I'll Be Damned (Anna Wolfe Series) (11 page)

I overhear Rutey’s warning growl from downstairs, indicating his strong disdain for the creature. I shake my head, trying to regain enough composure to hide. In a flash, the creature flies away, deep into the night, without displacing grass or leaves. I’m positive it was real and actually happened, but whom can I tell without sounding ridiculous? Best to keep this to myself, and just add it to the mighty fine collection of crazy I’m accumulating. Finally convinced it’s not coming back, I tumble into bed, cocooning myself with the comforter. I stare at the growing water stain on my ceiling, getting pissed that sleep keeps dodging me. My mind wants to continue to investigate the events of tonight, but I put a hard stop to that. I don’t have the resilience to do this now. Victorious, I fall into a light sleep, and wish I stayed awake.

***

I’m running exceptionally fast, faster than I ever have in my life. Fear is my catalyst, burning through every energy reserve. Sweat pours off my forehead in thick strings. My overworked and out of shape legs protest at the exertion, and my lungs ravenously gasp for air. I look over my shoulder, watching it continuously closing the gap between us. I can't escape it. I rotate my eyes back to the path that lies ahead of me. A gigantic house rises from the shadows of the night. I filter all my remaining energy and sprint towards it. Logic assures me it's safer than the open fields. The closer I get, the clearer I can define its beauty. It’s a two-story, Greek revival, antebellum plantation home. I run under the congested canopy of numerous live oaks and pound the pavement ferociously. The mansion boasts two king-sized wraparound porches supported by massive white columns staggered every ten feet. The second floor is trimmed in an elegant wrought iron railing that defines its edge. Its beauty is breathtaking. Hope boils inside me. If I can find a way in, I might escape. I reach the front wooden door, and jiggle its gold knob violently. The latch clicks open, and I fly inside. Slamming the door behind me, I twist the old-fashioned deadbolt that's as thick as a butter knife, grateful for its meager sense of security. I drop my head between my knees, and guzzle gulps of air. Holy crap, that was close. I get up and reexamine the lock, making sure it’s bolted. Nails claw the wood outside, as it hastily tries to dig its way in. There has to be a safer place to hide.

Turning away from the door, my eyes behold a stunning, grand staircase. Something pulls me towards it, so I climb the stairs, two at a time. Each wooden step squeaks and groans as I pound the history right out of them. When I reach the top landing, I turn left, finding myself in a long hallway. Black and white photographs along with oil paintings adorn the walls like an historical timeline. I stop and study the familiar faces of these strangers, mesmerized by one in particular, an oil painting. I gracefully slide my finger down the face of a man who resembles my
real
father. The canvas buckles under the pressure of my touch, allowing me to feel the rich detail of every painted stroke. I step closer, noticing a metal choker wrapped around his neck. Does that mean he was a slave? The door downstairs explodes open and the clacking of nails reverberates off the hardwood floors like thunder. It’s in the foyer! I continue down the hallway, throwing myself into the first open room. I slam the door, locking it swiftly. I slide to the floor, propping myself against the damp wood. Pulling my legs into my chest, I rest my chin on my knees. Fatigue nudges me, coaxing me to fall asleep, while loud steps boom through the vacant house, paralyzing me. Within seconds, the creature is standing outside the door. Its frustrated grunts and hot breath slink through the crack at the bottom on my lower back. I stand up and move away, unsure of where to go. Before I can escape, the door splinters and shatters, hurling tiny slivers of wood shrapnel at me. I throw my arms up, blocking my face, and allow them to lodge in my forearm. I shriek in response to the cutting stings. The monster storms in, uninvited, and wastes no time lunging at me.

I wake up, hyperventilating. Sitting up, I clutch my comforter like a scared twelve-year-old. With clammy palms, I slide it under my neck. Damn it! Another nightmare complete with a puddle of sweat. I look down to find my sheets twisted between my legs in knots.
I’m home, I’m in my bed, and I’m safe
. I’m grateful to see the sun peeking through my curtains and splashing the floor in soft yellow. I pull my knees into my chest, wrapping myself into the smallest ball possible. I rest my head on them, exhaling. I can’t keep this to myself much longer. The nightmares are getting worse. Should I see a doctor? No. I don’t want to be all jacked up on medication. I have to tell someone. I make myself a promise to share my dreams with Kristy. I reluctantly drag myself from bed to take a shower. I relax under the hot water, allowing myself the necessary time for clarity. Twenty minutes later, I dry off. I glide my hand across the foggy mirror, exposing my moist face. The mirror is lying to me today. Puffy skin circles my eyes like an allergic reaction. I sigh, already hating the day. I throw on jeans and a tank top, trying to pat away the puffiness with concealer before heading downstairs. I peek in the fridge for something edible. Seeing nothing, I decide on yogurt. I sit at the table and spot a note from Janie in the center of it. She’s out food shopping, which makes sense. I haven’t been keeping up with my duty as hostess with the mostest. She also scribbled for me to wait until she gets back before I leave. Figures. What can I do to pass the time? I reach for the cordless, and dial the coffeehouse. Kristy answers on the second ring.

“Déjà Brew, this is Kristy.”

“Hey,” I reply.

“Hey Anna!” she says enthusiastically. “What’s up?”

“Nothing... well everything... I need to talk.”

“Is everything all right?” she questions, concerned. I can’t fill her in on the details just yet.

“Well, yes and no. I’ve been having… seeing… things and I need to talk you in person, not over the phone.”

There’s a long pause before she responds. “Are you sure you’re all right? You sound disconnected or something. You're making me nervous.”

“I’m okay. I just need an ear to listen.”

“When and where?”

“I have a date tonight with Shane,” I reply with little interest. A date was the last thing I was in the mood for. Before I can utter another syllable, Kristy screams in my ear.

“What! When did this happen? You need to get a cell phone!”

I roll my eyes. “It happened last night and I’ll give you the details later. I’m meeting him tonight at the shop around seven, so I’ll be in earlier to talk to you. Can you wait after closing at five? Let’s say five-thirtyish?”

“Of course, I’ll wait. See you then.”

“Thanks. Oh, and Kristy, I’m getting a phone today so I’ll let you know as soon as it’s activated.”

“Perfect, see you soon!”

I place the cordless back in its receiver and resume my former position of sitting at the kitchen table, bored. The half-eaten yogurt reminds me how I’ve never really enjoyed eating it. I grab the Savannah Tribune and pull it from the blue-tinted plastic bag. Janie must have brought it in this morning. I rifle though the pages, sick of reading the same things. I pass another story about the unnecessary highway expansions plaguing our area as an announcement catches my eye.

Rothschild Descendent Visits Savannah

A descendent from the famous Rothschild family has moved back to Savannah. Originally from England, the Rothschild’s were a family of great wealth and prestige, which they acquired through the banking and cotton industries during the late 1700s. Through the years, they oversaw operations in this city and contributed generous amounts of time and money. Savannah was home to the Rothschild family and their coat-of-arms can still be seen on various buildings today. This family is thought to be descended from the city of Savannah and only the Savannah Tribune has the continued coverage…

If I knew the significance of a coat-of-arms, I might regard the illustration of five arrows around a clenched fist interesting. It does look familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen it on buildings and wondered what the hell it was. Now I know. The newspaper’s update of someone moving here must be a clear sign of criminal inactivity. Rich people annoy me with the attention they receive just for having money. Who cares if his family owned a few buildings hundreds of years ago? Where are the articles about people that are actually making a difference in the city with youth programs and helping the less fortunate? Annoyed, I push the chair out from behind me. I gladly deposit the Tribune into the recycle bin, deciding to cancel my subscription.

I head into the living room and sit down in the middle of the couch. Reaching for the remote, I flip through the stations like a robot, eventually choosing the Martha Stewart channel. Martha is demonstrating how to make do-it-yourself wedding favors. My stomach turns as silent memories slink out of the corners of my mind like crooks, threatening to steal whatever good remains of my day. I turn the television off, feeling more restless than earlier. I stare blankly at the black screen in mind-numbing dissociation. There’s a calm in the stillness. My mind settles down, deciding it’s better to relax then overanalyze everything. I’m not sure if this is denial or survival. Ten minutes later, the sound of the front door opening snaps me out of my trance.

“Hey, let me put this away and we can head out,” Janie’s voice echoes in the hallway as she enters the kitchen. She lifts her reusable grocery bags onto the kitchen counter with oomph.

“Janie, you didn’t have to buy all of that!” I reply, standing excitedly. “I’m paying you back,” I add firmly.

“No, you’re not. I’m staying here, so the least I can do is replenish your bare shelves,” she smiles.

She starts unpacking the engorged grocery bags. Each time she dives in, she pulls out top-rated junk food - ice cream, chocolate chip cookies, rippled potato chips, onion dip and a few inappropriate apples.

“Plus, if I didn’t buy this,” she states, pointing to the pile of treasure, “what would we survive on? Tequila and pretzels?”

“Good point,” I laugh. I help her put everything away before hustling through the door ten minutes later. The deserted highway spreads out before me like a vacant parking lot. Within thirty minutes, I'm parking at my place, just to avoid the frustration of looking for a spot on the street. We hop out of the car, both wearing sour expressions once the warmth engulfs us. The temperature is hot with occasional thick pockets of humidity that make me wince. My hair is sucking in every moist drop like a cactus, collecting and storing it for a frizz-out later. Four long blocks later, I open Cell-It’s heavy door, allowing the air conditioning to wrap itself around me, coaxing me further inside. How anyone survives in this weather without air conditioning is lost on me.

The blazing cantaloupe-colored walls sting my eyes, forcing me to squint. The color is bright, glossing everything in an unnatural light. Cell phones line the walls as salesmen mill around their prospects like sharks. I hate shopping for cell phones. I stride to the counter where a patient salesman is pretending to busily surf on the computer. I explain my situation to “Keith,” silently vowing to replace the same phone. However, he insists I look at what’s new. I hate it when strangers tell me what I need. Janie tries weighing in, but I wave her off. I want simplicity. I scan the inventory, unable to find my old-fashioned flip phone. Keith gracefully informs me it’s outdated and shuffles me towards the smartphones. Somehow, he talks me into buying one so I can receive e-mails, check social media and so forth. Its capabilities are endless, but intrusive. I guess with more freedom comes greater sacrifice. I smack my credit card on the counter, feeling guilty for paying over one hundred dollars for plastic. Fifteen minutes later, we leave and my stomach growls for food.

“Where should we eat?” Janie asks.

“How about Moon River?” I love that restaurant. They serve quality food and the price is affordable.

“I think you took me there the last time I came to visit.”

“I probably did, they have great food.” After walking a few blocks, we’re seated by the window, in a cool, vinyl booth facing Bay Street. Locals pass by, smiling and laughing with one another. Tourists wear their large cameras like medals dangling above their bloated fanny packs, bursting with maps and guides. They hungrily snap photos of anything with the slightest historical appearance. Tourists are a strange phenomenon, with their daily blocked schedules, and action-packed sensory overload; yet they lap it up. I glance at my watch, sighing with disappointment. It’s two-fifteen, which leaves me no time to talk to Kristy.

“What are you thinking about?” Janie asks.