by Erin Hayes
“I guess that’s where I’m at. I don’t know how much of what I remember really happened.”
Deborah wrinkled her brow. “Let me see if I can help. You totaled your car, hitched a ride in an ambulance, and missed a week of work. You even made the local news. Clearly, you didn’t imagine it.”
“I’m not questioning that. Just shut up and listen, will you?” Kyra let out a deep breath and launched into her bizarre memories of the accident. When she was done, she looked down at her empty glass and swirled a few droplets of cream around. “I know it sounds unbelievable, stalking spirits and all, but it’s got me sleeping with the lights on.”
Deborah responded with a long, low whistle. “I just sensed there was another dimension to it,” she said reverently.
“What do you mean?”
Deborah reached out and laid a hand on Kyra’s arm, surveying the room as if the conversation were classified. “It was a near death experience. Your disembodied spirit was preparing for reincarnation.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“No, listen. I’ve read a lot about this stuff. We all have those déjà vu moments from prior lives; we just don’t acknowledge them.”
Kyra shook her head and studied the light reflecting off Deborah’s glass. “So who was the stranger? And what about these Soul Stalkers—they don’t exactly have a Zen-like ring to them. Are they reincarnations too?”
Deborah frowned. “They might have been projections; happens all the time in the reincarnation process. You were at the brink, but you pulled back just in time and reunited with your body.”
Kyra fiddled with the glass stem on her coffee mug. She did remember looking down on her shattered body.
“What makes you think reincarnation is real?” she probed, resting her chin in the palm of her hand.
“It explains the world around us. Look at us, sitting on our hot bots drinking Irish Coffees that cost more than the average third-world family earns in a day. Nothing fair about that if this is their one shot at life.” Deborah grabbed a handful of pretzels and began munching her way through them. “We have fabulous jobs with expense accounts, and those poor suckers out there scratch around foraging for food.” Deborah gestured with her thumb to the street where a filthy woman in an oversized sweatshirt shuffled between the shoppers, stirring around in the trashcans. “Karma allows the good and the bad to be rewarded and punished in each progressive lifetime.”
“How is reincarnation improving the world, when nobody remembers where they screwed up last time around? We’re not exactly upgrading as a race.
“How about medieval torture? We don’t disembowel people anymore,” said Deborah with a grin.
Kyra snorted. “No, we’re too civilized for that. We just traffic kids and—”
“Easy girl!” Deborah shrank back into her chair in mock horror. “That whisky’s messing with your meds.”
“It’s just that the world’s such a warped game of chance.” Kyra grabbed the last pretzel and snapped it in two. “Reincarnation doesn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling.”
Deborah shrugged. “Look, if you want to be sure what happened, you should try hypnosis.”
“I’ll sleep on it.” Kyra glanced at her watch. “I have to go. I have an appointment at my broker’s office.” She pulled out her purse and applied some lip gloss.
“Well, look who’s back . . . the reincarnated Louis V.” Deborah leaned back and laughed. “Aged a tad, but looks like his stitches have healed nicely!”
Kyra shook her head and grinned. “That reminds me, the guy at Leather Repair is hot if you want his number.”
Kyra walked into her broker’s office still mulling over her conversation with Deborah.
“Hi, John.”
He dropped his pen and scrambled to his feet. “Hi, Kyra. I’m so sorry to hear about your … accident.” He blinked rapidly, zigzagging between her and a spot in the room beyond her left shoulder. “You look great. I mean, you always look amazing but considering … ”
His habit of leaving sentences hanging in midair, together with his doughboy appearance, made him come across as a half-wit. But nothing could be further from the truth. The numerical gears inside his prematurely balding head whirred faster than the blades on her juicer. That, she respected.
“Maybe we can do an abbreviated strategy for next year, John. I’m wiped out.”
“Sure, can I get you anything, coffee, water ... ?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
He gave her a quick summary of her finances, and then pointed at a line entry toward the bottom of the first page.
“Beware of him who would steal your soul.”
A spasm of fear rippled across her back. The room tilted and swayed around her. Did he just say what I thought he said? She swallowed back a mouthful of acid. Maybe it was the alcohol.
Her throat felt parched and scratchy when she finally stammered out her question. “What … did you say?”
John looked up and pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “I was just commenting,” he said, as the glasses slid back down, “that the Trust Deed Investment Option is a real steal right now.”
Her skin crawled. The Soul Stalkers were messing with her again. Planting thoughts in her mind. Making her hear things, see things.
She stood up, and her chair screeched backward. A vortex of fear whirled in her head. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. I’m going to have to finish this some other time.”
John got to his feet. “Of course … Do you need … ?”
She swatted at the space between them, too distraught to respond. If the unseen world wanted her attention, they had it now. She had to get out of here before she lost it entirely. She steadied herself and made a dash for the door.
She fumbled with her keys in the parking lot for what seemed like an eternity before she got the rental car started. Heart racing, she lurched backward out of her spot, and a woman driving past let loose with her horn.
“Sorry,” Kyra mouthed to no one in particular. She pulled back in to her spot and slumped over the steering wheel until the pounding in her chest died down.
Beware of him who would steal your soul. Whoever, or whatever, these Soul Stalkers were, they were not going to rest until they had her in their clutches.
Chapter Ten
Martina groaned. The throbbing in her head mixed with the stench of beer reminded her why she lay wet and shivering, her purse squished beneath her ribs on the rough concrete. She kept her head down and held her breath, listening for movement, dreading, but half-expecting Hal’s steel-toed work boot to slam into her skull.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel driveway, approaching on her left. She stiffened. No! Please, no! She opened her eyes as a hooded figure dropped to his knees beside her.
“Mom!”
Martina let out a gasp. “Tag!” She turned her shoulders toward him and he reached for her, his chin quivering.
“I’m gonna kill him,” he screamed, shaking her. “I swear I’ll kill him.”
“Easy Tag. I hurt all over.”
He released his grip and shrank back on his haunches, folding in on himself like he did when Hal swung at him.
“I was late getting home. You know how he is—”
Jerking himself to his feet, Taggert clubbed the door with his fist.
“Please, Taggert, you’re just going to hurt yourself.”
He spat out a train of profanities and gave the door another resounding whack. Martina tightened her lips and twisted herself around on one hip. The kid had learned from the best when it came to throwing a punch and cussing. “Help me up, Tag, please.”
He kicked aside several chunks of amber glass and eased her into a sitting position. “I don’t care what you say. We gotta leave him.”
She squeezed his hand in acknowledgement. The fear in his eyes was a fear she shared. It was only a matter of time before Hal took one of them out, or both. Worse still, what if Taggert cracked and went for Hal firs
t? Taggert was a pressure cooker, stoked up on years of abuse, raging, teenage hormones adding fuel to the fire. If he ended up doing time for taking Hal out she’d never forgive herself. “We’ll leave him Taggert, I promise you.”
It had to be soon. A week from Monday. She’d wait for one more pay check. Every dollar would help. She could pack the essentials, go to work as usual, leave for lunch, pick up Taggert, and never come back. Her heart ached to tell him, but he might throw it in Hal’s face in a flash of rage and then it would all have been for nothing.
“I’m sorry. You deserve better than this.” She dropped her head into her hands. Her skin felt hot and puffy. She could tell she looked rough by the way Taggert’s gaze drifted all over her face.
“Help me inside, Tag. We gotta get this mess cleaned up before he gets back.”
His thin frame stiffened. “Are you crazy? He’s gonna finish you off if you hang around.” His eyes were dark and hard, at odds with the adolescent voice that cracked mid-sentence.
“He’ll be sorry for a while,” she said flatly. The beating would buy them time. Hal’s high would last several days, then he’d hit another morose spell, and after that the situation would get ugly. This time they would be gone before he hit the red zone and came unglued. He won’t hurt us again.
She got to her feet slowly, and leaned on Taggert as she limped into the house, gritting her teeth through the pain in her ribs.
Taggert helped her onto the couch, and then stepped back, folding his bony arms over his puffed out chest. “I seen him with another woman.” He looked at her sideways, a scowl twisting his features.
So her gut had been right. She shifted her position against the cushions as she contemplated her response. Taggert was doing his best to shock her into leaving right away. His words had a surprisingly bland effect on her. It didn’t matter who the woman was, or what she looked like, or how long Hal had been carrying on the affair. She just wanted out, to forget her life with him had ever happened. She hunched her shoulders and gave a little shrug. “It’s not important, not anymore.”
“That ain’t how you used to think.” Taggert stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Since when don’t lyin’ and cheatin’ matter no more?”
The stinging accusation caught her off guard. That ain’t how you used to think. It had crushed her the first time Hal slept with another woman. But she’d believed him when he told her it was her fault. If she could act different, or wear her hair some other way, or not sound so stupid. If she had something to offer him, he wouldn’t be tempted to shop around. His constant ridicule had paralyzed her. Never knowing when that sneering face would open up and spew its verbal vomit, breaking her down like emotional acid. Eventually she’d stopped thinking and feeling.
“Lying and cheating always matter, Taggert. What I meant was that Hal doesn’t matter anymore. Now get me the first aid box out of the kitchen.”
She watched him trail out of the room, shoulders in a geriatric hunch like a man who’d lived too long. What kind of example was she for him anyway? She had dared to dream of living free of Hal, and the first decision she’d made was to lie, cheat, and steal. And then she had the gall to pretend honesty and integrity mattered. She was a hypocrite. She should call Eddie right now and confess. But she couldn’t. She wanted out more than she wanted peace with her conscience.
She hobbled into the bathroom, leaned on the sink, and began to rinse away the evidence of Hal’s assault. Blood from the cuts on her knuckles swirled around the bowl and disappeared in a dying gurgle. Next time, it could be the coroner watching her blood trickle down a drain.
She sighed and assessed herself in the mirror through half-closed eyes. Her nose was bloated and purple, and blood oozed from several cuts on her face. She plucked a sliver of glass from a fold in her left sleeve and stared at it, tracing it across her wrist. Tag, if it weren’t for you, I would do it.
You should do it, a provocative voice inside urged.
Martina’s skin crawled. Her ribcage tightened like a steel corset on her chest, robbing her of breath.
Do it now, the sinister voice prodded. She stared at her drained reflection in the mirror. One slice with this piece of glass and she could pull the plug on her hopeless existence. A longing to surrender seeped through her veins like a powerful numbing potion. Her muscles balled up tight, urging her along her dark course of action. Gripping the jagged fragment with her bloodied right hand, she inched the glass toward her wrist. As the dark amber shard grazed the surface of her skin, a ghoulish scream ricocheted around the tiny room.
Chapter Eleven
Kyra left work early Friday evening to get ready for her date with Brian. The moment she threw her keys on the kitchen counter, it hit her. Her personnel folder was gone. Her heart knocked against her ribs as she shuffled frantically through her mail. She had stashed it beside the phone, under a pile of unopened mail, until she could figure out what to do with it. She had already removed the house key from the planter by the front door. There was no way Todd could have got in again. She grabbed her briefcase and flicked through the documents inside, dread thickening like a fog in her brain.
Maybe she had moved the folder somewhere. Her memory still wasn’t up to par, and the sleeping pills she was taking made her feel groggy. She raced through the house, checking cabinets, turning over cushions and rifling through her bookshelves. It couldn’t have simply disappeared. Someone had taken it, or moved it. Maybe she had forgotten to lock the back door this morning on her way to work. She was letting things slip through the cracks—too many things. She dragged herself to the back door and jerked the handle. The deadbolt was engaged.
Slumping into a kitchen chair, she planted her eyes on the lock. She should have hidden the folder at the back of her file cabinet. It was the only tangible evidence she had to prove she’d been threatened, if it came to that. An icy chill stole over her. Todd wasn’t the only one trying to intimidate her. She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured the wraithlike form in the flickering flames of her SUV. Spirits didn’t enter through doors; they came and went as they pleased. But it was preposterous. There had to be a more plausible explanation. Todd could have made a duplicate key, and if that were the case, it meant he had every intention of continuing to mess with her.
As she drove into Detroit that evening to meet Brian for their dinner date, Kyra scrolled through her Pandora radio app looking for a song to match her mood. Eventually she gave up and rode in silence, contemplating how much she should share about the strange details of her accident. Brian’s level of tolerance for hysterical women was close to zero, on a good day.
Two blocks from the restaurant, she pulled into a chance curbside parking spot and turned off the engine. She sat for a moment to collect her thoughts. The night scene throbbed like a jungle drumbeat around her, partygoers clutching cocktails, spilling out of bars and on to the sidewalks. She stared at them curiously. Do they even know what’s hovering around them? Their raucous laughter made her skin crawl. This wasn’t her reality anymore. But, she couldn’t prove the world she had stumbled on existed anywhere other than in her head.
She gave her face the once-over in the rearview mirror before slipping on her silk jacket and climbing out. Pointing the unfamiliar key fob at the rental car, she clicked in vain. As she fumbled with the key in the lock, a dark shadow bore down on her, enclosing her from behind. Her chest compressed with fear. A piercing scream ripped from her lungs and she broke free, stumbling backward onto the sidewalk.
“Kyra! What’s wrong?” Brian took a step back and stared at her, his face ashen. He ran his hand over his jaw as if she’d punched him. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you or something?”
Her heart pounded. Was it only Brian behind me? Several people loitered nearby, tittering, clinking their beer bottles, eying her as if she were drunk. She shrank back, pulling deep, shaky breaths. She resisted the urge to flee and inhaled slowly, willing herself to calm down. For a long unsettling, moment, there was si
lence.
She lifted her face and looked at Brian. “Sorry. I ... thought you were … a stranger.” She took another quick survey of the sidewalk. No ghosts or spirits galloping off into the night. It must have been a panic attack. This was proof positive the whole thing with the Soul Stalkers was getting out of hand. She was afraid of being afraid.
Brian eyed her uneasily. “You’re still shaking. Sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” Her smile felt plastic, her lips locked into position.
Brian nodded, his pinched features relaxing only slightly. “Let’s get out of here.”
She nodded, eager to end the spectacle she’d made of herself. Brian draped an arm awkwardly around her shoulders, and they strolled away from the dwindling mob in the direction of Sophia Toscano.
A block from the restaurant, they passed a sandwich board man, his matted canopy of hair half-veiling yellowed eyes that rolled as he muttered. “The end is near.” For a moment his eyes latched onto Kyra. Gripping Brian’s arm tighter, she averted her eyes but she couldn’t shake her misgivings about the way the man had looked at her. As if he sensed the Soul Stalkers on her tail. She glanced over her shoulder at the placard. He had one thing right. The end was only a hairsbreadth away. She was living proof of that.
Brian had reserved a table by the window in their favorite corner of the restaurant. Kyra looked around at the olivewood veneer-clad walls and nineteenth century-reproduction Florentine artwork. She loved everything about this place, from the subdued old world ambience, accentuated with luxurious floor-length Tuscan linen tablecloths and Murano glass chandeliers, to the decadent menu of artful Italian dishes. Brian had taken her to Sophia Toscano for their first date. He’d wanted to impress, and she’d wanted to be impressed. The perfect match. Until now. In a few short days they had drifted galaxies apart. She watched him lift his water glass in the candlelight and drain it without taking his eyes off the menu. He had no idea what was going on, but he was about to find out.