I Am The Lion: A Riveting Psychological Thriller

by Rachelle Lauro

  Froggy and our books even carried us to the East Coast as soon as I’d graduated high school, where we all fell in love with the thick forests, four seasons, and lots of grounding history. There was depth here on the East Coast that I longed for. There was purpose. And there were nursing jobs.

  When we happened upon Glenhaven, Connecticut, a quaint town that looked like a Norman Rockwell centerpiece, we starting hunting for a place to rent. Mom loved the sharp autumn air tinged with wood smoke and moldering earth. Virginia loved the old fashioned soda shop. And I loved the fact that we were two thousand miles away from my old life.

  After we signed the paperwork on a rental, Rhenn Larsen came to me, fleshed out and fully formed. He was a bully slayer. He said all the things that I wish I had said to Monica and company that fateful afternoon, but didn’t have the courage.

  When my fictional teeny-boppers turned cruel and threatening, Rhenn simply swept over them like a black wraith and sunk his long hollow incisors into their soft yielding necks, silencing them forever. I loved Rhenn. But I had laid him to rest. Now, I needed to keep the team together. I needed to rise him up.

  Maybe Virginia was right. Maybe a werewolf would solve all of my problems . . .

  Stellan wasn't the most handsome of creatures. He stood a full two feet taller than his hairier brethren, and when fully transformed into a werewolf, he had pronounced ears that could hear a pin drop in the next county over.

  Now, in human form, he stood outside of Bellingham Mall, searching for Madeline Storm. She'd told him that she would meet him there. He checked his watch impatiently and looked up at the bright full moon, which cast an eerie glow across the wet sidewalk. Madeline was never late. Had something happened?

  He heard footsteps behind him and turned quickly. There stood . . .

  Who? I wondered, fingers poised over the keyboard, ready to dutifully note the personage standing there. But I couldn't think of any a single creature. Rhenn in the frenzied throes of vampirism?

  Maybe Madeline herself stood there, agitated and panicky, hoping to stop him from revealing some terrible secret to Rhenn. But what secret? Clandestine kisses? And would that really work?

  Oh, Rhenn, Rhenn, Rhenn, I thought, head in my hands. Tell me your story. Do you even have one after everything I put you through?

  I stood up and went over to my sliding glass door that opened up to the backyard. My garden beds lay in mottled shade. Our water fountain burbled under the sunlight.

  Writing the sequel was becoming damn hard work. A real slog. The words weren't flowing like they had for After The End. Was there anything after The End? And what was I supposed to name the sequel anyway? After, After The End? Followed by: No This Really Is The End, I Promise. I sighed.

  My descriptions were boring and flat. I could have been describing any Tom or Harry Dick, something I feared the sequel would become if I didn't find some inspiration post haste.

  Deep down, I knew how to solve the problem. I had to go back there. I had to go back to the dark, pitiful place that I had occupied when I’d first written the book. I had to relive the cruel chorus of voices, chanting, Pee-ew! Pee-ew! I had to relive the misery of being hunted by Monica Schaffer and friends. And I had to relive my Piss Drinker years.

  Rising up Rhenn required me to journey back to that foggy wasteland. I had to rekindle the fury, the hurt, the terrible isolation, and the abject misery of losing Mom, so that Rhenn Larson could live again. But I didn’t want to go back there. I didn’t want to go there ever again.

  I closed out my whole two hundred words, not caring too greatly if the document got corrupted and went upstairs.

  It was too painful to think about Mom, so I thought about Monica Schaffer instead, hoping she was a loser now, working some office job, running off photocopies, and taking drunk selfies when the weekends rolled around because she didn't have anything better to do with her life.

  She was probably one of my fans that left terrible reviews, but sat up late at night devouring page after guilty page. I wondered if she noticed her influence.

  Rhenn Larsen had captured the imagination of all readers, not just the ones my age that I had in mind when he had first popped out of my computer screen, downtrodden and thirsty for the imaginary lifeblood of Monica and friends.

  He’d transcended the rank of young adults and made fast inroads to the realm of actual adults. It was a lucrative cross-over that inspired my publisher to release bigger and bigger printing runs. At first, I joked that the book’s success was due to its sixth grade reading level (Virginia put a sample of the manuscript through an online analyzer).

  But after it climbed higher and higher in the charts, the heart of its success beat quietly and steadily in the background. People could relate to Rhenn. People could relate to feeling sub-human.

  I sighed. I was tired of thinking about Monica. I was tired of being Pewgenia, the Piss Drinker. I gazed out of my bedroom window, pushing back the familiar lump of hurt anger forming in my throat. That was a long time ago, I told myself. I’d made the best of it, I told myself. Without Monica’s evil little trick, maybe After The End would have never existed. Maybe Monica had given me a gift.

  My eyes stung. I blinked a few times, sniffed, and turned my attention to our beautiful front yard.

  The dogwood trees, lining the half-circle drive, erupted in scarlet, fuchsia, and white blooms every April. A towering hickory tree dominated the right side of the property. I'd hung a tire swing from one of its thick limbs, harkening back to some fun childhood summertime activity that I'd never enjoyed.

  But summer was over now; fall had arrived. Our glorious dogwoods sported red berries now and less leaves.

  I was thinking about pruning back my rose bushes for the coming winter, when the intercom buzzed. I went to the panel and pressed the talk button. ". . . Hello?"

  A tinny voice crackled over the intercom. "FedEx. Got a delivery for ya."

  My heart beat accelerated. It was FedEx Man. I could tell by the quality of his voice.

  "Okay, thanks," I said and pressed the ‘open gate’ button. I watched the white truck trundle up the circular drive and stop in front of the house. I watched him jump out of the driver's seat. Michael, I'd named him, a handsome sounding name for a handsome looking fellow.

  He swept back his hair and positioned a baseball cap on his head. He opened the back of the truck and retrieved a parcel. He wore dark blue FedEx chino shorts, despite the chilly day, and a navy blue and purple branded jacket. No more than twenty-four I guessed, the perfect age for me.

  He closed the back of the truck, walked quickly up to the front porch, and disappeared under the veranda roof. Then he lifted the door knocker and banged a few times. The sound echoed ominously throughout the house—and my heart.

  Virginia would get the door; she always did. I simply admired him from afar and felt sick with disappointment that I couldn't bring myself to do it. A few long seconds passed. I didn't hear Virginia's faint "I'll get it!" or the quickening of her footsteps.

  FedEx Man lifted the knocker and banged again.

  "Virginia!" I called, watching the covered porch. "Get the door!" But I heard only silence. "Where is she," I grumbled, rushing down the hallway to her room and feeling the first rushes of panic, but found it empty. If she didn't get the door, who would?

  I went back to the intercom and called—"Just a minute! "—while I went downstairs, through the kitchen and out onto the backyard patio that overlooked our two acres. Not a soul in sight.

  "Virginia!" I cried full volume. "Someone's at the door!" Michael is at the door.

  He rapped louder still. Someone would have to get the door, and it became increasingly obvious that that someone was me.

  "You can do this, you can do this," I muttered to myself, trying to calm the precipitous rise of my heartbeat. "It's just a door. It's just a person." My palms grew clammy. I wiped them on my pants.

  Millions of people all across the country open the door for delivery me
n. They all survive, I told myself. Besides, if opening the front door was so deadly, surely it would have made the news. Thus ran my logic, surging through my brain like a tidal wave.

  Common sense should have calmed me, but nothing, it seemed, allayed the irrational fears that rose so strong and overwhelming in my mind. No logical course of action, no rational thought, helped.

  Despite my best effort, my heart beat faster and higher in my throat. The distance between myself and the door seemed like two long miles. I could hear the knocker groan as he lifted it again.

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  He called again, impatiently, unknowing and unsympathetic to my plight.

  I went to the door and paused, hand upon brass knob, working up the courage to twist it and open the door. "You can do this," I whispered, pushing away the chorus of children chanting in my mind. Pee-ew. Pee-ew. Pee-ew.

  "You can do this . . ."

  With white knuckles, I forced myself to turn, to turn the knob. The door jumped open a millimeter with a soft click, and, heart hammering in my chest, I pulled it open to the yawning crevasse of the outside world. There stood—nobody.

  A plume of dust rose from our circular gravel drive as I watched FedEx Man make his getaway. I looked down and found a thick envelope propped against the door jamb. Bitter disappointment swept through me like a blaze.

  I bent, picked up the parcel, and stared at it. Scared. For I sensed the featherweight chains of my fears growing stronger, binding me to a lifetime of slavery. And standing there, staring at my empty porch, I realized I would have to find the strength to overcome my phobias, or I would sit in my comfortable coffin of a life—and rot six feet under with Rhenn Larson.

  The kitchen door slammed shut, startling me from my dark reverie.

  "Were you calling me? Sorry, I was out in the garage." She went to the sink and washed her hands.

  "FedEx came," I said, leaning against the counter and holding the thick envelope to my chest. Virginia dried her hands and walked over to me, cheeks smudged with dust.

  "Must be the new contract. Did you open the door?"

  "Yes."

  "Amazing," she said. "And did you encounter a fellow member of the human race?"

  "Not exactly. I couldn't get the door open fast enough."

  "Oh, poppet," she said in pouty mock sympathy, "better luck next time." And she took the envelope, laughing.

  I wanted to laugh too, but I couldn't even rouse a smile.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  While Virginia read the details of our new contract, highlighter in hand, I stood by the kitchen window looking out at the memorial in the backyard that I’d placed in remembrance of my mom. I wished I could talk to her now.

  It was a marble bird bath that hosted a flurry of songbirds, looking for a refreshing bath in the warmer months and birdseed in the colder ones.

  Today a blue jay, the sigil of the Girl Scouts, doused its bright blue feathers. Bright blue feathers that took me back to that terrible day I’d become Pewgenia, The Piss Drinker. The sun dipped behind a cloud. As I watched the blue jay splash in the fountain, more memories of my Girl Scout days rushed back to me.

  Watching the sunshine glimmer off of the bird’s long blue tail feathers, unbidden, the memory returned. Mom had put me in the Girl Scouts program so sell some cookies and make new friends.

  Monica Schaffer, the troop leader, was a dark brunette with a riot of glossy curls and a pretty dimpled smile that often turned cruel. As I watched the blue jay preening its long blue tail feathers, Monica's taunting little voice reached out from fifteen years ago, reached out from the graveyard of forgiven history, but never forgotten.

  Pee-ew. What smells!

  The memory wrapped its long wormy arms around me and dragged me back there, pulling me back to the day that I had tried so hard to forget, but never quite could.

  It was Girl Scout day, and I was late. Mom had me by the hand. She'd hustled me down the sidewalk of a busy street that ran along the edge of a gated community where Monica lived. Cars and trucks zoomed past us, kicking up dust and exhaust fumes, making the hot day seem sweltering. I dragged my sleeve along my sweating brow.

  "Don't do that," Mom had said, glancing down at me and catching sight of my shirtsleeve.

  "But I'm hot!" I'd complained.

  "We're almost there. And then you can have a nice cool drink. Won't that be nice? I'm sure Monica's mother has some nice refreshments all laid out. But try not to ruin your outfit in the meantime, okay?"

  Monica's house was a cool oasis, where Sunkist, Mountain Dew, and Coca Cola could be found divvied up into small cups and plates of snacks.

  When the door opened, I heard the troop shrieking and giggling upstairs. Monica's perfect mother, a larger version of perfect Monica, cheerily welcomed me in.

  "Thanks for bringing Eugenia by!" she'd cried to Mom, pulling the door closed as I stepped on through.

  "Oh! Okay," Mom had called through the closing gap, "Bye, Eugenia!"

  My hand tightened around the edge of the counter as I remembered back to that cruel narrowing sliver that closed down on my mom's waving hand and enthusiastic smile. And from behind the closing door, I’d faintly heard, "Have a good time! I love you!"

  Monica's mother had taken me over to kitchen table where there were plates piled high with orange slices, cheese cubes, and oozing brownie squares. She helpfully loaded up my paper plate, making comments about how I could probably use a "snack or two."

  "The girls are upstairs playing," she’d said, handing me the plate and a cup filled with Day-Glo Mountain Dew. "Why don't you go on up until Amanda arrives? I'll call you girls down when we're ready to start."

  But she never did call me down that day. She never did call me again. I'd gone upstairs, my cup of soda in one hand, the plate in the other, to a dark upstairs loft area lined with various family portraits of the Schaffer family, grinning stupidly at the camera.

  The loft had gone suspiciously quiet. I called into the ominous silence. "Hello?"

  I heard giggling, vicious giggling. I should have turned back. I should have run.

  Lured on by gruesome curiosity, and buffeted by the Girl Scout law that we dutifully repeated every time the meeting started—On my honor, I will try to serve God and my country, to help people at all times, and to live by the Girl Scout Law—I’d called out again. "Hello?"

  Monica had appeared, flanked by Poppy, a pretty red head with long straight glistening hair and freckles across her button nose that reminded me of Strawberry Shortcake.

  "Hi, Eugenia," Monica said, as the rest of the troop filled in behind her, covering their smiles with clean lily white hands, suppressing giggles, shifting from one foot to the other and casting knowing sidelong glances at each other.

  "What are you drinking?" she’d asked, walking toward me.

  "Oh." I looked down at my hand. I'd forgotten I held anything. “I dunno. Mountain Dew, I guess. Your mom gave it to me. What are you guys doing?"

  "Oh, nothing." Giggles all around. "Do you want to try my lemonade?" In her outstretched hand, she held a cup half filled with pale yellow liquid. "We can trade if you want."

  To help people at all times.

  I wanted to trade. I wanted to trade with the most popular girl in school, who was pretty and cruel and supremely secure in reining popularity. I wanted to be friends with Monica Schaffer, who commanded a troop of the prettiest girls at school, who never sat alone, who talked to boys and boys talked to her.

  I shrugged. "Sure."

  She’d taken my cup of Mountain Dew and replaced it with her cruel little surprise. I noticed it had a ring of bubbles around the rim, and a strange temperature gradient that shifted from warm at the base to cool at the top where ice cubes jangled.

  Monica took a casual sip of my Mountain Dew. "Go on," she said, watching.

  And somewhere between lifting the cup of urine to my lips, taking a sip and spitting it out, the girls started chanting, "Pee-ew, Pee-ew, Pee-ew . . ." Un
til I blushed so hard with embarrassment that my face pulsed, until hot ashamed tears burst from my eyes, until I ran from the Schaffer's dark loft, ran, and never stopped running.

  The story of me drinking piss passed from one prepubescent ear to the other until the entire school had heard, caught in collective gruesome rapture. And the story, so despicable and riveting, changed from shock to horror and on into lore. I'd become known as Pewgenia, the Piss Drinker, who couldn't sit down in a single class without a faceless whisper rising from behind: Pee-ew. What smells!

  Always the chorus of voices, the collective haunting voices of little children, cruel and primal, followed me throughout the years, chanting: Pee-ew, Pee-ew, Pee-ew . . .

  Outside, the blue jay took one final douse in the water and flew away. And I went upstairs.

  I needed some help. I needed my trusty friends.

  I needed my pills.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I stood in my bathroom, like I had so many times before, shaking out another pill from an orange vial, anxious to swallow it down whole, wondering how I’d gotten here in the first place.

  I'd always been a bit shy, afraid to speak my mind. All writers are introverted, I often told myself, okay some. I’d never really been the life of the party, and Monica’s imprint on my life didn’t really help matters any in that department. But there was a time when I could at least cope with society. There was a time when I didn’t need my pills.

  I managed the grief of losing Mom all on my own steam, but then we’d acquired the stalker. Somewhere between pain and grief and appalling fear, sleep took a permanent departure. So I went to go see Dr. Miller, an Australian expat, the only doctor I knew, the same doctor who had spotted the first signs of Mom’s cancer.