Cellar Door (6 page)

Madonna

Seeing the hooded guy in the library has me shaken up. I keep wracking my brain trying to figure out why he would say he’s going to kill me. And why has he always looked at me like he knows me? Maybe he has me mixed up with someone else because I know that I’ve never seen him before these two recent encounters.

I gather my things and stand at the library doors for about ten minutes, anxiously peering up and down the street. I finally muster up the courage to leave, mainly because the librarian is beginning to eye me with suspicion. When I’m finally convinced he isn’t coming back, I hurry down the street toward my apartment.

At times like this I’m grateful I thought about security when I rented the place. The doorman and the security guard give me some peace of mind in my own home. I make up my mind to tell the doorman I have a stalker. I’ll leave out the part about the death threat since I don’t want to be labeled as the crazy lady who’s overreacting. When I’m out doing volunteer work or running errands I’ll have to be on guard, but at home I refuse to live in fear.

I’ve spent my life being independent, there has never been anyone to pick up the slack. I don’t care how deranged this man is, I refuse to allow him to disrupt my life. I’ve never given that kind of power to anyone so I’m damn sure not going to start now.

I need to find out who he is. I’d assumed he was a patient at the hospital when I saw him in the recreation room on the psych ward. But now I doubt that assumption because a patient wouldn’t be able to track me down outside the facility. Maybe he just followed me to my volunteer job, or he could be an outpatient. If he’d escaped from the hospital as an inpatient they’d be looking for him and I’m certain I would have heard hospital gossip about that by now. The more I think about it, the more confusing it all becomes.

I consider calling Liam tonight and telling him about the man. I need to let someone know because, let’s face it, if the stranger killed me in cold blood no one would even know I was gone. I guess after I didn’t show up for my volunteer reading sessions or the doorman didn’t see me for weeks they would figure out something bad had happened, but by then it would be too late. That, and I keep my rent paid a couple of months in advance. As a woman living on her own, it gives me some much needed financial peace of mind. But that also means that even though the doorman might wonder if he didn’t see me, the landlord wouldn’t care, at least not at first. That’s pretty fucking sad but I won’t let it get me down.

If this fruitcake thinks I’m going to fold under his threats, he really is crazy. It’s time for me to get off the defense and get on the offense. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do, what I’ve always done: take care of myself. Maybe it’s time to buy a gun and take shooting lessons. I don’t like the idea of being cornered by this guy and not being able to defend myself.

I’ve always been so careful not to invite trouble but it looks like trouble found me anyway.

Liam

I smile as the access pad blinks bright green after I enter the numerical code. After the telltale click gives the all-clear, I rest my hand on the lever that will open the basement door, letting my fingertips slide over the smooth, glossy metal. It’s been a long time since I’ve been down here -- a long time since I’ve allowed a woman to stir my darkest cravings.

With a deep breath, I open the door. My fingertips tap along the wall, feeling for the light switch and flicking it on. The subdued lighting from the sconces on either side of the stairs create shadows that beckon to my inner predator.
Come out and play…

At the bottom of the stairs, I soak in the details of my favorite room.
My happy place...
Though the decorations are sparse the ambiance is calm and serene. Peaceful. Furnishings are simple: a cot, a small dresser. A bathroom off to one side. Only a select few playmates have seen this room, only by my invitation and usually only for a brief stay. There will soon be a very special guest residing here. I hope she will be pleased, and that she will, eventually, want to stay.

Of course, she will need a desk and, eventually, a computer for her writing. Not right away, though, especially when it comes to access to the internet; not until I can trust her, not until she understands that I’m doing all of this for her own good. I will break her will, but not her beautiful spirit.

In this room she will tap into a part of herself she has no idea even exists. She will become familiar with her innermost self—the place where her deepest emotions reside, where her most creative energy can come out to play. She’ll wonder how she ever wrote before I entered her life. She’ll understand what it is to open a vein and bleed for those who will someday read her words, to forge that special connection through the magic of words.

I’ve known all along that her ghostwriting work is merely a cover, a way to avoid tapping into her true self. She has the talent to write, she simply lacks confidence. I will help her with that. I will break her down, then build her back up. I will create my own masterpiece while she, in turn, creates hers.

I really don’t know much about her. Even though I’ve been following her, I don’t know her likes and dislikes. I will need to invest some time with her to find out those things. I take out the small notebook I keep with me and jot down a reminder to get her a desk, a comfortable chair, a computer and office supplies. My next stop is my own office for some online research about her background, her upbringing.

I’m not taking on this task lightly. In the same way that I will expect her to understand her readers, it’s only fair that I should understand
her
, to really get to know her. I firmly believe that when you tap into an adult’s childhood, all is revealed.

I’m not taking her to harm her or in any way diminish her. I want only to protect her, to give her something precious that she has never had before—a sense of kinship with the world around her. My purpose isn’t to cage her but to set her free.

Suddenly the thought of a cup of coffee is downright irresistible.

Madonna

I’m tapping away at my keyboard, wondering why I’m still ghostwriting, why I’m continuing to use my talent for someone else’s benefit. More and more lately, I feel like I’m writing for all the wrong reasons. Am I just writing for a paycheck? Am I afraid to explore what I have to say as a writer? Or, deep down, am I worried that I have nothing to say?

Writing should be sacred. Writers are supposed to create beauty that connects with people. But here I am, spending countless hours creating someone else’s dream but ignoring my own. The epiphany comes out of nowhere and hits me hard: I’m tired of living someone else’s dream. When I finish this project, I’m going to tell the publishing agency goodbye and focus on writing my own book.

I’m a big believer that, when you’re faced with an important choice, you should try the decision on first. Just to see if you like it. Usually, you have some flexibility to change your mind and try on a different decision for a while. But I don’t need a trial run with this decision. It fits me perfectly, like it was made for me, the way a good decision is supposed to feel.

A weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I link my fingers and reach toward the ceiling, stretching from side to side in an effort to unkink my stiff muscles. The thing I love most about my apartment is the view, especially on a day like this where there isn’t a cloud in the sky and the street below is teeming with activity.

There’s no sign of my hooded stalker, which is more of a relief than I like to admit. Why would he want to kill a complete stranger? If there’s anything I’ve learned while volunteering with the mentally ill, it’s that trying to understand someone else’s motivation is often fruitless and a waste of time.

My glance drifts over the trendy little coffee shop on the corner. I do a double take when I spot Dr. Chambers sitting at a tiny outdoor table near the entrance…and he’s looking up at me. Rather, he’s looking
into
me, like he has peeled back all my layers and can see into my soul in a single look.
What is he doing here? Does he know where I live?

To my surprise, I don’t feel violated or spied on. In fact, his piercing scrutiny makes me feel…safe. I don’t think of myself as a lonely person – solitary, yes, but not particularly lonely even though the personal connections in my life so far have been, at best, superficial. The people I knew during my childhood were social workers or employees of the children’s home, people whose job it was to look after me. My few friendships with other kids were never particularly deep because, let’s face it, once we were old enough to get out on our own, no one was going to want to get together to reminisce about the bad old days.

For the first time, someone is taking a genuine interest in…me. I get the sense that this isn’t anything new for him, that this isn’t the first time he’s peered up at my window. The simple fact that he knows I’m here, and that it seems to matter to him that I’m here, is profoundly moving to me. I press my hands to my wet cheeks, wiping away the evidence of my raw emotions.

How can it be that this man has managed to do in a matter of seconds what I’ve been unable to do in a lifetime—take my fear of abandonment and replace it with something beautiful? Perhaps Dr. Liam Chambers has his own set of issues that are drawing the two of us together. He couldn’t possibly know about my creepy hooded stalker and his death threats, but I wish he did. I could use a friend right now, even an overbearing, pompous, arrogant one.

I smile tentatively down at him and he smiles back, lifting his chin in greeting and confirming what I already know -- that we each have something the other needs. He has taken an interest in me, to the point that he has found a way to be near me. Following me. Watching me.

I don’t know what I can possibly offer him in return, but I’m staggered by the visceral connection between us. It seems to crackle in the air as it winds its way from his warm, steady gaze up to my window, wrapping around me in a peaceful cocoon of unfamiliar but entirely welcome emotions.

As recently as just a few minutes ago, it would have been inconceivable to me that I could feel this way: safer and more secure than ever before, even though someone is stalking me with every intention of ending my life.