You Own Me (Owned Book 1)

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  I opened the door, but there was no one there. Nothing on the ground, and no one in the hallway. I would hear if someone was running away, wouldn't I? I shook my head. All of this Halloween and haunted mansion nonsense was freaking me out. I was even starting to believe in ghosts.

  I firmly shut the door. My eyes wandered to the red dress, the card still lying on the floor. If I had a million dollars, I would bet that dress wasn't from Bethany. In fact, I would bet that wasn't from a friend at all.

  No, this wasn’t the work of ghosts. At least, not dead ghosts.

  I shoved the white dress box against the bulletproof glass at the police station. The man behind the counter gave me a look as if to say “I have a gun.” I know you have a gun, bro, that's why I'm here.

  “I need help,” I said.

  The officer looked slightly concerned. He pushed aside his paperwork.

  “Do you need me to call a cab? A boyfriend?” He paused. “A girlfriend?” he asked a bit cautiously.

  I shoved the box against the glass again. “I'm not drunk. I'm being stalked.”

  The officer raised his eyebrows, looked at the box, and then back at me.

  “Look, Officer, uh,” I looked at his name tag: Officer Petty. My God, I cannot make this stuff up.

  I started again, “Look, Officer Petty, I have a violent ex that I ran away from and he's found me and he's threatening me.” I said this with all the bluster I could; I had to get the officer to take me seriously.

  “What’s your name, young lady?”

  “Lennox Moore.”

  “Have a seat, Miss Moore. We'll be right with you.”

  I sat down on a cold seat and thrummed my fingers together nervously. Despite it being a police station, there wasn't much going on. If you watch cop shows, you would have expected the police station to busy, but precinct stations’ lobby hours were the same as a regular store. Sometimes less so. People weren't running in and out of them at all hours of the day and night screaming bloody murder. During business hours, people came in to fill out paperwork or to do something else boring and mundane. They weren't like me, desperately looking for help.

  “Come on back, Miss Moore.”

  I glanced up at the voice, catching the gaze of a fatherly-looking policeman trying to wave me back. He led me to a small, indistinct cubicle. I took a seat across from the policeman, feeling small and childlike. I clutched the dress box on my lap.

  “So, tell me what's going on.”

  He wasn't condescending or particularly aggressive, but I've met his type and heard his tone before. It was the same tone countless psychiatrists and psychologists had used with me before. It said, “I know you believe what's happening,” which isn't really helpful, in the long run.

  Regardless, I told him the whole sordid story. What choice did I have? To his credit, he looked like he believed me. He was taking notes and even seemed to be concerned when I got to the part about Dean's abuse.

  It still didn’t change anything.

  “I'm sorry, Miss Moore, but there's not much I can do for you,” Officer Dayton said.

  I can read name tags, go me.

  Officer Dayton went on to say all he could do was help me file the court forms for a domestic violence restraining order (which I already had). But, because I didn't have any proof, there was nothing more he could do for me.

  “Proof?” I exclaimed. “Isn't that your job to gather proof?” I was bordering on hysteria. “What about the emails I told you about?”

  Officer Dayton looked sympathetic.

  “Without credible evidence of intent to harm, if we went after every annoying ex-boyfriend or girlfriend, neighbor, or boss, the police would be nothing more than a taxpayer funded harassment squad. I'm sorry. If you had filed domestic assault charges in Seattle, it would be different.”

  My fingernails were making half-moons in the dress box.

  Officer Dayton patted me on the shoulder awkwardly and said, “If you can prove that it's Dean who is sending you these things, then we can get him for violating his restraining order. Until then, there’s nothing we can do.” The officer stood up, motioning me to rise as well. “Please, don't hesitate to call us if you ever feel unsafe.”

  But, that's what I'd done. I'd come to them because I felt unsafe, yet they'd tossed me up the creek without a paddle. I thought they were supposed to prove these things. What did the police do? I sighed heavily and left the precinct; my stomach felt like I’d swallowed an anvil. I was as good as dead. Or worse.

  The police had refused to take the red dress, citing some kind of security policy. Wasn't it evidence? No, it wasn't evidence. Nothing was evidence until I was dead and in the ground. So, I had had to carry the now crumpled white box under my arm, complete with red dress. I should have thrown it away, but I was in shock.

  I walked home despite the fact that I'd taken a bus to the police station. I kept my eyes down, letting the repetitive gray pavement numb my senses.

  Head still down, I entered my apartment building and headed toward the elevator.

  “Jesus, Lennox, are you okay?”

  I didn’t shriek. I didn’t bolt. I was too numb.

  Vic. I had been so wrapped up in my pity party that I hadn’t noticed him approaching. Nor had I seen the girl walking at his side.

  I gave Vic a brief glance and then turned my attention to the girl. She stood casually next to him, as if it were the most natural place for her to be. She was close to Vic’s age and much classier than Vic’s most recent conquests. She was blonde, with severe features. She looked a little like Robin Wright. Her hair was short, a la Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby. She wore a dark blazer with matching skirt and don’t-fuck-with-me heels. All that combined made her look like a superhero to me.

  I hated her already.

  Vic repeated my name. He left his date’s side and stepped so close to me I could see my reflection in his black eyes.

  Was I alright?

  No. Every day, Dean got closer to finding me, to getting me. He was playing cat and mouse with me. He was a cruel child ripping my mouse legs off one by one until I bled to death. But Dean wouldn't simply let me bleed to death, drifting away on the numbness blood loss would bring. No, he’d tear my throat out so I had one final jolt of pain.

  The elevator doors opened; without a word, I motioned Vic and his date inside. I’d wait for the next one.

  Was I okay?

  No. Vic and I weren't anything to each other. We weren't friends, we weren't lovers, and I was bleeding out. No I wasn't okay.

  Hee-hee-hee.

  I turned over in bed and pulled the pillow tight against my ears. Whoever was playing in the hallways at—I glanced at my clock—two in the morning needed a serious tongue-lashing. But it wasn't going to be me doling out the lashings. I was going to fall asleep, hopefully. It had been a long-ass day. The night kept stretching on like rubber about to snap. I desperately wanted sleep, but it just wouldn't come.

  “One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, shut the door.”

  I sat up, glaring at my door. The voices were getting closer. They were creepy and waifish, like a child's voice coming through the fog. I hugged my knees, waiting for the next stanza of the rhyme.

  “Five, six, pick up sticks.”

  The children (if that's what they were?) were definitely getting closer. If I was an angry, old woman I would have gone out and told them to quit it with the ruckus. Instead, I was a paranoid girl curled up in her bed reliving the past.

  “Seven, eight, lay them straight.”

  When I was a little girl I used to see things. Hallucinations are what the doctors called them. To a little girl, though, it was hard to give them any other name than ghosts or demons. I would wake up in the middle of the night and different people would be leaning over me, leering. One night, it was a man who was wearing construction clothes: coveralls, hard hat, boots, leather gloves. He was as solid as you or me. He just stared at me.

  He was a nice ghost.
/>   My parents could only handle me running into their room in the middle of the night so many times. At first, they had me sleep in their bed. That devolved into me sleeping on the floor next to their bed. Have you ever slept on the floor after a terrifying ghost visits you? It sucks. The jokes of “don’t look under the bed” or “there are monsters under the bed” never seemed less funny.

  So, my parents room soon become off limits. Instead, I got into the habit of lying awake on the family room couch, watching the Disney Channel until I fell asleep out of pure exhaustion. (The Disney Channel was the only station I’d watch because it didn’t air scary commercials.)

  The ghosts came even when I was awake. One night, I was watching TV and a woman appeared in front of me. She had long, ink-black hair and was wearing a tattered, white dress. I didn't scream. I didn't do anything but mold myself into the couch, waiting for my fate. Eventually she disappeared, but I didn't sleep that night. I remember that night like it was yesterday; the dread that had filled me was paralyzing.

  Interesting side story, The White Lady is a type of female ghost and is a pervasive cultural phenomenon. She has been seen by thousands of people. She represents foreboding and even death in some cases. I read that on the Wikipedia. So, I guess I'm not the only one who's seen her. Now I'm wondering who is crazy: The people seeing the ghosts, or the doctors ignoring them?

  Not long after seeing The White Lady, I was doing homework on a Saturday afternoon. I heard an inhuman noise: it sounded like a cat being boiled alive mixed with a baby's first cry after childbirth. This time, terror didn’t paralyze me. I ran screaming out of my house like it was on fire.

  I wasn't safe at night and now I wasn't safe during the day.

  I tried to tell my parents I was being haunted. They attributed it to my overactive imagination. But demons were in the house! I couldn't escape them and they lived in the mirrors and in the closets! They bought me a nightlight, but it created more shadows to taunt me. I smashed it. I slept with all my lights on, because I couldn't have any goddamn shadows.

  Soon my ramblings and ravings became too much for my parents. Or maybe they became seriously worried about me. They made an appointment for me to see a child psychiatrist. I don't remember my exact diagnosis; I've had so many over my lifetime. I just remember him telling me what I was seeing wasn't real. Ghosts aren't real. Demons aren't real. He prescribed some medication and the demons stopped finding me. I still take that medication.

  “Nine, ten, kill them again.”

  My eyes shot open wide. Had I heard that correctly? Had the creepy Stephen King children on the other side of my door really said, “kill them again”?

  “This isn't happening.” I whispered this statement to myself, over and over again, until it became my mantra.

  When I was younger, before the medication, I had had a song I would sing to myself until everything bad had gone away. Yet, here I was doing essentially the same thing with my mantra.

  I was older now; I was supposed to be over this shit. I'm a semi-functioning member of society, dammit.

  I gathered every bit of courage I had inside me and got out of bed. I was going to go investigate. The way to deal with these ghosts is to be rational. What's the worst that could happen?

  Death. Destruction. The words popped into my head unbidden.

  But I'm not afraid of death or destruction. It’s the terror that gets me; the ghosts in my head prey on fear. Fear is all they have.

  Get some backbone, Moore!

  I cracked open my door.

  Hee-hee-hee.

  I jumped backward, opening the door on accident, the knob still clutched in my hand.

  “One, two, buckle my shoe.”

  What the hell? I stuck my head out into the hallway, looking around for whoever was speaking. No one. I stepped further into the hall, and my foot hit something hard: a tape recorder. I lifted it up to examine it.

  The voices were on a recording loop.

  “Three, four—”

  I smashed the box against the wall.

  This was too fucking much. Dean had placed a recording of terrifying children outside of my door. A threat, no less. Dean knew my history with mental illness and was using it against me.

  Cocksucker.

  Brilliant, evil, cocksucker.

  What kind of game was he playing? And how many lives did I have left?

  I hadn't seen Carl and Eileen since they'd tried to extort me. I'd talked with them over phone and email to make sure everything was going according to plan, but I hadn't actually seen them. I hadn't had time. The deal was that they would get paid, and the mansion would remain intact for the party. There would be no major renovations, no sales, nothing. I assumed everything would go smoothly.

  I had forgotten what complete and utter fuckheads Carl and Eileen are.

  The day before the party, I arrived at the mansion to help set up. My mouth dropped open and a fly flew in.

  The place was completely trashed; I'm talking 1980s Johnny Depp trashed. There was graffiti on the walls, trash all over the floors, weird looking stains on the carpet, and a funky smell that permeated every room. There was no time to deal with the Hammershits because I had to deal with their mess.

  I could get rubber gloves and trash bags and get rid of the garbage. But that smell, the smell had to go. What even made that kind of noxious smell? It was like spoiled meat mixed with old Mexican food and greasy french fries.

  If I wasn't so peeved off and terrified of losing my job, I might have laughed at the way all the vendors just stood around looking. It was clear no one was expecting this. Or, maybe they were. I don't know what other venues these people have worked at.

  Lissie came up to my side. “I didn't know you were here today,” I said to her.

  She shrugged. “What the hell is this place? And what is that smell?” Lissie wrinkled her nose.

  It was my turn to shrug. “I didn't choose it like this. The assholes who own the place did this.”

  “Bethany will have a conniption if she sees it like this,” Lissie said.

  Bethany can go fuck herself, is what I wanted to say. She gave me a very important client and a nearly Mission Impossible-style job, yet she didn't offer any advice or help. What kind of boss does that? Not to mention her skeevy behavior lately. “Yeah, well, let's make sure she doesn't see it then,” is what I said instead.

  “How do you propose to do that?” Lissie asked, concern lacing her voice.

  I bit the inside of my cheek, mulling over her question. I had no idea. I'd already used all the tricks up my sleeve. I couldn't pull a cleaning crew out like a rabbit out of a hat. Suddenly, I wanted to cry. I hadn’t cried in years, but right now I wanted to full on, ugly cry. I wanted to be young again and able to cry without consequences. I wanted to feel like crying would solve something. It wouldn't solve anything, though. It would simply ruin the little bit of makeup I was wearing.

  I kicked a piece of trash. “This is so stupid,” I muttered to myself like a petulant child. Lissie patted my back lightly, and that was all it took to completely unravel. I didn’t cry because I don’t cry anymore, but I felt myself spinning out of control.

  “Excuse me!” I sniffed, running in to another room. I couldn’t take it anymore. It seemed like since being handed this stupid job nothing ever went right. Was it so much to ask that one thing went according to plan? I crouched down in the bathroom, trying to keep quiet as I hyperventilated.

  I only had a day to clean this up. Actually, strike that, I had less than a day because I had to clean up and also set up. It would take some kind off miracle to pull this off.

  I was fucked.

  So it didn’t take a miracle, just a clearer head.

  After running in to the bathroom yesterday and proceeding to hyperventilate until I nearly passed out, it became much easier to clean up Carl and Eileen's mess.

  I called them and threatened them with a lawsuit. They profusely denied any involvement, or tried at least. I ha
dn’t been fazed. There was a clause in our agreement that protected Simply Santa Barbara against this kind of thing. I should have checked the contract first but, being the stone-cold genius I am, waited until the last minute to do that.

  With their backs against the wall, Carl and Eileen magically had a solution.

  They showed up with a cleaning crew and had the place spotless within the hour. Naturally, they wanted to know when they were being paid. In full, of course. I felt violent toward them. Violence. So much violence. In lieu of a chainsaw massacre, I kindly pointed them toward the clause which said that any delay in our event due to their actions or inactions would result in a significantly reduced fee. The look on their faces was almost as nice as a blood bath.

  Almost.

  Anyway, here we are. The venue is nearly ready. Everything is going smoothly, and the decorations are finally in place. It only took all night.

  “This is the problem, Lissie,” I said, turning to her. Lissie had been My Girl Friday for this event. I don’t know what I would have done without her. “I’ve got my ass on too many seats. Right now I've got my ass on like ten different seats. It's not working. I only have two butt cheeks. Really, I should only be sitting on one seat, two tops, but somehow I've spread myself to ten. My ass can't handle that, Lissie!”

  I glanced at my clipboard, glaring at the unmarked “to-do” boxes. I shook my head, trying to get focus. I love how when you get out of control, shaking your head somehow (magically) brings you back to the real world. If only for a few minutes.

  “Never mind,” I said, my voice level. “Can you go check on the first caterer? Please tell me that they've arrived.” Lissie nodded with enthusiasm and wandered off to go put out some fires for me. I watched her walk away, before expanding my gaze to the venue.

  The caterers are setting up and the DJ is making sure the cables are wired correctly and that there is no feedback over the speakers. All that's left are the final touches. It's only minor problems now, things that I'd already planned for. I even planned for the early birds, guests who arrive more than three hours early.