Catching Temptation (In Darkness She Fades (Book 1) (5 page)

“Aren’t you?” Jerald asks while
flipping aside his shoulder-length black hair. The corner of his mouth twists
in amusement. “I mean from what your cousin told me, you suffer from
hideous
hallucinations.”

I grit my teeth at the teasing
smile stretching across his handsome face.

“You should’ve killed yourself.
It would’ve made it easier on your cousin’s family,” Victoria says, while
cuddling against Herald’s chest.

Jerald frowns in Victoria’s
direction.

Mrs. Kindal now writes away in
her journal, still oblivious to the cruel comments directed at me.

“I mean listen to you,
I like
to read
,” Victoria says. “You must bore your cousins to tears.” The rest of
the class snickers.

“Hey, do you only choke during a
speech or is it during all extracurricular activities?” Herald sneers.

More laughter breaks out.

I do not like being taunted. I am
not going to take it.

“If I choked during my speech,
it’s only because I was standing too close to vermin,” I stare meaningful at
Victoria, “and the maggots who feed off the vermin.” Straightening up, I sneer
with obvious disgust at the twins. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet
tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum, you’re the maggots who only have a taste for
trash.”

Every student in the classroom
sucks in their breath and silently watches the twins’ reactions.

“Trash!” Victoria jumps to her
feet. The twins remain motionless with shock. Guess they are not used to a girl
putting them in check.

“Enough, Miss Falls!” Mrs.
Kindal’s wild eyes mirror the fury in my heart.

I whirl around, “It’s interesting
how they can mock the death of my parents, try to persuade me to commit
suicide, say cruel sexual jokes, and you don’t seem to have a problem with
them,” I say to Mrs. Kindal.

“I think you need to leave my
classroom and visit the guidance counselor Miss Falls. You obviously have a
problem with authority and with lying. Out of my classroom!”

I toss my backpack over my
shoulder and say, “Happily,” before ramming into the exit door. When the heavy
wooden door closes behind me with a loud bang, two tears fall on my cheeks. At
least I did not let them see me cry. The counselor’s door, located in the
middle of the hallway, arouses a pit of anger in me. The counselors at the
mental institution Uncle Jack forced me to go to, acted so eager to help, but I
understood the games they played. Karma’s mother is a counselor at my old
school in Urbanna, Virginia. Karma warned me never to reveal any information
about the creatures. Never trust a counselor, is what Karma said.

Not wasting a minute, I march to
the entrance of the school. The old librarian came to mind. Mrs. Peters told me
to come by after school, but I do not want to wait. Checking my black-widow
pendant around my neck, I note the time in the spider’s red spot. Twenty
minutes until lunch starts. It should be enough time.

Down the cracked street, the
September wind caresses my tan skin. I flip open my cell phone and send a text
message to Karma. In my mind, I can already see Karma’s horrified expression
and her laughing. I wish I had done the same thing at Urbanna High.

After hiking four blocks, I halt
on Main Street. To my left, I catch sight of the run-down gas station next to
my street, Weeping Willow Road. Directly across from the gas station towers an
old Victorian mansion, which resembles a castle. I glimpse the house number and
smile. The monstrous mansion is indeed Mrs. Peters’ home. Dense vines slither
up the brick wall, obscuring the gaping windows, and pointy towers. The end of
the mansion mutates into an old theater house. A rusted sign, with
unrecognizable words, hangs over the entrance.

I cross over to the other side.

Despite the homes unfortunate
location, two beautiful oak trees flourish in the landscaped yard. Two pallid
tree benches wrap around the trees. I perform a skip on the concrete sidewalk.
Numerous stone gargoyles guard the top of the mansion. A couple of stones fall
from the roof. My head tilts backward as I gaze around for signs of life.
“Could’ve sworn there were four gargoyles, not three.”

The wind picks up and the trees
shake with such force a few branches fall. I jump aside. My polished
fingernails dig into my chest.

“I declare, Dearie! I didn’t
expect you until after school.”

Mrs. Peters’ bushy hair pops out
of the mansion’s door. Heartbeat returning to a normal rhythm, I grin at the
old woman. Stumbling forward, I say, “Sorry. Couldn’t help staring–”

“Quite all right, I understand
completely. Actually, this house is the oldest in town. It’s been passed down
from generation to generation to generation.” Mrs. Peters eyes, glaze with
rusted memories, and she reminds me of the gothic stone angels in my parents’
cemetery.

“What about the building next to
you?”

“Awe...the old theater. Built in
the middle to late eighteen hundreds, I believe. Did rather well until a few
tragic events occurred.”

I follow Mrs. Peters into her
dusty living room. “What happened?”

“Few children went missing.
Police investigated, but the old theater was the last place any of the children
were seen. Nothing was ever found until after we closed the theater down as a
memorial to the missing children. People started to talk of monsters dressed in
bone masks. Claimed these creatures would come out at night and drag unguarded
children into the underworld of the theater. Nevertheless, it’s all a piece of
bologna. I’ve lived in this house my whole life, the theater is even connected
to this house, and I’ve never seen any monsters.”

The hair on the back of my neck
prickles. It is like a snake slithered under my skin. A little voice in my head
whispers, but I have…

“Why are you out of class so
soon?” Mrs. Peters asks. Tipping her reading glasses to the bridge of her nose,
she peers over their thick rims, and gives me a stern glare. “You aren’t
skipping school are you?”

Nervous, I twirl my fingers
through my black and white hair. “No, my speech teacher excused me from class.
It seems she ignores Victoria Blare and those Jenkins twins when they insult
anyone, but if you try to defend yourself–”

“–you get scolded.” Mrs. Peters
frowns and continues walking through the living room. “Yes, unfortunately
they’re treated like spoiled brats because of their parents’ authority over the
school. It’s not fair, but it would be wise to avoid them as much as possible, Dearie.
The Jenkins twins are the descendants of the founder of Rosewood.” Mrs. Peters
stops in the kitchen.

Even with the counters laden with
dust and silvery cobwebs, the room feels magical. I turn away from the
scratched white cabinets and peer over to Mrs. Peters, who rummages through a
rickety bookcase also covered in dust and cobwebs. The place looks like it has
not been used in decades. Behind her, a gaping hallway exhibited pure darkness.
A sharp fear and coldness takes hold of my body.

Something is not right.

Someone is watching me.

A pair of icy eyes ravages my
every movement.

“Oomph – Found it. Buried in the
back of course–” Mrs. Peters touches my hand. “My goodness, Temptation. Are you
feeling well? You look as pale as my cat, Snowball.”

“Huh…I’m fine. Sorry, I’m curious
about the hallway. Where does it lead?”

Mrs. Peters' idle expression
changes. “Oh – It leads to the theater, but we hardly ever go down there. It’s
the reason we leave the lights off. No point in lighting an area where no one
travels. Except on Halloween, of course. We keep up with the Rosewood tradition
of the Masked Ball. It’s always held in the theater, something the Jenkins
family insists we keep doing every year.” Mrs. Peters grabs my arm and forces
me into the unlit living room. For such a short and feeble woman, she wields a
firm grip. “Here’s the book I told you about. It’s very old, so be cautious
with it and make sure to tell me how you like it.”

I glance up at Mrs. Peters’ last
statement. Something in her voice sounds eager.

“I have to run back to school. I
forgot a few things, so I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Temptation.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Peters. I’m sure
I’ll love it.”

Outside, I can still feel eyes
boring into me from the windows of the old mansion. Despite my fears, I dust
off a shudder, stuff the book into my bag, and hurry back to school.

I wonder if all small towns
contain such strange people.

I thought I saw someone peeking
out of an old shop when I passed. People must be bored out of their minds to be
interested in me walking down the street. When I arrive in the school parking
lot, I realize the “someone’s” eyes glowed in the darkness.

Chapter Four

In Darkness She Fades

           
The whiny grandfather clock downstairs chimes eight times. The tolls force me to
vanish from my fantasy world and reenter the living world. I never read
anything like Mrs. Peters’ book. It entails a magical land where a beast king –
also part human – rules over creatures created from his imagination. He steals
children and young women without a trace. No one knows the king actually saves
his prisoners from a bloodthirsty demon, which ends up capturing and caging the
beast king. The demon kidnaps children when the gateway between the human world
and the magical world thin. Once the children pass into the demon’s world, they
belong to him, and forget their human lives.

The book hints to one way a
person can find the demon’s world. “Follow the Cyclops rats into the dark
descent.” The only way to defeat the demon is to find and return the gift taken
from the beast king. The Cyclops rats guard the gift.

I shudder. “Creepy.” I wonder
what happened to the king.

“Temptation, your dinner’s cold!”

Sighing, I close the delicate
book. With my hair up in a ponytail, I straighten my jean shorts and Hindu
print tank top. My naked feet guide me down the bright staircase and into the
kitchen. Daniel and Nathaniel munch on cherry cobbler in the dining room. The
scent of the warm cobbler makes my stomach grumble.

The mask from the living room
sparkles in the corner of my eye.

Aunt Sally must have mounted it
to the wall. It stands out against the countless porcelain faces Aunt Sally
likes to collect. Those things are hideous. A person who mounts china doll
faces to their walls equals serial killer disturbing to me.

“You’ll have to warm up your
dinner in the microwave. What kept you?” Aunt Sally’s bug-eyed look of
disapproval always makes me cringe.

“I was reading a book–”

“No. Really?” Daniel drops his
fork with a clatter into his empty bowl and laces his fingers together behind
his head. He leans backward. “I thought you were talking on the phone with all
the
friends
you made today.”

“Daniel, shut your metal-mouth!”

“I said I don’t want any cursing
around Nathaniel!” Aunt Sally pounds her perfectly manicured hand against the
table. “For goodness sake, you haven’t even been in the room for one minute and
you both are already fighting. I think Jack needs to have a talk with all of
you.” Aunt Sally purses her lips in my direction. “You especially Temptation, you’re
supposed to set an example for your cousins, not–”

“Is this why you agreed to adopt
me? To teach your children how to act? Because, obviously you wouldn’t raise a
pagan child willingly. You hated my mother for being pagan,” I yell, kicking
the chair.

Aunt Sally’s eyes widen with
shock, while Nathaniel drops his fork.

My nails dig into the palms of my
hands. “Tell you what, Aunt Sally; I’ll leave since I’m obviously ruining your
perfect family.”

“Temptation–”

“Good!”

“Daniel, be quiet and let me
handle this–”

“Whatever!” I shake the
surrounding voices from my head. Swiveling, I dash out of the kitchen, through
the living room, and out of the front door.

“Wait, Temptation – come back!”

My bare feet slam against the
rough pavement, separating me from Aunt Sally’s pleas, which fade into an eerie
echo. Tiny rocks nick my feet as I sprint down the blackened road. My silky
tresses reflect hues of brilliant white, as I pass under the lit street lamps
and dip back into the inky blackness. The old gravel feels cool beneath my
naked feet. Houses blur past. Everything is always my fault.

Faint laughter floats through the
night air.

I halt and steady my breathing.
The laughter of children is increasing in volume. I catch a twinkle of silver
down the end of the abandoned street. Dark figures on motorcycles charge in my
direction. Panic courses through me, starting at my heart, which causes an
adrenaline rush. Movement in the woods captures my attention. A pair of beastly
eyes peers out from the little carved huts in the yard of a vacant home.

I cough as the bike engines roar
and skid around me, kicking up the settled dirt on the street.

“What do we have here?”

I swipe at the dusty air. “Leave
me alone!”

“Awe, how come?” The leader of
the group leans on his handlebars and grins. Chrome teeth gleam in the
streetlight. I study his barbaric features, observing his colorless spiked
hair, and blacked-out eyes.

Fear sends an electric shock
through me.

His eyes!

The pupils glitter white instead
of human black. Revolving my timid gaze over the other bikers, they all possess
the same eyes and hair coloring.

Their freaky teeth are like
clumps of needles.

I hope Daniel spiked my food with
some drugs earlier. This cannot be real.

“Something wrong, Temptation?”
the leader teases.

Dashing to an opening in their
circle, I attempt to escape.

The gang moves in, baring their
horrible teeth. The leader reaches out and tugs me over to him.

The urge to scream boils up into
my throat. His fingernail, the size of a tiger’s claw, trails over my jawline.
“W-Who are you? How do you know my name?”

He grins, displaying his bizarre
teeth once again. “I’m Craven. We always know your names.”

“What do you mean ‘your names’?”

“People new to Rosewood.”

My fingers twist through the ends
of my hair. “Why didn’t I see you at school today?”

The bikers laugh.

“We’re more a nocturnal clan and
we’re way too old for school.”

“What are you?”

“I’ll answer that at another
time.” Craven graces me with a devilish smile. Bending until his lips touch my
ear, he whispers, “Be warned, Temptation, leave Rosewood while you can.”

Craven releases me and the gang
spins out. Kicking up the dust, they desert me in the middle of Weeping Willow
Road.

Their departure leaves me with a
tacit of dread. “This is insane.”

A ticking sound came from the log
huts in the forest. A small man, the size of a dwarf, ascends from the carved
hut. The bronze creature stares at me through the eye sockets of a devilish
bone mask. My breath catches in my chest, causing temporary paralysis. It mirrors
the same creature I saw after the car accident.

The creature grins, an
animalistic smile. He performs a mock bow in his elegant clothing and says,
“‘member me?” Straightening his distorted features, he disappears into the
shadowy hut.

Blood rushes to my legs. I jolt
down the street, and perform a mad surge for town. At the rundown gas station,
I aim for Mrs. Peters’ front porch. Banging my fist on the mahogany door, I
wait in silence for someone to answer.

Nothing.

No lights glow in the Victorian
manor, but they do at the old theater house. Movement flashes across the roof.
The dark outlines of creatures jump off the roof and dive. Fingers gripping the
railing, I haul myself over the porch and slam into the moist grass. Grunting
from the impact, I stumble up to the theater.

Sinister history or not, my
choices are limited at the moment.

A hearty glow seeps through the
partly open door of the theater. I slink through the crack like a cat and bolt
the door shut. To my surprise, the marble hallway is clean and cobweb-free.

I do not understand. The theater
should not be occupied.

The mahogany doors, newly
polished, still hold the faint aroma of lemon. Light music drifts throughout
the corridors. The crystals in the multiple chandeliers overhead twinkle and
ping as a gentle breeze invades an open window. I follow the intoxicating music
through the carved archway and out on to a balcony, where I draw in a breath. A
grand stage and auditorium stretch out below me. Jogging over to the majestic
staircase, I descend into the audience seats, and leap up on stage. Large
golden angels hold up the balconies, including the one I just vacated. The
auditorium is almost identical to the painting in my bedroom, except in the
picture there are no seats, only the ballroom floor.

The theater’s halls assure no
echoes of roaming creatures. A baby grand piano catches my eye. The rare
opportunity and sit down at the piano empowers me. It has been almost a year
since I last touched a piano, but now my fingers are stroking the ivory bars. I
press on the keys. The slow haunting tune I know so well lifts my spirits.
A
voice sings. My voice.

“Save
her if you can,

In
darkness, she fades.

Alice
in Wonderland,

She
dreams away.

She’s
shackled in these chains,

She
can’t escape.

Deep
in Hell’s core,

She
opens the door.”

The room magnifies my trained
vocals. The music extinguishes my fears, worries, and memories of the past
hour. Only the music matters. Over the course of the past year, it felt like I
wore a corset and every day it would become tighter and tighter. Every day I
thought, I might die of suffocation; crushed to death by sorrow. As I sing, the
corset loosens, and frees me for one brief blissful moment.

“I thought you told me you
couldn’t sing!”

The piano extinguishes the
beautiful tune by creating a dooming pulse as I hit the wrong key. Ungluing my
tattooed hand from the smooth keys, I spy Mrs. Peters standing on the staircase
with a box of fireworks in her bony arms. Mrs. Peters lowers the fireworks to
the waxed floor and strides up to the stage.

“Sorry! I tried knocking next
door. Nobody answered, so I saw the light on, and–”

“It’s all right, Dearie. I’m not
angry with you, just surprised. You’ve the loveliest voice I’ve ever heard and
you told me you couldn’t sing if your life depended on it.”

Ashamed of the true reason for
not singing in public, I can feel my cheeks burning a shade of burgundy. The
idea of not having my parents in the audience to cheer me on makes me want to
cry. I cannot survive it. It is my fault they are gone.
“Thank you, Mrs.
Peters. I didn’t mean to lie, but I don’t really want to draw attention to
myself that way. At my other school the girls were a little...cruel.”

“You mean, jealous?” Mrs. Peters
smiles at the awkward grin on my face. “I understand, but if you ever change
your mind, I’ll always have a spot open for you in the choir. You could sure
give Victoria Blare a run for her money! But I don’t believe I’ve ever heard
that song.”

“I wrote it,
Alice Demented
,
after my parents died.”

“Well, I think it’s lovely dear.
A mournful, but beautiful tune. Here,” Mrs. Peters extends a withering hand out
to me, “what did you need to see me about at–” the clock tolls at the top of
the staircase, “–ten in the evening?”

“Oh.” I forgot to invent a reason
for my presence and the truth is totally out of the question. “I wanted to tell
you I loved the book you let me borrow. It’s one of the most unique fairytales
I’ve ever read.”

“You mean you finished it
already! My goodness you weren’t joking when you said you’re a fast reader.
Yes, it’s a one-of-a-kind fairytale, because it’s based on a true story.”

“What do you mean?”

Mrs. Peters retrieves another box
of fireworks out of an audience seat and cradles it. “The story is based off an
old folktale right here in Rosewood. Supposedly, all these eccentric events
happened when this very theater house was built over a century and a half ago.
The theater is what attracted people to move to Rosewood in the first place.
But after a few years, the townspeople started to notice something wasn’t right
with some of the folks in Rosewood. People started turning up dead with animal
bite marks on their body. After the children started disappearing, the
townspeople decided to take action. Do you remember me telling you earlier
today about the theater house?”

“Yeah.” I cross my arms and try
to rub the Goosebumps away.

“Well, the townspeople hired two
exorcists to get rid of the strange king and his dark creatures. It worked, but
since then the theater house has never been reopened – except for the annual
Halloween Masked Ball.”

“If the theater contains such a
horrible history, why do they reopen it? I mean Halloween makes it even more…”
I struggle to think of a better word than “stupid.”

“Unwise,” Mrs. Peters says. “What
you have to understand first, Temptation, is not many people in Rosewood know
the true folktale, so I don’t think they realize how dangerous it is until it’s
too late.”

I am twisting the ends of my
hair. “But you own the theater, couldn’t you tell them no or have it knocked
down?”

“I would if I owned it, but the
fact of the matter is it belongs to the Jenkins family.”