Caterpillar, a Paranormal Romance With a Touch of Horror (27 page)

I lay, immobile and humiliated, for what seemed an eternity while I took stock of my position and surroundings.  I was sprawled halfway up under the fender of what looked like a mammoth SUV.  I had to do some fancy maneuvering to sit up, most of which I’m sure put my body into very unladylike poses and exposed most of my underwear at some point. 

I quickly made a mental assessment of my injuries.    Other than a few scrapes, bruises and some road rash, I was alright.  Most injured was my pride.   

When I finally managed to stand up, I refused to look around to see if anyone had witnessed my humiliating tumble.  Instead, I dusted myself off and straightened my clothes as best I could.  In the process, I realized that my outfit had taken quite a hit, too.  There were scuffs, smudges and picks in several places, and, if the ground around where I landed was any indication, there was probably a huge oil stain on my back. 

Too embarrassed to go into Panera after my sidewalk acrobatics, I gathered my belongings and limped back to my vehicle.  I glared at the spot where the blue sedan had been, but was no longer.  Had it still been there, I would likely have gone and beat the driver to death with my one intact heel. 

With no gratification to be had there, I took my angst out on my other shoe, possibly the only article of my entire outfit without a blemish.  I hit it against the ground several times until, with a satisfying thwack, the heel popped off.  I pushed it aside and climbed in to sit behind the wheel of the Toyota for a few minutes before starting the engine. 

I heard the warble of my cell phone, obviously no worse for the accident, and rifled through my purse to find it.  The number showed Steven Seinfeld’s number; he was my next showing.  I answered in as chipper a voice as I could muster.

“Ms. Deen, I’m sorry to bother you, but Albert and I are having a scheduling issue.  Would it be possible to move our showing up by about an hour?”

“On practically any other day I’d be more than happy to accommodate your request, but I’ve had a little curbside accident that left my clothes quite…tattered.  I’d really like to change into something more presentable before our showing if you wouldn’t mind.  If it’s no longer convenient, we could reschedule for another day if you’d like.”

“You’re alright, I hope.”

“I’m fine.  Just a little bruised pride and some scuffed palms, but thank you for asking.”

“If it’s just aesthetics you’re worried about, please don’t.  Albert and I really want to see this house and we’d rather not put it off.  If you feel like showing the house, we certainly wouldn’t mind if you appear a bit mussed.”

When put like that, it made me sound like a selfish diva to let vanity cost me a possible sale.  Pragmatism won out.  “Well, if it doesn’t bother you, I suppose we could meet there in, say, thirty minutes.  I’ll have to double check the showing service to make sure no one else has the earlier time block.”

“Fabulous!  Thirty minutes then?”

“See you then, Mr. Seinfeld.”  The one positive to the change was that I’d have plenty of time to eat and change clothes before my third showing. 

Glass half full
,
Cat,
I thought. 
Glass half full.

I took a shortcut to the house I was showing the Misters Seinfeld, which turned out to be a bad idea.  They were doing some road maintenance and I got stuck staring at a manly woman dressed in an orange vest and orange hat, holding a stick with a stop sign on top of it.  I realized as she chewed her gum and scratched her stained armpit that she couldn’t care less what her stop-sign-on-a-stick was doing to my timetable.

When the super slow moving dump truck finally got out of the road, I was allowed to pass.  By some miracle, I was only about two minutes late when I arrived at the house I was showing. 

The pale yellow plantation style home had a large front yard full of big old trees and a wrap around porch replete with two white swings and four white rocking chairs.  It was truly a southern delight.

It sat on the corner of two streets and had a driveway that went from one street through to the other.  You could enter from either side.  I pulled in from the back and drove under the portico and parked.  I could see a maroon cross-over SUV of some sort parked in front and assumed that it belonged to the Misters Seinfeld.

When I got out, all I could hear was the loud buzz of a leaf blower.  The gardener at the house next door was cleaning off the driveway.  He finished just as I neared the front porch.  The noise must’ve masked the sound of my approach so I caught the candid tail end of the conversation between the two men as they sat on the front porch, idly rocking in the chairs.

“Peter and Sammy should’ve been the ones doing this.  We won that bet fair and square.”

“Albert, I told you—”

“I know, I know, but if you hadn’t been flirting with Joshua it wouldn’t matter.  Peter and Sammy would be here, I promise you.”

“So this is
my
fault?”

“It is and you know it.”

“This is stupid anyway.  I told them there wouldn’t be a body in there.  They need to stop seeing that slutty psychic wannabe and visit Miss Chloe.  She told me there wouldn’t be a body here and she’s never wrong.”

That was all I needed to hear.  I stepped around the corner of the porch to make myself seen.  The two men were so engrossed in their argument they failed to notice me until I cleared my throat.  The creaking of the two rocking chairs came to a sudden stop.

At least the fat one of the two had the good grace to blush.  “Ms. Deen, I presume.”

“Yes.  And I’m going to go out on a limb and say that there’s really no good reason to go inside.  Am I right?”  My face was pinched so tight, the back of my head felt like it would split wide open.

“Um, you, uh—” he sputtered. 

“Yes, I heard about the bet.  I don’t appreciate having my time wasted, Mr. Seinfeld.  I’m sure you can find your way out.”  And with that, I turned on my no-heel heel and stomped back to my vehicle.

My obviously widespread reputation was becoming more of a nuisance that I ever would have imagined that it could.  I was going to have to start my more-stringent screening measures very soon.

I altered my route to take me across town and home rather than to the office.  After the stress of the day (and it wasn’t even over), I felt like I needed a break, even if it was just a couple of hours. 

I wasn’t all that far from home, about forty minutes or so, but the time of day, on a Friday no less, was the kicker.  Traffic was terrible.  As I crept along the highway, bumper to bumper traffic in all four lanes, I got another odd flash of my house, the ones that appear to come from someone else’s eyes. 

My perspective was low, like ground level looking up the steps leading to my front porch.  I saw two pairs of legs and shoes.  One was wearing black pants and nondescript black shoes, the other was wearing low-heeled black pumps.  I could see the hem of a dark gray skirt just touching the tops of thin, hose-clad calves.

The feet paused on my doormat and I heard my locks flip open all at once then the feet proceeded into my house.  The door shut behind the intruders and then the image was gone.

I shook off the disturbing sensation and reached for my phone.  I called Tegan and told him that I thought someone was at my house.  He told me he was on his way.  He said he’d be there shortly after me and warned me not to get out of the vehicle until he arrived.

The closer I got to the house, the more anxious I became.  Who was in my house and what were they doing there?  I thought I knew at least part of the answer because someone didn’t need a key to get inside.  With all the locks flipping open at the same time like that, it sounded reasonable to assume that something supernatural was at play.  I doubted it could mean anything good.

I pulled up to my usual spot at the curb and sat, watching the house.  I wasn’t even going to cut the engine off until Tegan arrived.  I looked around, but saw nothing suspicious, nothing out of place.  I did, however, see the cat lying near the bottom of my porch steps. 

I rolled the vision back through my mind, looking for something, anything that would give me a clue as to what was going on, what I might find inside.  The second time I replayed it, I noticed once again the perspective.  I looked across the yard at the cat lounging in the grass beside the steps.

Was that even possible?  And, if so, how?

I thought back to the other visions I’d had.  The first I was looking down, like maybe from a tree.  I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.  I mean, stranger things had been happening to me, so I was grateful for a little forewarning.  I guess I just thought it was another facet to my gift of sight.

The second vision had appeared to come from my front porch, roughly the same place the cat always sat on the porch railing.

My mind scrambled to put it all together.  Then I remembered the cat scratching me at Aunt Jillian’s then licking its paw. 
Your blood is powerful.

I was pulled from my introspection when Tegan pulled up behind me.  He motioned for me to stay put as he stepped through the gate and started up the walkway.  He peeked in the windows on the front porch then tried the door knob.  Whoever it was had been nice enough to lock up before they left.  What thoughtful criminals.

He came back out to get my keys.  I watched him retrace his footsteps.  After unlocking the door, Tegan disappeared inside.  When he didn’t re-emerge after a few minutes, paranoid thoughts of him being ambushed plagued me so I decided to go check on him. 

When I stepped over the threshold, nothing immediately seemed out of place or overtly wrong.  I took a few steps into the living room; nothing out of place there.  The temperature was a little cooler than what I typically kept it, but other than that, nothing seemed amiss.  Then I made my way into the kitchen. 

The first thing I saw was all the blood at the small table I’d had a thousand breakfasts at.  Then I saw a pile of bloody clothes in one of the chairs that had been pulled out.  Both windows were open, letting the cool winter air in.

Tegan was standing at the stove, where an enormous commercial-sized pot sat, a pink froth bubbling from beneath the edges of the lid.  There was no smell, most of it having been carried out the open windows.

A small sauce pan sat on the back eye.  The coils were still black; the heat wasn’t on beneath it.  An old, wrinkled severed right hand lay in the pan, the fingers grasping a sticky note with the word Laodicea written on it.  Several bejeweled rings decorated each finger, obviously having been forced on after the fact, as no one could maintain use of their fingers with the rings placed such as they were.

Tegan removed the lid from the pot and something bobbed at the surface.  It looked like a head.  Just before I turned away, I saw silvery white hair.  I felt the blood drain from my face when I replayed my earlier vision and saw the feet and legs of the second person entering my house.  One word scrambled through my mind in a panic— Mamaw.

“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod,” I repeated.  I could feel an irrational fear rising up to choke me.  My breath felt like it was stuck in my chest, unable to pass the lump that constricted my throat. 

Tegan turned to look at me.  “What?  What is it?”

“Your phone.  Give me your phone.”  Without hesitation, he reached into his pocket and produced his cell phone.

I quickly dialed Mamaw’s number.  With every ring, my tension rose.  I turned and ran toward the door, ready to drive to her house when I heard a click followed by a familiar voice.

“Mamaw?”

“Well, howdy, Punkin’,” she said in her customary way. 

Relief flooded me.  I leaned against the back of the sofa, doubting that my legs could have carried me one step further at that moment.  “Thank God!”

“Something the matter?”

“No, everything’s fine, Mamaw.  I was just…worried about you.  That’s all.”  I tipped the mouthpiece away from my face so I could take a few gulps of air and try to calm myself.  I didn’t want her to hear just how worried I’d been.