Occult Suspense for Mothers Boxset: The Nostalgia Effect by EJ Valson and Mother's by Michelle Read (2 ebooks for one price) (20 page)

EIGHTEEN

A few weeks later, Christmas was upon us.  My favorite time of year.  It wasn’t a white Christmas like I’d hoped, just icy and nasty.  It didn’t matter, though.  To me, it was still magical.

Over the break, I put all of my energy into decorating the house and making homemade gifts with Violet.  Every year, Violet and I baked salt dough ornaments for everyone on both sides of the family.  It was an inexpensive, yet personal, way to do something special for everyone.  Once they were finally dried, painted, and strung with ribbon, we gathered them up and wrapped them.

After Vy went to bed that night, I took out the small tray of ornaments I had made myself.  One for Charlotte, one for Claire, Sherry, Elizabeth, Jane, Danna, and everyone else at school.

They were each shaped into hearts and covered in gold glitter.  And each one had a small paper tag on it that read: 
Thank you for your heart of gold.

I truly appreciated each one of them, and felt like we all had a special little secret that we shared which bonded us together.  It wasn’t that we were super strong, or uncommonly fast, or could read minds; but that we were always there to look out for each other.  Even Elizabeth.

Though she still didn’t care for me, a fact made clear by my constantly being able to see her thoughts, she at least pared down the loathing a little.  I tried my best to never peer into her mind and chose to pretend, instead, that she could tolerate me with ease.  We owed each other our lives, but the resentment she had cultivated all year was hard for her to let go of.

Her reason for disliking me
now
was that I could read her mind.  She felt very invaded.  Though I assured her time and time again that I had no desire to know what she was thinking, it still bothered her that I could.  It was the only reason she had for not liking me, and she held on to it bitterly.

The Saturday morning before Christmas, I awoke uneasily and unable to get back to sleep.  John was still sleeping soundly, and looked so comfortable that I decided not to wake him.  Instead, I headed downstairs and made a cup of coffee.  For fun, I added chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and drizzled the top with more syrup.  I could have charged four dollars for it at the bistro down the road, it looked
so
good.

After getting dressed and pulling my hair back in a messy bun, I grabbed my mug and headed for the door.  On my way out, I picked up one of the neatly wrapped ornaments on the kitchen table.  Sighing lightly and hoping my gift would be received well, I made my way across the street.  Elizabeth answered the door quickly and, as usual, was the picture of pretty.  Leave it to her to have her hair and makeup done before seven.  She smiled forcefully and opened the door, showing me inside.

What does she want?
  She was thinking.

I contained a smile and walked past her through the door.  Apparently I didn’t contain my grin well enough, because she scoffed and shut the door with more force than was necessary.  She regained her composure quickly, though, and spun on her heel to face me.  With a trademark flip of her hair over her shoulder she smiled again.

“What brings you here so early?  I thought you were a late sleeper.”  Her new favorite way to show her distaste for me was to talk down to me.  To do her best to make me feel lazy, nosy, or otherwise incompetent.  I thought it was funny, especially since I knew what she was really thinking.

“Usually I am,” I replied, ignoring her attempt at insolence.  “But I wanted to bring you this.”  I produced the small box from behind my back and waited.  Her cheeks flushed – the reaction I was hoping for – and she was speechless.  She had spent so much time and energy on finding new ways to find me insufferable, that she never once thought we might have a shot at being friends.  But for a moment, a vision of the two of us being friends is
exactly
what flashed through her mind.

She looked up at me, saw that I knew what she was thinking, and immediately set her face in a frown.  She was trying to look impassive— ungrateful, even.  But she was
feeling
horrible for not having made me anything first. 
I should have thought of that
, she was assessing inwardly.

“I, um, didn’t get you anything,” she finally said.

“I know,” I answered.  “I want you to have it, though.  It’s homemade.”  That would kill her.

Of course you know
, she thought. 
You know everything, don’t you?

I held the small box out further and she took it delicately from my hand.  She was wondering what I could have possibly made with my own two hands, since she had never seen me be in
any
way creative.  It certainly wouldn’t impress the PTO Queen, I was sure.  Especially if she knew that it took me hours to make.  She could have whipped up something much grander in five minutes.

“Well
open
it,” I told her.

She removed the lid and pulled back the tissue paper.  Then, she just stared at it.  For the longest time . . . she just stared at it.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Merry Christmas,” I smiled.

She took the ornament out and replaced the lid.  She walked straight over and hung it gently on her tree.  And instead of putting it somewhere in the back where no one would see it, she hung it directly in the center.  It hung smartly between her own children’s handmade ornaments, which made me want to cry.

“Please excuse me,” she murmured, wiping her eye as she turned away from me.

“Of course,” I said, surprised that she had like the gift so much.

Elizabeth disappeared into her kitchen, and I wandered over to her tree.  Although it was as beautiful as a picture from a decorator’s magazine, I noticed that it was covered
only
in handmade ornaments.  I turned a few of them over and read the names of her three boys on the backs, each one with the year it was made.  It was a very hodge-podgy assortment, and the whole look was tied together with strings of thick burgundy and gold ribbon wrapped around the entire tree.  With the help of the heavy ribbon and gobs of lights, the very personal tree looked exceptionally elegant.

Several minutes passed, and I ran out of reasons to stand in front of her tree, so I wandered around her living room, eventually taking a seat on her sofa.  Not wanting to disturb her stack of cleverly arranged holiday magazines, I just sat there and looked around.  When she still didn’t emerge from the kitchen, and I had downed my cup of coffee, I decided to find her and politely make my exit.

I rounded the corner into the kitchen quietly.  There was a man in a sharp business suit sitting at the table with his back turned to me.  He was tall, had excellent posture, and was exceedingly intimidating just reading his newspaper.

Without making a sound, I took another step around the corner, looking for Elizabeth.  And there I found her – both hands in the air, waving her arms and trying to tell her husband something.  She hadn’t seen me, and I stood petrified, watching her body language.  Obviously put out about something, her arms grew more animated and she soon commenced rolling her eyes.  Her mouth, however, made no sound. 
None
.  It was moving, for sure, but nothing was audible.

Dumbfounded, I looked back to her husband.  He picked up his tall glass and took a drink, looking only for a moment from behind his paper and toward his wife.  I was still invisible to the both of them and saw that he nodded, as if he understood something, and went back to reading.  Elizabeth carried on in her silent rant.  It was at the very least entertaining.  She looked like a character in a silent film.

I now had the common sense not to ask questions of the odd or unexplainable, and this was certainly
not
a home I felt comfortable in anyway, so I decided to leave.  Immediately.  Before my busybody mind had time to concoct the most interesting account of what I was seeing.  I took a wide, obvious step into the kitchen and cleared my throat.

I breezed quickly past Elizabeth without looking at her and in the same moment I heard the newspaper drop and her voice begin in the middle of her hushed – but extravagant – story.  She immediately dropped her hands to her sides and fiddled with her skirt
.

“Well, I’d better be going,” I sang as I spun around to leave.

Elizabeth looked positively embarrassed and flustered that she had been interrupted.  Her
husband
, however, looked like he had been slapped in the face.  His chocolate eyes were wide behind his thin reading glasses, and his brows were painted as high as a news anchor.

I smiled and decided to let that be my impression of him.  Surprised, with a touch of embarrassment playing on the apples of his cheeks.

“Merry Christmas,” I giggled as I showed myself out.

Skipping down the steps and across the Asch’s driveway, I turned one ear back toward the house and listened.

“How long was she standing there?” her husband was saying.

“How should
I
know?” Elizabeth answered curtly, quickly spilling back into whatever she had been saying before.

I quickly pulled my attention away from her ranting.  I fluffed my hair around my face and let out a cold, visible breath.  Looking quickly both ways, I trotted across the street.  There would be plenty of time to discover all the reasons she didn’t like me.  Today
, I had Christmas cookies and a kindergartner on Winter Break calling my name.

####

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We hope you enjoyed MOTHERS by Michelle Read. Continue on to Read book #2, The Nostalgia Effect by EJ Valson.

The Nostalgia Effect

EJ Valson

Copyright 2013 by EJ VALSON

Published at Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Author.

The following story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. No compensation was provided to the Author for any mention of an actual event, person, place or thing.

A
cknowledgments:

I have been waiting all my life to write something that meant something to me, and will hopefully mean something to those who read it. I was truly inspired by love and the many blessings in my life when I wrote this book. I want to thank my parents, my “soul mate” and other friends and family for supporting, encouraging, inspiring and guiding me through this process. I couldn't have done it without you.

             
                                                                                                                                                                                                        -Love E

The

Nostalgia

Effect

PROLOGUE

“I’ll get her,” I mumble sleepily, as I’m abruptly awakened by the faint sound of a toddler’s cry. The dark gray of dawn is coaxing my eyes to open, but they stay stubbornly shut. Her cry fades into the quiet morning and I assume that she was just dreaming and has fallen back to sleep. I’m so tired, but I have a lot to do today. I wrestle with the bed sheets, my eyes still closed, attempting to get a few more minutes of sleep.

Then surrendering to the inevitability of morning and with eyelids still shut, I slowly sit up and kick away the blankets, preparing my feet to meet the cool hardwood floor. To my surprise, I instead feel something soft under my toes. I quickly pull my feet back up because I think I’m stepping on the cat. I open my puffy eyes the tiniest bit while trying to focus….no cat, no hardwood floor, but carpet instead.

My eyes fly open and dart around the unfamiliar room. Where the hell am I? My startled gaze drifts to the other side of the bed. And who the hell is that?

CHAPTER 1

Panic wells up in me and my heart starts to race. I am in the wrong place, the wrong house. Though the room feels familiar, I know I’ve never been here before. Dim early-morning light illuminates the space around me. Maybe I’m not seeing correctly. Maybe my eyesight is failing me.

There is a man sleeping with his back to me. His hair is dark, darker than my husband Michael’s. This man is too tan and thin to be Michael, and his hair is cut differently. But he looks slightly familiar. I think I know him
. But that doesn’t answer any questions. Did I get drunk and pass out somewhere? Was I drugged? Have I been kidnapped? I don’t feel hungover, I don’t feel hurt and I don’t feel sick. What the hell is happening?!

The familiar stranger starts to stir. Oh, God, Jenni, Run! Still asleep, the man rolls over now facing his body in my direction. I stare in shock while my heart thumps in my chest. My hand instinctively covers my mouth to quiet a scream. I draw in a breath so deep it almost suffocates me. It’s my ex-husband Joe.

My body begins to tremble. Joe’s remains asleep, oblivious to the fact that he’s inches away from a panicking woman whose world has just turned upside down. Why am I here? Why is he here? This has to be a mistake!

I force my shaky breath to be quiet when I inhale and exhale. I cannot wake him. I wouldn’t know what to say. My mind races, struggling to make sense of my circumstances. What happened last night? How did we meet up? I don’t remember any of it. I haven’t seen Joe in several years. He doesn’t even live in the same state as I do! So how did I get into what I assume is his house?

Where are Michael…and Olivia and Stella? Have they tried calling me? Are they worried? My cell phone...it has to be here somewhere! I have to find my things and get out of here as soon as possible.

I slowly lift the sheet from across my lap and step onto the plush carpet. There’s a familiar scent in the room. Lemongrass -- my favorite. My eyes have now adjusted to the low light. The room decor is simple, but has a feminine touch.

His wife. Where is his wife? My heart starts to pound again. What if she comes home and finds me? I think, as guilt and fear wash over me. I begin my escape, quietly slipping out through the slightly open bedroom door and step into a long hallway lined by four more doors.

I tiptoe slowly down the hallway, in fear of stepping too loudly or hitting a creak in the floor of what appears to be an older ranch-style home. To the left is a small bathroom, with only a shower, toilet and pedestal sink. It looks recently remodeled. I continue on passed a linen closet and gingerly approach another door that is half open. It seems to be a guest bedroom, despite the fact it is light green and soft pink. I’m almost completely passed it when I hear heavy breathing coming from inside the room. Curious, I step back and poke my head through the doorway. There’s a small body tucked into the full-size bed. Their back is facing me and the blankets are pulled up high, shielding their face.

My eyes dart around the room before noticing a small pair of pink tennis shoes near the bed. Oh God, oh God, it’s a little girl! How could I be in this house with him and some kid? What kind of man brings a woman home while there’s a child here? And who is she? Joe doesn’t have any daughters with his new wife!

I shake it off and try to pick up my pace. I move away from the door frame, but my eye is immediately pulled back to something else in the room. I step backwards and peer in again. On top of the dresser is an item I’ve seen in my oldest daughter’s room every day for the last eleven years of her life.

How can that be? I slowly make my way into the room. I’m careful not to wake the child, who has most of her head under the covers, as I creep towards the small silver figurine of two embracing cherubs. When she was a year old, I bought my daughter Olivia the same one while on a trip to the coast at a specialty shop where all the items were handmade and unique.

My fingertips lightly touch the cold silver wings. I gently pick up the figurine for inspection. My understanding when I purchased the piece was that it was one of a kind. I carefully place it in my left hand. Light from the sun is now peeking through the window. I can see the figurine very clearly. It’s identical to the one I bought my daughter. It even holds the same correction mark where one wing was not molded properly and the artist tried to improvise.

“Mommy?”

I turn around quickly, when startled by a gentle voice in the room. Blood rushes from my head and my knees weaken. It’s my daughter Olivia, but she’s young again. Suddenly the room goes dark and I feel the slam of the floor as it meets my body.