Sweat trails down my back. I hear the sounds of ravens approaching; an entire murder flies over my head, above the trees crowns, and forms a pitch-black cloud of wings.

  Something flits behind me, like a wild animal. I automatically wheel around, almost losing my balance. I hear it again, but this time on the other side. I shriek and look over my shoulder. I still can’t see anything. Something slides against my calf. I spring back and look down. The thick mist has enveloped my ankles so that I can’t see the ground. Whenever I think I know where the thing is, it moves somewhere else. Struggling to get away from it, I lose my balance and fall on the ground.

  I crawl to the nearby tree, lean against the trunk and quickly get up, using it as back support. I can’t lie down defenseless; I need to stay on my feet, scan the area regardless of the limited visibility.

  YOU’RE MINE…

  My ears are filled with a male voice. I glance left and right, but there’s no one next to me. I see only the thick mist swirling around me.

  I WILL TEAR IT TO PIECES. I WILL RIP IT APART.

  My legs get wobbly; my hands sweat.

  Who are you? I ask, but my voice doesn’t come out of my throat. Who are you?

  I finally notice him, far away, leaning against a tree.

  ZARA…

  Although he’s standing at least fifty yards away from me, I can clearly hear his voice whispering to me. It sounds familiar; I’ve heard it before. All of a sudden, I feel something moving on my body, like an invisible snake coiling around me. It slowly goes up, tightly squirming around my ankles, calves, thighs, stomach, chest. I’m trapped. Cold hands are wrapping around my throat, squeezing gently. The grip becomes stronger.

  YOU BELONG TO ME…

  The invisible, freezing hands squeeze my neck even more tightly. The obscure man in the distance remains unfazed, with his eyes fixed on me.

  Do you want me dead?! I cry in my head.

  When I begin losing my breath, I hear a scream coming out of the darkness. It’s a feminine voice, which rips through the air and echoes from the trees. She’s alternately sobbing and screaming bloodcurdlingly. She must be suffering some excruciating torture. I want to help her, but in my situation, I need to be rescued myself.

  Those hands are choking the life out of me. The grip is too tight.

  Let me go!

  I cough, kick, and try to yank away, but I’m tied to the tree. It’s too late.

  RUN AWAY IF YOU WANT TO SAVE YOUR LIFE, the man’s voice tells me, and I’m suddenly freed from the deadly grip.

  * * *

  I wake up screaming bloody murder. My forehead is covered in cold sweat. I pant, rubbing my neck. My chest feels tight and uncomfortable. I raise myself up on my elbows.

  “It was just a nightmare. Just a bad dream,” I say out loud. But it was so unbelievably realistic. I really felt the muddy ground under my soles and the cold air stabbing my lungs; I even remember pine needles scratching my arms. And the female voice… I really heard it. It wasn’t just a dream. She was going through hell, and it was not my imagination.

  It’s almost five-thirty in the morning. There’s no point in trying to fall back asleep because I have to get up soon anyway. Apparently, I didn’t wake anyone up with my scream because the hallway is barren. I tiptoe downstairs to make some coffee. The house is blissfully silent at this time. I know by heart the usual morning rituals of Maddie and Cynthia.

  The former sets her alarm at six-thirty, then spends at least half an hour readying herself. When she feels that she can finally present herself decently, she comes down for breakfast, which I’d rather call a morning snack. My aunt is up at six-fifteen. She begins every day with a cup of energizing black coffee.

  Since I woke up so early, I feel like life has slowed down a tad and I can actually enjoy it instead of rushing at a breakneck speed to leave the house. Sipping my delicious coffee, I rest my head on the back of the chair and sigh at the thought that here comes another day, over the course of which I’ll be immersed in Dorian’s world of questions, presumptions, and considerations. At the same time I’ll be forced to live in my normal reality—dealing with professors at the university, clients at Walgreens, and probably Rach, who will try to make me explain to her who the mysterious brunette was. I feel like going back to bed when I realize all this.

  I take another sip of coffee, which pours in a warm stream down my throat. That’s exactly what I need—caffeine. On the table by me sits a folded newspaper, which I’m guessing is the same one that Cynthia was reading last night when I came home. The whole front page displays the face of a girl that looks familiar. Nevertheless, even though I force my brain cells to an intense effort, I can’t recall who she is. I transfer my eyes to the headline. BREAKING NEWS: Another woman reported missing. It’s continued below in smaller letters: Local girl still missing after 5 days.

  Right away, I open the newspaper and look for the article to learn some more about the case. It’s not hard to find it; four pages are devoted to the missing girl. The same face that was looking at me from the front page is inside the newspaper, surrounded by a few more pictures. These are all photos from a family album. In one of them the girl is clad in a black graduation gown, holding a diploma, grinning. In another one she stands among a bunch of girls with a colorful drink, making a silly face at the camera. I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere before. Maybe at the university? Or at Walgreens? With every sentence of the article I read, my eyes widen.

  “The state Police in Salem are investigating the disappearance of twenty-eight-year-old Leslie Dean. The desperate mother of the girl, Alexandra Dean, reports that Leslie was last seen on Thursday evening, May 1st. ‘It’s totally unlike Leslie to go so long without any contact,’ says Gregory Dean, the father of the missing girl. Leslie’s family and friends are devastated. According to them, Leslie was not involved in any conflicts and did not belong to any group whose members might have had something to do with her disappearance. ‘She’s a responsible and lovely girl who’s never been interested in any sort of suspicious substances, groupings and places,’ adds Yvette Fisher, Leslie’s sister. The family and friends have united in a search for the missing girl. Anyone with information regarding Leslie Dean’s whereabouts is asked to call state police…”

  I skip this part and continue reading two lines below.

  “Due to the fact that the number of missing people has recently significantly increased in the Salem area, the state police advise to obey the basic safety rules, i.e., not leaving the place of residence alone after 10 p.m., not getting involved in a discussion with strangers who…”

  I give up further reading. I’m familiar with the safety rules far too well from when they were all hammered into us at high school. Whoever wrote this article is right—more and more women are going missing in Salem. I bet that poor Lesl
ie was Rafael’s victim. It must’ve been him who had a hand in this and all the previous disappearances.

  It suddenly occurs to me that Dorian’s plan might be aimed at Rafael’s elimination. Maybe they moved here to catch him and get rid of him? It would make perfect sense.

  I push the newspaper aside. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, I grab my mug with both hands to give the impression that drinking it is all I’ve been doing. After the heated discussion with Cynthia about Dorian, I want to avoid getting involved in any sort of conversation with her again for a while. This is disturbing; not too long ago I loved gossiping with her, keeping her up to date with my current life, and exchanging the latest news. I’m aware that it’s my fault that everything’s changed. I destroyed our good relationship.

  We walk past each other as I leave the kitchen, exchanging no more than “Good morning” and “Have a nice day” as an act of courtesy. I notice that my aunt’s eyes almost pop out when she sees me up so early, but she restrains herself from asking any questions. It doesn’t come without an effort, I’m sure, as she’s the classic example of a person who always needs to know and understand everything. I don’t blame her, though; I’m just the same.

  * * *

  At the liberal arts library I bump into Rach, who immediately bombards me with questions: “Why didn’t you respond to my texts? Who was the brunette? Did you talk to Dorian? Did you pay him a visit? What did he tell you?”

  To a third party I must look like a celebrity who’s being harassed by a very nosy paparazzi, making it difficult for me to walk on. At one point I simply stop in the middle of the hallway and say very explicitly, to avoid the necessity of repeating myself, “Rach, leave me alone. I don’t want to talk about what happened last night.”

  “Excuse me?” Stunned, she halts.

  “You heard me.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me to fuck off? That’s clearly what you want to say to me,” Rach says bluntly, obviously hurt.

  I’ve done it again. I’ve pushed my innocent friend away, just because I want to avoid answering her questions.

  “No, no, not at all! I’m just really late for Theory of Psychology, so sorry, I’ll catch you later.” I begin to stride away.

  “Lately you’ve had no time for me,” she remarks to slow me down. “I could vanish from your life, and it wouldn’t make any difference to you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I stop again, my jaw clenched.

  “You’ve been very distant recently. You don’t need to confide in me anymore. You’ve been devoting all your time to that guy who’s already interested in someone else anyway, instead of focusing on people who care about you.”

  The who’s already interested in someone else comment is like a red rag to a bull.

  “Do you mean other people, or just you? Just because we’ve spent a little bit less time together than we used to doesn’t mean that I don’t give a damn about you.” My voice gets louder. “I’m perfectly aware that you’re a person who demands non-stop attention and devotion, but don’t let yourself get carried away, Rach. There are certain aspects of my life that I would rather keep to myself and won’t share with other people, no matter who they are. It’s my right!” My anger is about to explode.

  “First of all, a little bit less time? Seriously?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Secondly…” She hesitates for a fraction of a second. “Your aunt called me.”

  What?! That’s all I need right now. Cynthia and Rach sticking their noses in my business.

  “Why? What did she want from you?” I’d love to scream to let my rage out, but I need to control myself; we’re in public, and surrounded by a bunch of other students.

  “She thinks you haven’t been yourself recently. She told me she felt like she was living with a stranger and couldn’t figure out what was going on with you.”

  “What I’m hearing is that the both of you chitchatted as you always do when I’m not around,” I say, and scowl at Rach. “Great—I hope you had a blast.”

  “What’s wrong with you? We want to help you, can’t you see that?”

  “If you want to help, then leave me alone! Neither of you can help me!” I can’t stand this discussion any longer. I turn around and trot away, fuming.

  “Zara, wait!”

  I don’t even think of waiting. I want peace of mind. Neither Rach nor my aunt are capable of helping me. If I told them the truth with all the details, they would probably put me in the nuthouse.

  Then again, when I think about it, Cynthia would probably send me to rehab instead and set the police on Dorian.

  My life has become so frustrating that I can hardly take it anymore. Keeping secrets from the people who not too long ago were the ones I’d always confide makes me feel as if my soul is being pulled apart. Every single thing I decide to hide weighs heavier and heavier on my chest, leaving an uncomfortable imprint on me. Still, no matter how much I’m tempted to let them step into the world of my secrets, I immediately discard that idea, knowing how crazy I’d sound.

  The really scary thing is, I’m afraid that me actually going insane is only a matter of time.

  CHAPTER twenty-three

  I have to stay at school for a couple more hours to take some tests. The spring term is about to be over, so I need to catch up with everything that I’ve been putting off. The moment I eventually step outside the building and feel a gentle breeze wafting over my face, my stomach reminds me of its existence with a massive rumble.

  Cynthia didn’t have time to go grocery shopping yesterday, so to avoid coming across an unpleasant surprise in the form of the fridge full of air and nothing else, I swing by a small market a few blocks from my house. Starving, I could put literally everything on the shelves into the basket. I restrict myself to a box of Ritz, some Haribo, Twizzlers, and a small carton of chocolate soymilk. An extremely unhealthy mix, but the hunger pangs are in charge. I can’t fight them.

  I’m standing in the line served by a terribly slow cashier, who, to make the whole process even slower, gets into a discussion with one of the clients regarding the mouthwash that removes plaque most effectively. I’m boiling inside. What’s wrong with her? If the whole country shared her idea of work pace, we’d be a hundred years behind where we’re now.

  Frustrated, I roll my eyes, which by accident land on a small TV set hung above the cashier. Breaking news is being announced, reporting the latest facts in the case of the missing girl I read about this morning. The TV is muted, so I can’t hear what’s being said, but I see a video showing the girl. I squint to see better, staring at the blonde girl who’s waving to the camera, dressed in a loose T-shirt and denim shorts.

  A blinding flash comes over me, and I realize where I know that face from.

  It’s the girl I saw with Dorian several times!

  When her name pulls up on the screen, Leslie Dean, I repeat it a dozen times in my thoughts.

  Leslie Dean.

  Leslie Dean.

  Leslie Dean…

  “Is that everything?” asks the cashier, who is finally done with the mouthwash client and is scanning my goods.

  “Yes. That’s all.”

  “Personally, I like the cheddar Ritz more,” she says, making an attempt to engage me in a conversation like she did with her previous customer, but I’m not eager to fall for it. I only smile without responding to her comment and get back to repeating the name of the missing girl in my mind. There’s something else I’m missing, something I’ve forgotten…

  “Oh my God!” I cry aloud. Time seems to slow down as suddenly everything falls into place. Why didn’t I realize this before?

  Leslie Dean was one of the names enumerated by Blair the other evening. She was the same girl that Dorian was seeing.

  A heavy feeling settles in my stomach.

  “What’s wrong?” the cashier asks, confused by my reaction.

  “Umm… those Haribo aren’t on sale?” I say the first thing that comes to my mind.


  “No, sweetie, they never have been.”

  A minute later, I stumble out of the market. My revelation makes my stomach twist. Even my hunger and thirst have gone away, I’m so upset. With shaking hands, I pull my cell phone out from my purse to look up the registry of missing people. I suspect I’ll find the names of the other two girls mentioned by Blair as well.

  I am concentrating so hard on the small screen of my iPhone that I don’t even notice the man standing in my way as I go to the car. I smash into him with a thud and drop my bag of groceries.

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you, sir,” I apologize to the stooped, middle-aged man in a checkered shirt who’s peering at me. In spite of the fact that I just bounced off him, he’s not moving. He neither helps me pick up my groceries nor replies to my apologies. He doesn’t even blink for a while. He just stares at me. That’s it. “Is everything okay? Did I hurt you?” He stands, petrified. “Okay… if you’re all right, then, I guess, I’ll just walk away.”

  What a weirdo, I think to myself, and walk past him. No sooner do I look at my phone screen again than he suddenly grabs me by the elbow, startling me, and pulls me back to him. Giving his face a quick once-over, I see a wide scar extending along his eyebrow right above his eye, which makes me shiver. I also spot a tiny tattoo on his neck that resembles some kind of symbol.

  “I said I was sorry. I really didn’t mean to bump into you. It was an accident.”

  The man takes on a sinister look and speaks in a low voice. “Stay away from the Hatches!”

  No, not again. Another stranger connected with the Hatches!

  “I beg your pardon?!” I jerk my elbow from his grip.

  “You had better be careful. It’s already begun.”

  It sounds like a line from a horror movie. I have no idea how the guy knows I’ve been dealing with the Hatches.

  “What has started?”

  “The process…”

  “What process?”