by Willow Rose
Her husband, Brian, didn't know about her anxiety attacks and bouts of paranoia, and she hid the pills from him. She could hardly tell him she was sensing and hearing things that weren't really there. He would only worry, and she didn't want that.
The attacks had begun after she was fired five months back…or forced into early retirement as they had so diplomatically put it. Her doctor believed the attacks might have to do with the fact that Ann didn't work anymore and had told her to find a hobby. Something to keep her busy and keep her mind off those thoughts that constantly lingered in the back of her mind.
What you did was wrong.
Ann sighed and put the pills back in the cabinet, hiding them behind an old box of tampons that she kept in the house for her daughter when she visited from Copenhagen. At the age of fifty-nine, Ann no longer had any use for them, but they served well as a way to cover the pills since Brian would never touch them or think to look behind them.
Ann looked at her own reflection. She had gotten old, and she even felt old. It was tough seeing Brian go off to work every day while all she did was hang around and wait for…for what? To grow old? To die?
She had loved her work, at least she used to. She loved feeling important, feeling like she made a difference in the world. But now…now, all she was left with was this old wrinkled face looking back at her.
It will haunt you until the end of your days.
Ann thought she heard something, like the sound of something slithering. Not a snake, but similar. Bigger than a snake. And wet. Something wet. A dripping sound followed. She was certain it was coming from the shower behind her and turned to look. There was nothing there, as usual. Still, she felt like she was being observed, like someone was looking at her, watching her every move.
"You've got to stop doing this to yourself."
She turned and looked at her reflection once again, saying the words. The dripping returned, but now she refused to turn her head and look. She had heard that slithering sound when walking past the storm drain in the street outside. It sounded like when Brian was slurping his coffee, which Ann loathed.
She closed her eyes and thought of something else, of the beach, of summer and her grandkids playing in the waves. Ann was so much looking forward to them coming this July.
Ann opened her eyes again and was met by her own reflection, then she shivered. She grabbed her hair and felt it. She really should see a hairdresser soon. She was letting herself go.
How about today?
"Why not?" she asked herself. "I can do anything I want to today. And tomorrow and the day after that. Anything I'd like to. Anything."
Because nobody needs me anymore.
Chapter Two
"Maybe we should give you some highlights? To lift it a little? Or maybe a full color?"
It was a new girl who took care of her at the salon. Her name was Hannah, she told her. Her hair was purple on one side and steel gray on the other. It was boyishly short and seemed unruly, but that was probably the intention, Ann concluded. The messy look was in right now, they said in all the magazines.
"Sure. I’m ready to try something new. Why not?"
"Okay, let's do it. You're gonna absolutely love it," Hannah said and, as she said it, Ann immediately regretted her decision. This girl was fresh out of school and wanted to try everything she had learned.
I’m going to end up looking like her, aren't I?
"So…gray is the new color, like steely gray," she said and showed Ann a magazine with these gorgeous gray-haired women who couldn't be more than twenty. It didn't look anything like Ann's gray hair. Hers was stiff and impossible to control. Theirs was wavy and smooth and looked gorgeous.
"Do you want that?"
"I already have gray hair," Ann said. "Why would I want to color it gray? I want you to cover the gray."
Hannah looked surprised and slightly disappointed. "Oh."
She turned a few pages in the magazine, then said: "It's just that e-e-everyone is doing the gray now."
"That might be, but I am not," Ann said. "Just give me a nice brown color. Maybe some highlights."
Hannah forced a smile and closed the magazine. "Okay."
Ann submerged herself in the stack of tabloid magazines and caught up on all the gossip there was to know about the royal family and all the TV stars in the country, you know, the stuff that you simply had to know if you were going to be able to join in on the conversation at dinner parties. And Ann really wanted to. She had started seeing some of her old friends for brunch once a week at Café Mimosa downtown, but she never knew what to talk to them about since their worlds were so different.
As Hannah washed out the color from Ann's hair, she heard it again. At first, she thought it was the hose or the faucet that made those slithering, slurping sounds. It was like a wet crackle like something slimy was moving slowly inside the drain.
Ann gasped and lifted her head from the sink.
"Whoa," Hannah said. "I’m not quite done."
Ann looked at the sink, at the drain beneath her head, but there was nothing there. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something else, something that made her happy.
Your grandchildren running in the sand. Alberte with a bucket in her hand, giggling.
"Is everything all right, ma'am?" Hannah asked.
Ann opened her eyes again, then nodded. "I’m sorry. I just get a little…sometimes."
"You're not feeling okay?"
Ann breathed in a few times, deep breaths like that article had told her, the one called Panic-Attacks and how to avoid them ruining your day. She shook her head.
"I’m fine. I’m just fine. It's just that…noise." She wrinkled her nose, then looked at the drain once again.
Hannah stared at her.
"It's just the water," she said.
"I know. I know. I just can't stand it."
Ann put her head back in the sink and closed her eyes while Hannah gently washed out the last remnants of the color. Ann worked hard on her breathing exercises, trying to keep out the overwhelming noise coming from the drain below.
Chapter Three
She rushed out of the salon and into the street where she had parked her car, barely hearing the slushing sound as it moved in the storm drain beneath the pavement.
She started the car, then turned the music up loud and drove off. Finally, she couldn't hear it anymore. If the sound was still in her head, the music managed to drown it out.
She had heard the sound for quite some time now…for at least a week. It was everywhere she went. Except in places with loud noises or music. But it was surprisingly quiet on Fanoe Island in most places. It was especially bad at night. She would lie awake and listen to it for hours without being able to figure out where it came from. Some nights, she had even gotten out of bed to search for its origin, and she always ended up by the sink in the bathroom or the toilet, and sometimes she wondered what on earth could be in there, in her drain, but then she would hear the sound in other places in town as well and, little by little, she realized it had to be all in her head.
Ann parked the car outside the house, then turned the music off, cautiously. She sat for a few seconds and listened, but there was nothing. Ann breathed a sigh of relief. She looked at herself in the mirror and felt pretty good about her hair. Now, all she needed was to put on a little makeup, and she wouldn't look half bad. Brian was going to get himself a little surprise when he returned from work.
Ann rushed inside and pulled out the roast she had decided to make for tonight. She wasn't much of a housewife, but since she now had more time available in her day, she had decided to try a little harder to be the wife Brian had always wanted her to be.
"You are so much more than your career," he had said when she had told him about her early retirement, crying. "I always believed you were. You’ve given them everything. Now, it’s time for you to do something for yourself for a change."
Ann wasn't so sure she was very good at all this doing-
something-for-yourself-stuff. So far, it had only plunged her into mental instability that she had no idea how to place or what to do with. The pills didn't always work, and she was beginning to wonder if she should start seeing a therapist. She just felt like such a failure.
Ann walked to the bathroom to pee and sat down. Lately, she hadn't been very fond of going since, in bathrooms, the sound was worse than anywhere else. Maybe it was the quietness because she was all alone with her thoughts. Maybe it was something else.
Ann held her breath as she went, then hurried to wash her hands and rushed out of the bathroom once again, closing the door firmly behind her.
She went to the kitchen and finished prepping the roast and prepared the potatoes. A few hours later, she had dressed in a nice red dress and was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for Brian to come home so she could surprise him with her new hair and a nice home-cooked meal.
But as the hours passed and he didn't come, Ann ended up eating alone like so many times before. Brian had probably been hung up at work, she thought and looked at her phone every five minutes to check if it was still working.
When the clock in the hallway struck eleven, Ann decided to go to bed. It wasn't unusual for Brian to work overtime, and usually, she would just turn in, but tonight she was sad in doing so.
"He didn't even get to see my new hair," she said to her reflection. "Tomorrow, when I wake up, it's going to be all messed up."
She brushed her teeth and removed her make-up and washed her face till the same old woman from this morning was back. Ann sighed and pulled her cheeks backward to smooth out the wrinkles and see what she would look like if she had a facelift. When she let go of it, it seemed even worse than before.
It was no use.
Ann turned off the lights in the bathroom, then closed the door to block out the slithering sound and hopefully get a good night's sleep. She crept under the covers and closed her eyes. In the distance, she could hear something, a mass of some sort slithering and sizzling up through the drain, then landing on the tile in the bathroom, but Ann was certain it was all in her mind.
It wasn't until it slid underneath the door and toward her bed, then stood above her, dripping onto the carpet, forcing water inside her mouth and down her throat, shoving the liquid into her lungs, that she finally realized that she had been right all this time.
Chapter Four
"We can't publish this."
The words fell, and I heard them, but I didn't believe them. They came from my publisher, Inger. We were sitting in her office at my publishing house in Copenhagen. It had taken me three hours to get there and for what? To hear her tell me she wasn't going to publish my book? I was stunned. I thought I was going there to sign the contract as I usually did at this point in the process.
"What?" I asked. "Why?"
Inger sighed. "It's too weird."
"It's too weird?"
"Emma, for God's sake. It's a book about a vampire from another world, maybe from outer space, who kidnaps and drains young people of their blood because it is special and can keep him alive for decades?"
"Yes, the blood was injected into them when they were abducted, and he needed it to survive…why can't you publish it? You always publish everything I write, and we sell millions of books."
"I don't even have a category to put it in. What genre is this? Who am I going to sell this book to? Who is going to believe it?" she asked, holding up the manuscript with the title Waltzing Matilda printed on the first page.
"Does it matter?" I asked. "Isn't it enough that it’s a good story?"
"But, Emma, your books are always based on real events; that's what makes them so amazing," Inger said.
"But this is based on real events. It happened," I said. "Last month. That's why I wrote the book."
Inger sighed and leaned back in her leather chair. Behind her was the view of Copenhagen. I liked being back for a visit, but I couldn't say I had missed the place. My heart belonged to Fanoe Island now.
"I don't know what you think happened, but this book isn't real, Emma. A vampire who has been here for centuries entering through…the sewers?"
"Well, we don't know how he entered, just that he woke up in the sewers under Fanoe Island and, ever since, he has lived there, feeding off whoever he could hold captive until he could find other people from his own world who had also ended up here. He could recognize them by their blood, and drinking theirs would keep him…"
"Emma, I’m going to stop you right there. I’ve read the book. You don't have to explain it to me. I’m doing you a favor. By not publishing the book, I am saving you from public embarrassment; believe me."
"Why?" I asked. "Because it's supernatural? Because it's out of your comfort zone?"
"Because it's too darn crazy. This book will make people lose their confidence in you; you'll lose the credibility that you’ve built up over the years. Now, they'll start believing you are making all of it up and in that way all your other books will lose their special touch. Can't you see that?"
I shrugged. "Isn't that my problem? If I want to publish this book and ruin my credibility? This is an important story to tell. People should know about these things."
"About strange creatures living among us drinking our blood? About kids with special skills who can explode windows and create fire with their hands? I hardly think that is important to tell people, Emma. They won't believe a word of it."
"But…"
Inger shook her head. She pushed the manuscript across her desk toward me. "It's a no, Emma. I have strict orders from above. There is no way this publishing house is publishing that book. I am sorry…no. You know what? I’m not sorry. I’m helping you out here. You should thank me."
I grabbed the manuscript between my hands and rose to my feet, holding it tight to my chest.
"Yeah, well there is no way I am going to thank you for having no balls," I said as I grabbed my purse and left.
Chapter Five
I drove home so fast I got not one but two speeding tickets. The first one while still on Zealand, the other while hurrying toward the ferry because I didn't want to have to wait till the next one twenty minutes later. This trip had turned out to be quite expensive and so not worth my time.
As I stood on the deck of the ferry and watched my misty island approach in the distance, I finally managed to calm down. How I loved this strange little place in the middle of the North Sea. A woman came up to me with eyes wide and a book in her hand.
"Are you Emma Frost?"
I nodded. She held out a pen, and I signed her copy of Itsy Bitsy Spider, the first book I had ever written.
"I love your books. I have all of them," she said. "We actually decided to visit Fanoe Island because of your books. I can't believe I actually got to meet you, the real Emma Frost. You're an amazing writer. Don't ever stop writing books. I'll keep reading as long as you write."
I felt a little emotional and sniffled. "I won't," I said. "I promise."
As the woman left, smiling from ear to ear, I realized I wasn't going to let some publishing house stop me from getting my books out to my many readers. There had to be another way I could get this story out, a way that was easier.
The ferry came to shore, and I drove off, feeling empowered and strong, while an idea lingered in the back of my head. I drove up to my beach house and got out, then walked inside. The smell of newly baked rolls filled my nostrils. In the kitchen, I found my mom and dad reading the paper together while holding hands. I had asked them to be at the house to keep an eye on Skye and be there when Victor got back in case I didn't get there in time. Victor wouldn't be happy that I wasn't there since he loathed change, but he loved my dad and, as long as he got his afternoon tea as usual, then I believed we could avoid him throwing a fit. It took a while to explain to my mom that he wasn't just a spoiled twelve-year-old, but that he had a condition, even though I didn't have a diagnosis for him.
"Emma? You're back?" My dad said looking at me abov
e his glasses.
"That was early," my mom said. "Did everything go alright at the publishing house?"
I sighed and threw my manuscript on the counter. "They won't publish it. Is Victor home yet?"
"Not yet," my dad said.
"And Skye?"
"She's in the living room, waiting for him," my mom said, and then added, "What do you mean they won't publish it?"
I shrugged, grabbed myself a cup of coffee, and sipped it.
"They didn't like it, I guess."
"Well, it is quite different than your other books," my mom said. I had let them both read it since I needed their feedback, plus I really wanted them to know these things, to know what had happened and what Victor and Skye were capable of. I knew my mom didn't like it much, even though she didn't say it directly. She just had a hard time picturing all these things.
"I never had much of an imagination," she said.
"But it's real, Mom," I tried to explain. "Victor does these things. It happened. All of it."
"Now, well…I don't know about that…" she replied, making a face that told me she didn't believe me at all.
My dad was struggling with it too, but he seemed more open. He always believed Victor was quite special and not just an undisciplined child like my mom thought.
"We baked," my mom said, smiling. "Just like you wanted us to, to make sure Victor got the bread he usually gets when he gets home from that…place."
"School, Mom. We call it school, even though it is at a psychiatric hospital."
"Oh, yes, well…"
I looked at the oven and the rolls inside of it. "I think you need to get them out. They look a little brown to me."
My mom sprang to her feet. "Oh, dear Lord."
She opened the oven and pulled out the rolls, then smiled. "They're only a little burnt."
I was about to say something just as I heard the minivan from Fishy Pines arrive in my driveway and I ran out to greet Victor instead.