Strega (Strega Series)

by Karen Monahan Fernandes

  Shaun was handsome. Almost too handsome. His face was perfect, sort of like a male model that needs to get punched and roughed up a little. But he was not pretentious at all. He was completely unaware that all around him, girls were swooning. He was serious, contemplative, and his introversion intrigued me. And when he looked up at me with those striking, alluring eyes, within them I saw a mystery that stirred my curiosities.

  The phone rang for the fourth time and went into voicemail. I hung up and called again. When he still didn't answer, I waited for the beep.

  "Hi Shaun, it's me. I'm on my way home from work...I didn't drive in so I'm stuck walking. No big deal, I'm fine...I'm just a little freaked out. Give me a call if you're around. Maybe you could come pick me up?"

  I hung up and saw that I had a voicemail message. It was Shaun.

  "Hi Jay, it's me. It's about six o'clock. I know it's last minute but I'm heading down the coast for a few days with my uncle. The boat is gassed up and we're about to leave the marina. Call me back if you get this in the next few minutes, before I lose reception. Otherwise, I'll call as soon as we dock. Maybe we can make up for dinner when I get back? Okay, cutie. See you soon."

  Shaun regularly disappeared without much warning. Living on a boat with his uncle all summer made it easy to bail at a moment's notice, and the never-idle waters seemed to wash away any sense of permanence he may have otherwise had.

  "Damn it," I mumbled to myself. There was nobody else I could call. Ruth and Jack were away. Celia was already in bed, and the situation didn't warrant waking her. I'd been avoiding my friends from school all summer, so I couldn't call them for a favor now. Rena was the only person I could call, but she was all the way in Rowley at Max's apartment, surely fast asleep after spending half the day at the hospital with him. I considered calling a taxi, but I was only a mile away from home and I couldn't admit to myself that I was so desperate.

  My attention returned to the creepiness that had settled in while I was distracted on the phone. I took a deep breath and trudged on. From behind me, the sound of an approaching car interrupted the growing silence. At first I was comforted by its presence, imagining that it might scare away predators lurking in the shadows. But darker thoughts crept in as I considered what danger it might bring to a young woman walking alone down an empty street at night. These conflicting thoughts ebbed and flowed, crashing within me like giant waves on a stormy sea, until the car wheels cut through giant puddles in the street beside me and continued on past. The humming engine was only a whisper as the car grew more distant, and suddenly I longed for it to return and insulate me from solitude. I was alone again and the deafening squeak of my shoes against the damp pavement reemerged.

  I gripped my keys to point through my fingers like little daggers, just as Gram instructed me to do in such anxiety-provoking situations. Despite the coolness of the night, my tense body radiated so much heat that I had to unbutton my jacket to let it out.

  My hearing sharpened to that of a wild animal, acutely aware of every acorn that fell against the pavement, every branch that cracked overhead, every rodent that scratched through the brush beyond the trees and stone walls. But it was a new sound that sent a wave of terror through me like a bullet. Another set of footsteps, heavy with a long stride, emerged behind me. They belonged to someone that was clearly taller than me, bigger than me, and moving in my direction.

  III

  My pulse quickened along with my pace.

  It's just a dream. It's not real.

  Maybe it was a burly football player stumbling home from Sovana's after a pitcher of beer, I thought to myself. But the footsteps were too neat, too determined. Maybe he worked at the Inn and his shift just ended, I tried to reassure myself. But the terror didn't leave me no matter what I told myself. I crossed the street with determination and made my way toward the park. Walking around it would add another ten minutes. Cutting through it like I always did would get me home much faster. But at that hour, its seemingly impenetrable darkness was intimidating.

  I'm being ridiculous. It is just a dream. It's not real.

  I continued to force rational thoughts into my mind, attempting to douse the flames of fear that threatened to consume me. But these thoughts were like tiny drops of water against an inferno. As hard as I tried to resist, as much as I tried to ignore it, my dream replayed in my mind.

  He is coming. I am running for my life. Knowing that I will lose.

  When the dream came back just after Gram died, it still felt as real to me as it did when I was a child. But I knew it wasn't. I understood this better than I ever could as a kid. Still, no amount of reason comforted me. I felt like I was seven again. Petrified. And though I now had the ability to distinguish dream from reality, my terror grew as if there was no difference between the two.

  By day, the park sat like a deep bowl of green grass. At the bottom was a small pond, usually surrounded by people lounging on blankets. Ducks nestled in the grass or waddled to the water's edge, and children ran to catch them. But at night the park was a deep black hollow. The heavy clouds hid the stars, and the new moon cast no light on the water. I wanted more than anything to just get home. I drew in a deep breath and took my first step into the park, descending into the darkness from the rim. The momentum of the downhill slope pushed me into a light jog. The footsteps, still steady behind me, were crossing the street toward the park. I still hoped to hear them fade as they moved in another direction. But they grew louder and quickened until they reached the rim, and then they entered the park.

  Adrenaline erupted into my veins. Sweat soaked my hands and feet, and soon my whole body was on fire. My neck throbbed with each violent heartbeat that pounded in my chest. I was stuck at the bottom, only halfway through the park and in too deep to turn back. If he caught up to me before I got out, nobody would hear me scream.

  I began to run. I was fast. If anyone could outrun him, it would be me. I drew in long, deep breaths as I held onto this small fragment of confidence and scaled the hill. But to my horror, his footsteps accelerated behind me to a pace faster than my own. The gap between us was closing and I felt every lost inch.

  This is exactly like my dream.

  When I finally reached the outer rim, I sprang off the sidewalk and tore across the empty street, praying for a car to come into view. With one long stride, I rounded the corner at the Old Hill Burying Ground. The foreboding gravestones beckoned me as I passed, and the ominous footsteps persisted. Just like in my dream, I felt a dark hole of doom whirling behind me. It grew ever closer, and I knew that at any moment it would catch me and swallow me whole.

  The old Victorian on the corner of Willow Street, a familiar beacon that sat at the edge of Ruth's neighborhood, renewed my hope that I would make it to safety. A new fire burned in my legs as I wove through the streets toward her house. I pushed my body harder than ever before. I'd run that stretch so many times, but never had I moved so fast. Everything I passed was a blur. Though I couldn't afford to waste any air, I let out one terrified scream for help. I hoped someone was getting out of their car or stepping outside for some air, anything. But all was quiet. No one heard me. I was on my own.

  The front steps of Ruth's house finally came into focus. When I saw my car sitting idle in the driveway, another twinge of regret twisted in my gut. I could have avoided this. The footsteps were deafening as they pounded the pavement behind me. With deepest determination, I ran the final stretch faster than my previous limits. I longed to be safe inside, but I wondered if I'd ever know such comfort again.

  As my foot hit the first stone step, an intense heat spread across my back like violent hands grabbing and dragging me to my death. He would pull me into the woods, to a remote place where nobody would find me. He would torture and kill me, and leave my body to rot. I scaled the steps two at a time, petrified by these thoughts. As my foot reached the top step, in one quick motion I pulled the rest of my body up and desperately shoved my key into the lock. He was there behind me,
so close I swore I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.

  His foot landed hard on the top step behind me. As I pushed the door open, his fingertips grazed my back. In one motion, I slipped inside and threw my body against the door. But it didn't close. His hand was wrapped around its edge. I threw my body against the door again and pushed hard until his fingers finally withered away. The door slammed shut and I quickly twisted the lock. He turned the doorknob furiously, and as I watched it quiver from the inside, my shaking fingers pushed the deadbolt into place.

  My chest was raw from my heart's violent pounding. I held my face in my hands as blood rushed into my throbbing head. I gasped for air and my body folded in half involuntarily. Before I could catch my breath, I lunged toward the small wastebasket in the hallway and I vomited.

  IV

  Bright red and blue lights cut through the curtains after seven long minutes. A stout police officer stepped out of his car and lazily swung his flashlight, pointing it down the street in one direction and then the other before making his way to the door. Tightly gripping the railing, he heaved himself from one step to the next. I stared at him from behind the living room curtain with anticipation, as if expecting to see him jolted by the electricity I left there in my wake just moments before.

  His thick knuckles slowly fell against the door several times as I unlocked it.

  "You all right?"

  His lethargic tone and drooping face reflected his lack of genuine concern, but somehow his presence still brought me comfort. I was safe, and now I was not alone. In that moment, all the panic and fear building within me burst forth and tears poured down my face. I recounted every detail of the previous hour from the moment I left work to the moment he arrived. Through my uncontrollable sobs and hyperventilation, he extracted all relevant information. But there was one detail he needed that I didn't have.

  "What did he look like?"

  I didn't know. I didn't see his face. Just like my dream, I never saw his face. But that night I'd actually tried.

  We were separated only by the thin door, inches away from each other. The doorknob shook violently as he tried to get inside. As I slid the deadbolt into place, I gathered all the courage I could muster and looked out the small peephole. At first, I peered through half-closed eyes, too terrified to see his face all at once. But my eyes soon opened wide in disbelief. No one was there. The doorknob was suddenly still. I ran to the living room window and carefully peered around the curtain, expecting to see him running down the stairs or across the street. But he was gone. In an instant, he'd vanished.

  "You sure you were followed?" he asked skeptically, suspecting that my raw nerves after Gram's murder may have caused me to imagine a non-existent aggressor. All the officers in town knew Gram's case. It was the biggest, and most horrific. They all saw me down at the station each week talking to Detective Laine. But there were no suspects. No leads. No suspicious activity reported by anyone else in town. The trail had gone cold.

  I nodded emphatically. Of course I'm sure, you jerk. I may have been experiencing some heightened anxiety since Gram died, but this time it was justified. It was not all in my head.

  "Well, there's nothin' out there. No description of a perpetrator, nothin' I can do," he said half-heartedly. "You know, you really shouldn't be walking alone at night."

  The languid officer turned toward the door and I watched my one source of protection walk away. He was the only thing bracing me from complete isolation. I struggled with the simultaneous desire to grab onto his jacket and beg him to stay with me, and the urge to reach out and choke him for being so indifferent. I thought of all the other officers in town that I knew, and I wished that any one of them had been dispatched instead. His awkward, misshapen body made its way back down the stairs and when he reached the bottom, he turned his head slightly.

  "I will have a patrol car come by the house tonight. Call if you see or hear anything suspicious."

  V

  Ruth was in Europe for ten days with her husband Jack. He was a college professor and had been in Northern Italy on a research project since June. Ruth originally planned to go with him for the entire trip, but after Gram died, she stayed with me and insisted that Jack go on without her. She and Celia were so worried about me after Gram died, and refused to leave me alone.

  After my incessant urging, Ruth finally agreed to join Jack before the summer was over. She wanted me to stay with Celia, who insisted on it too, but I assured them that I would be fine. Rena was going to stay with me. Ruth made me promise to be safe, to keep the doors locked, and to keep the phone with me at all times. And I had to call her if I needed her, no matter what time of day or night. Until she was gone, I didn't realize how much I would miss her.

  For the first time in months, I was alone. The haunting quiet of the old house weighed heavily upon me and I wished for our back-and-forth chatter about what came in the mail that day or what was for dinner, the soft sounds of classical music infusing the house from the old living room stereo, or even the coarse squeaks of her violin as she practiced a new song.

  I hit play on the answering machine. There were two new messages. For days, there were always at least two new messages. One from Ruth. One from Celia. Since Ruth left, they'd both called every day. The house, and my cell. And in each of Celia's messages, she reminded me that she had an empty guest room for me.

  Rena stayed with me in the quiet house for the first few nights after Ruth left. But she was at Max's that night, sparing him from having to do everything with one arm. She'd texted me earlier, reminding me that I was more than welcome to come crash there. Max's place was technically her place too. She unofficially moved in with him that summer, even though most of her stuff still lived at her dad's house in Amesbury. I declined. I could handle being alone, I convinced myself.

  Ruth and Jack's house was old—a historical relic from 1723. They were both historians and fell in love with the old charm of the place. It had too much space for just the two of them. They occupied the west side of the house, which was a roomy two floors. My bedroom was upstairs, just down the hall from theirs. We shared a freshly tiled bathroom with an antique soaking tub that I used almost every night. The guest room where Rena had been staying for the past few nights was around the bend. Otherwise neat and tidy, the room was strewn with a ten-day supply of Rena's clothes and shoes, and it looked like a bomb had gone off inside.

  In the hallway between our rooms, display cases were filled with unique historical items, and shelves were chock full of history books that beckoned me. I perused them and grabbed a new book each night as I waited for the tub to fill up with warm, soapy water. I loved history, arguably as much as Ruth and Jack did, and their house was my own personal candy store.

  From as far back as I could recall, the east side of the house was always rented to tenants. But the last tenants moved out almost six months before, and the space was still empty. For the first time, I wished it wasn't.

  Several beautifully tended acres in the backyard seemed to go on forever, stretching into the vast preservation land beyond the property line. In the late summer mornings, as the sun started to peek over the horizon, deer approached the far side of the stone wall that separated the tightly manicured lawn and garden from the wild landscape beyond it. The garden's plethora of greens drew them in. As autumn approached, the crisp mornings brought families of wild turkeys. Each morning as I made my coffee, I watched for my winged friends through the wide bay window above the kitchen sink.

  Minutes passed on the clock as night slowly crawled toward dawn. I texted Rena, asking her to call me. Though I hoped she would, I knew she was already asleep and wouldn't get the message until morning. Before I sunk into the sofa for the night, I turned on every light in the living room, kitchen, and hallway, closed all the curtains and blinds, and dug my aluminum baseball bat out of the hall closet. My stomach turned as I thought of the predator I'd led straight to my doorstep.

  Every few minutes I'd peek a
round the curtain to survey the street and the front steps. To my relief, nobody was there. The rain had stopped, but lightning continued to strike and illuminate the dark night sky. It was the only thing that brought me comfort. I loved lightning. Mom said the night she was in labor with me, it was unremitting. She was convinced it was the reason I was so drawn to it. When I was small, I'd stand on the porch during warm summer storms just to watch the lightning tear down from the sky and touch the earth, casting its light on everything for miles.

  Three flames danced atop the thick candle on the coffee table. As hours passed, the pool of dark purple wax grew wider until finally it broke free and cascaded over the edge. Between surges of fear and adrenaline, waves of exhaustion tempted me to drift to sleep. But sleep was the one thing I couldn't do. As terrifying as my dreams were, they paled in comparison to the very real nightmare that had walked into my life that night. Somebody made not of shadows but of flesh and blood was after me, and for all I knew he was lurking outside, waiting for an opportunity to get in.

  I made myself a cup of tea, obsessively looking over my shoulder until I returned to the sofa. I bundled myself in a blanket, shivering with nerves and exhaustion, and counted the minutes until morning.

  VI

  I opened my eyes to complete darkness. The candle had burned out. The small green lamp in the dark corner was off. As my eyes struggled to bring my surroundings into focus, my limbs tingled with panic. I'd drifted off to sleep, for how long I did not know, and the power was out.

  I peered behind the curtain and out over the street. The soft glow of a neighbor's tall lamppost cast its light like a coveted beacon on the dark sea. The small porch lights of several other houses also illuminated the sleeping neighborhood. Ours was the only house without power.